Friday, January 12, 2018

Mid-January Impressions: poems

Brrrr!

sudden "to do"
at the window screen
could it have been birds?
~ ~ ~

squares of the trellis
reappear
with the sun
~ ~ ~

she left Nebraska
to get away from the cold
here, 7 degrees
~ ~ ~

blue pansy appears
from its snow cover--
the widow's porch light
~ ~ ~

"frost moon"
two haiku with this phrase
I've never heard

Annamarie's pumpkins snowman

c 2018, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Could be any new year: poems


1997 - from news articles & photos

children run away
Dad's seven-grand Harley leaves
no money for food
~ ~ ~

Maryland
wipes plates clean
no Rebel flag tag
~ ~ ~

on a small inlet
dozens of waders, some ducks
close look: duck decoys
~ ~ ~

kiddy (mini) jet--
recruiter hand signals left
onto busy street
~ ~ ~

1998 - actual

cat waiting
for the outside door
to be opened
~ ~ ~

cat's urgent 'meows'
her food dish empty
while I'm eating lunch
~ ~ ~

Living in Arkadelphia, early 2000s

ice storm displacement
boy and calico catching
a few extra Zs
~ ~ ~

petitioning the board
to let him become
a cheerleader
(Dan Gathright, Arkadelphia)
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
c 2018, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR


Sunday, December 31, 2017

Another new year: two poems

Another new year

A SHORT WINTER POEM

Four bluebirds,
a sparrow,
balancing
in winter’s wind
on the thin
beautyberry
twigs, eating
what’s left
of the purple
frozen fruits.
~ ~ ~ ~

AND THEN I SAW IT WAS JANUARY

 (a Laurette sequence)

I looked around
some days beyond
December, found the year
had fled. Instead
the Janus month,
cold January’s here!

Oh, snow and ice
and bitter cold.
The north wind howls apace.
The schools are closed,
some churches, too,
but, oh! Bright winter’s face!

The old cat sleeps
 beside the fire,
 his paw above an eye.
 Before too long,
‘Mom Nature will
 blow January by.
~ ~ ~ ~
C 2018, PL, dba lovepat press



Monday, December 25, 2017

At the close of 2017: a Christmas Day poem

                                                              


A REFLECTION FOR THE END OF 2017
(an Octo Sequence)

In Advent, twenty-seventeen,
I’m doing what I love to do
at Ebenezer U. M. C.—
that’s play piano every week 
for worshippers and those who seek.
At Ebenezer U. M. C.,
I’m doing what I love to do
in Advent, twenty-seventeen.

Where needs and talents lie in sync,
I’ve always heard, a mission calls.
The Holy Spirit fingered me,
and I’ve been playing all this year,
selecting service music dear.
The Holy Spirit fingered me;
I’ve always heard a mission calls
where needs and talents lie in sync.

The church is fifteen miles away
with many curves and valleys, hills.
(My trusty Taurus runs just fine.)
At eighty-one, still sound of mind,
––my genes and angels have been kind––
 My trusty Taurus runs just fine
through many curves and valleys, hills.
(The church is fifteen miles away.)

As long as health and age allow,
I’d like to keep this music job
because I love the people here.
Unless the winter’s icy, wild
we’ll celebrate the Holy Child.
Because I love the people here,
I’d like to keep this music job
as long as health and age allow.



c 2017, PL

Monday, December 18, 2017

Third week of Advent: a poem



It’s Advent—twenty-fourteen now--
too many years since last I wrote.
I fill my time with hand bells, choir
--requiring diligence--and bills
and cats and house and med refills.
I fill my time with hand bells, choir.
Too many years since last I wrote,
it’s Advent—twenty-fourteen now.


I used to write an Advent verse
each year, till life got in the way--
especially after I retired.
I penned one novel, then one more.
Activities came to the fore,
especially after I retired.
Each year, till life got in the way,
I used to write an Advent verse.



I hereby vow to take more time
to celebrate the Advent Child,
to live expectantly each day
as if the second-coming’s near;
make ready, leave no room for fear.
To live expectantly each day,
to celebrate the Advent Child,
I hereby vow to take more time.



c 2017, PL












Sunday, December 10, 2017

Second week of Advent: a poem


                                                          Advent

         I used to write
         a poem each year
         at this time, anticipating
         the Savior’s coming, but
         household chores,
         the yard, the holidays––
         I’ve made no time
         for meditation,
         writing, waiting,
.
         I hereby vow
         beginning now
         to take more time
         from this day on,
         to concentrate,
         to celebrate,
         prepare, like Mary,
         for the Blessed Child.
         Lord, help me live
         expectantly today
         and every day
         until the second-coming.
        I must make ready--
       again.
c 2017, PL







Sunday, December 3, 2017

First week of Advent, 2017: a poem

                    An Advent wreath. Advent is the run-up to Christmas in liturgical churches

Years ago, I began what I hoped would be an annual happening: writing an Advent poem in the Octo Sequence pattern touted by Mary Harper Sowell, former president of Poets Roundtable of Arkansas. The online instructions are different from what Ms. Sowell used, that is, the fourth and fifth lines of the eight (octo) rhyme. Mine are rhymed. This poem described my life twenty-seven years ago in 1990.

ADVENT: THE COMING OF A CHILD

This Advent will be more serene
since I'm no longer organist--
no preludes, hymns or antiphons--
and time I spent in pressured haste
is now revered as private space.
No preludes, hymns or antiphons
since I'm no longer organist.
This Advent will be more serene.

The yuletide bustle will be less:
my school choir sang an autumn show,
releasing yet another night
for shopping with the family
or entertaining merrily.
Releasing yet another night,
my school choir sang an autumn show;
the yuletide bustle will be less.

Just when the season's simplified,
a grandson comes to live with me;
one curious, crawling eight-month-old.
(Did Mary want to rail and  rant
when Jesus tumped her favorite plant?)
One curious, crawling eight-month-old,
a grandson comes to live with me
just when the season's simplified.    


Published in variations, 1994
c 2017, PL

                                              The grandson, a few years later. He's now 27.