Thursday, May 23, 2019

Spring means graduations, flowers, yardwork: POEMS

                       Grandson in a crape myrtle years ago, graduated from high school last week.

a passing truck
painted like a zebra
--this quirky town
(Eureka Springs, '15) 
~ ~ ~ ~
                                                          Coreopsis and purple jew

Did Mama ever pray
when her children drove away 
"Dear Lord, they're yours now,
please keep them in your way."?
(April '11)
~ ~ ~ ~
                                                    Another grandson many years ago

the only thing
you will leave 
is what you create
(Tom Padgett on Wallace Stevens. Lucidity retreat, 2004)

~ ~ ~ ~

                       Older son with granddaughter who graduated from high school last week.

yesterday's wind
and rain, today's roadside
fields of mustard brighten the gray
(Hwy 35 to Tull, April '19)
~ ~ ~ ~

                                                                  Google image.

from yesterday's
frustrations, noggin-bump,
kin's graduation and a long
trip home.
(5. 17. '19)
~ ~ ~ ~

c 2019 PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Monday, May 13, 2019

A 6th mission trip and the poems they inspired

                                                    A collection of UMCOR shirts

facing the bayou

PL, 5.10.'19 in Baldwin, Louisiana
on a mission trip to UMCOR
~ ~ ~ ~

sugar cane
a foot high
oddly-layered clouds
PL, 2013 trip
~ ~ ~ ~

spikes on his hubcaps
must mean
"Keep your distance"

PL, 2013 trip
~ ~ ~ ~

we drive under
the helicopter
different directions

PL, 2013 trip
~ ~ ~ ~

the yellow one
in the long row of houses
--school on spring break

PL, 2013 trip
~ ~ ~ ~
                            Inside the UMCOR Depot: bolts of cloth for eventual school bags

Geretta unpacking toothpaste for health kids, UMCOR Depot, Baldwin, Louisiana, 2013

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Spring: rain, birds --poems

the cardinal
casing the area
around the suet feeder. He
flies in.
~ ~ ~ ~

the ramp's laid,
I widen the flower
bed to include adjacent lawn,
dig grass.
~ ~ ~ ~

the old woman
wearing socks
with sandals
~ ~ ~ 

rain from the roofline
into the cellar
~ ~ ~ ~

Easter Monday
both our mailbox flags
are up
~ ~ ~ ~

a silent rain
droplets in the birdbath
the only clue
~ ~ ~ ~

                                                                   photo-C. Hoggard

the leggy but leafing
~ ~ ~ ~

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Sunday, March 3, 2019

Variations of late winter--poems

peeper croaking
from a woods-edge pool
~ ~ ~ ~

on the way back--
picking the violets
I passed before
~ ~ ~ ~

cop stroking kitten
rescued at crack house razing
rain clouds
~ ~ ~ ~

afghaning my legs
rather than closing the door
~ ~ ~ ~

sitting on the porch
the light rain, and  the journal
pages get more limp
~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Sunday, February 3, 2019

blogging with poems about or during February

Ten years ago this month, I began two blogs--one for poetry; one for prose.

after severe cold
48 degrees invite
bare-armed school children
~  ~ ~

two delicious hours
in front of the gas-log fire
reading the paper
~ ~ ~

testing the ice
in the birdbath
~ ~ ~

re-dating my letter
begun just before midnight
~ ~ ~

oh, wow!
the sweetness of the apple
from the sale carousel
~ ~ ~

as early as
Groundhog fay, a chorus
of spring peepers
~ ~ ~

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Monday, January 14, 2019

Winter poems, photos

                                           Annamarie Parker photo


One petunia bloom, two pansies,
three demure oxalis, many holly,
California Moon Vine
berries, early jonquils inside
(forced) and blooming in the yard––points
delightful during winter’s gloom.
Add redbirds, robins, thrashers, jays.
Now all our palette needs is snow.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

A Winter Mélange
         On Epiphany,
         the aroma
         of roasting turkey—
         bought for Christmas
         but not needed—delights
         with homey fragrance,
                                                              and the first snowfall soothes
         with white stillness.
         Large windchimes
         play what sounds like
         the opening notes
         of “We Three Kings.”
         It’s possible.
         On Christmas,
         I heard them play the “Silent
         Night” motif.
         I eat ice cream and fruitcake
         in front of the fire.
         The cat sidles up for a rub.
         His fur, like a warm blanket,
         reminds me that winter
         doesn’t last forever.


On the day after Christmas in twenty-sixteen,
in summer-like weather like we’ve never seen,
I sit on the porch swing with wassail to drink
and hope that this pen doesn’t run out of ink
before I can transcribe this writing that’s new.
(If so, there’re others—some black and some blue.)

The leftover food now resides in my fridge.
(When some folks have none, it’s a great sacrilege.)
But guests wouldn’t think of transporting it home.
“Just compost it!” one said. “It’ll end up as loam.”
But I wasn’t ready to do that just yet;
perhaps friends will drop by, or neighbors, unmet.

Two bottles of eggnog for seasonal use
unopened for two feasts—what can I deduce?
The wind’s getting cranky--it may drive me in—
and dark clouds are scudding—are storms to begin?
The ‘climate-change’ pooh-poohers make an excuse:
“Anomaly,” they say, “This change is a ruse.”

While scientists measure the overall change
proclaim, “Yes, indeed, but it’s within range.”
(Digression’s my forte—let’s get to the point
of this parody, memoir; it’s time to anoint
today’s poem’s center, its action, its meat,
its meaning, emotional crux, and its heat.)

This summer-like weather--anomaly, yes--
will be soon forgotten in winter’s duress.
But lo! even winter can’t outlast the sun
and the tilt of the earth. Before long, winter’s done.
Soon, springtime has sprung; summer’s in on a wing.
When temps rise to sixty, I’ll be back on the swing.

                           Couchwood in an earlier year

c 2019, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Making the best of the new year-- poems


New Year's morning
quiet after the light snow
except for the creek

January first
each dated tree ornament
a year older

old calendar with new
full of things to do

New Year's project:
finding the stuff I stashed away
before Christmas

23 degrees
first day of the year, I read
Season's spring haiku
(Carolyn Thomas)

new holiday towels
wisps of clean gray hair now red
in the shower drain

new woodsy backyard
enjoying the birdfeeder
and binoculars

first day of new year
two inches of snow
and no birds

again, New Year's Day
reading all eight of earlier
haiku booklets

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA