{pinned post: new book cover! coming 1/23}

The HarperCollins Children’s Books winter catalog goes live next weekend, so ahead of the rush, I get to show off my next cover! Brittany Jackson is the artist, and Kathy Lam is the designer, and I feel like together they’ve created a cover that’s just — *chef’s kiss* — perfect.

I think I like best the sense of uncertainty in Henri’s eyes. So much of what she wants – to conquer math, to make friends, to get her sister to see her as something other than a total nuisance – seems out of reach. What does it take to make things happen like you want them to? Like everyone else, she’s got to figure it out…

I can’t wait for you to enjoy this book.

{pf: poetry peeps serve up…something}

Greetings! Welcome to another Poetry Peeps adventure on Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge in the month of December! Here’s the scoop: we’re thinking outside of the BOX. Or, maybe into the BOX? Freely indulge in any kind of poem, but our theme is a box, boxes, or even boxing. Maybe you’ll try a 4×4 poem, creating another kind of box? Whatever your desire, let BOX inspire! You have a month to craft your creation and box it up on December 30th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.


This is one of those fun poetry assignments that I wish I had more time to do, but — as I write this, it’s Tuesday, kids, and I volunteered to make something complicated for Family Thursday, so I need to get started, AND we’re supposed to take actual with-a-tripod family pictures and I have to dig out the requisite color theme (navy and white this year) AND I said I’d write a mini reader’s theater and bring games I have yet to unearth, I, who moved house five weeks ago, AND I still haven’t done my Actual, Real Work this week, and who was it that who cheerfully got me into all this extra busyness? Oh, right. …Me.

::sigh::

Well, writing to you from the future, I know you managed to get all you wanted to completed – including a poem to add to our roundup. These turned out to be a little harder than many of us expected, but I’m excited to see how Sara’s turned out, and Laura’s, as well as Mary Lee’s poem here. Kelly’s cooking up poetry here. Tricia’s poem is here. Liz’s poem has recipe is here, and Linda M. joins us here. Jone’s poem(s) are here. Margaret’s poem is here, and Carol V’s poem is here. As their food comas wear off and their families and guests ebb and flow, more Peeps will check-in throughout the course of the weekend, so stay tuned for the roundup. If you’d like even more Poetry Friday goodness, join the gathering at Ruth’s beautiful table @ There Is No Such Thing as a Godforsaken Town.

And, past me eventually found my recipe… and I was pleased that it didn’t turn out as saccharine and twee as I feared it would. Here’s to the footlight flutters, the little singers practicing their dreidel songs and the ones who just go on stage and freeze. Here’s to the older ones who wished they had practiced that one tricky measure just a little longer, and to the ones who can’t wait for the curtains to rise. Winter concert season is upon us all! As my days and evenings are now filled with music, I wish the same for you. Wear a mask as I do, and get out to at least hear an outdoor brass ensemble, okay? It’ll do your heart good…

Recipe for a Winter Concert

Prep time 3 months ♦ Concert Time 2 hours ♦ Serves the Soul

AUTHOR’S NOTES:
For best results, prepare.

DIRECTIONS:
Take one set of singers, seasoned.
Hydrate.
Stir lightly into a stew of scales –
Do – Re – Mi- Faaaa – ahem – aaaa
Gently stretch vocal chords until pliable.
Hydrate singers. (Drain.)
In listed order, add airs, ballads, and madrigals.
(For spice, a single shanty is more than sufficient.)
Layer in lieder and carols. Add a pinch of recitative.
Repeat.

Gather six part strings to four parts horns
add two parts timpani. Reduce to a symphonic syrup,
And measured notes into voices, sprinkle in beats
Until the mixture gels. Repeat.

As soon as music caramelizes, then
Combine the sound of twenty-one strings –
Lightly – against a single oboe’s song.
Simmer until sour notes shimmer, sweeten.

Add a prepared chorus, steeped in song
And stir fully.

For Topping:
Fold individual human beings
Into an audience –
Scatter applause until covered.
Whisk up the curtain,
And slice the baton
Through the waiting air –
And serve it forth.

Nutrition Information:
Makes one concert.
Serves the heart,
Feeds the soul.

Best enjoyed with open ears
(and well-fitted masks.)


Happy Days of Deliciousness in whatever form they arrive for you.

{pf: poetry peeps dansa the day away}

Greetings! Welcome to another Poetry Peeps adventure on Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge in the month of November! Here’s the scoop: we’re creating recipe poems! Your choice of form, length, topic, or meter, but each poem will be an assemblage of elements, using recipe text/cooking instructions to create …something. From a recipe for disaster, to your favorite aperitif, you have a month to craft your creation and Serve It Forth on November 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

This was my first time ever hearing about an Occitan Dansa, or the Balete (Old French), or the Ballata (Italian), as it was known in the Middle Ages. The dansa was the basic structure of poetry which troubadours set to lively music for dancing and singing, and was first introduced to modern audiences in THE SHAPES OF OUR SINGING by Robin Skelton in 2001. I always enjoy hearing a bit more about a new form during our In-Person chat, and reflected on what Tricia’s research deep dive had revealed, mainly how a dansa was meant to be a joyful dance. Unfortunately, the first several poems I was able to pull out using the rhyme and repeated refrain structure were all… pretty sharp. Not really dance-y topics, social lies and a lament on a multiplicity of possessions. (Those are possibly even weird topics for non-dance-y poems, but that’s where I live, in the intersection of Weird and Obviously Going There.) Desdansa, we learned, is the name of the non-joyful poems, but they’re meant to be sad and depressing – the sorts of tales of battlefields and lost kingdoms meant to elicit tears! Not what I wanted to write either. So, I kept scribbling…

During my many attempts at making something fun and dance-y, the rules imprinted themselves on my subconscious. It was freezing Monday morning, and I as I watched my husband bouncing as he looked for his flannel-lined wool cardigan, I teased, “Is shivering your new dance?” The next thing I knew, I was muttering:

Is shivering a dance?
As hairs on my arms stand
Tightening every strand
I look at them askance.
What caused this happenstance?
Is shivering a dance?

Occasionally, this poetry thing is contagious.


Quite a few of us have caught dansa fever – Laura’s post is here. Mary Lee’s is here. Sara’s is here. Liz’s poem is here. Tricia’s is here. Michelle K’s dansa-ing today, as is Carol V. Margaret’s dansa is here. Even more Peeps will sashay on through during the course of the dansa-line, so stay tuned for the roundup. If you want even more poetry goodness, check in at Jone Rush MacCulloch’s blog for the big Poetry Friday roundup.


I did determine that there’s a topic many of us can be happy about naturally – sweetness. A friend mentioned she’d had her first cider doughnut of the season, and I immediately thought, “Yes.” While I’ve never actually had a cider doughnut before (I know, but a.) we don’t do as much cider on the West Coast, in the same ways, and b.) apples good enough to eat are, to me, to be eaten out of hand or with a bit of caramel as an autumn treat, not …cooked unless it’s end of season. Maybe I’ll get there this year. Don’t judge me), I suspect they’re something I’d approve of wholeheartedly.

Middle grade author and librarian Mike Jung always comes to mind when I think of doughnuts, as his social media is mostly a lament when he’s not eating them, dreamy distraction when he is eating them, imagining when next he can eat them, and some library science, cute cat/offspring pictures, aikido, and I’m-revising-this-chapter-WHY-is-writing-so-HARD progress thrown in just for personal balance. Anything about doughnuts must, ergo, be for Mike… so this one’s for you, Mr. J.


I hope you find something to dance about this weekend. Lacking that, I hope you enjoy a doughnut (in whatever way “enjoy” works for you. I see my sugar intolerant folx. Just looking at the pretty frosting can be enough). If you’re creating mid-mess like I am (I. Hate. Moving. House.), keep the idea of a doughnut at the forefront of your mind… at least when you’re done wading through the mess you can give yourself a break and a treat of some sort. Take care, poets!

{pf: poetry peeps definito… definitively}

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge in the month of October! Here’s the scoop: We’re doing a Dansa! Its opening quintrain (5 lines) is followed by quatrains (4 lines), with a quintrain rhyme scheme of AbbaA and the quatrain bbaA. You’ll note that A repeats because the opening line of the first stanza is the final line of every stanza, including the first. Are you in? Good! You’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering with the rest of us on October 28th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.


Definition poems are nothing new, but I like this Mordhorst Definito, because it’s not just defining a word, it’s playing with words, which is a singular joy. The rules are pretty simple, and while it’s supposed to be free verse, I felt, um, free to rhyme a tiny bit. Others of the Poetry Peeps felt free to do other, smarter things. Check out Sara’s poem here, and find Laura’s poem here, and Tricia’s is here, while Liz’s poem is here. Kelly’s poem is here, and Mary Lee’s is here. A delightful number of folx joined in the fun today, and all hail, Queen Heidi’s Mordhorst Definito is here! Molly’s definito is here, while Rose’s definito is here. The Lindas are in the house, with Linda M.’s nebulous definito here, and Linda B’s definito here. We welcome Carmela to the Peeps roundup with her definito. Margaret’s definito is here, and Carol V’s is here. Even more Peeps will check-in throughout the course of the weekend, so stay tuned for the roundup.


We joked in my critique group this month that it’s just the months that end in -ber that cause us so many scheduling problems… and it’s truer this year than many. With everyone jumping aboard the Obligation Bus, one has to be deliberate about making time for things, including poetry. Since I missed my scheduled hour this weekend, I was already behind in finding my words, and I wanted to do something less complicated than my brain usually chooses for me. I told it that no, I wasn’t going to try to define perspicacious or itinerary in poetic form. I even, regretfully, passed on panache, although I adore that word. I decided to go small. Really small…

Minus even a mite
Not a dab nor a dram
The next thing to nothing,
A nip’s all I am.
Not meal: morsel. Not cookie: crumb.
A last speck of bacon,
A wee shred of plum.
Think of a particle
Left in the fridge:
Place it on a plate…
Now you have a SMIDGE.

(I mostly amused myself with that one, especially because speck is also a ham derivative of some sort.)

I have to admit that somewhere out there someone may still not quite count “smidge” or “smidgen” as a word, so I went for something a bit more traditional which doesn’t speak its definition quite so onomatopoetically:

Picture
some
water, or perhaps
a lake:
Pure flowing,
Pristine, cool,
& free to take.
People come, parched
& piqued, peeling, sun-baked:
Find them a fountain! Then
their thirst
will slake.


Aaaand, that’s not technically a definito, because it’s not really defining the word either. I feel like I need to play with Definitos a lot more before I’m doing them right. My first attempts were basically regurgitating the thesaurus, and I still feel like there’s a bit of that going on, in my first one especially. Being more playful is difficult for those of us who are always looking at the rules and ONLY the rules; however, there are few enough rules here for this form to be something fun for students to attempt. I will have to try again…

There’s more poetry abroad this autumn-touched morning (friends: it is chilly. Since it was SO HOT in this state just weeks ago, this is still deeply delightful) at Tab’s place, The Opposite of Indifference. Take joy in warming up in layers of words this weekend.

{welcome, poetry peeps! the roundup is here!}

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge in the month of September! Here’s the scoop: We’re drawing a form from within our community and doing a Definito. Created by poet Heidi Mordhorst, the definito is a free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which itself always ends the poem. Are you in? Good! You’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering with the rest of us on September 30th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.


Welcome, Poets, to the liminal season, where we are on the threshold of seasons, standing between the last gasp of summer, and the first breath of autumn. The Poetry Sisters’ challenge this month was a good one for a moment of transition, as it was a new-to-us form called the Bop. Created by poet Afaa Michael Weaver, the Bop is a kind of poetic argument, with the first stanza setting up a complaint, the second expanding on it, and the third either providing resolution or a narrative of a failed resolution. You can read Laura‘s poem, Mary Lee’s, Tricia and Liz’s poems here. Michelle K. joins us here. A few more Bops might pop up throughout the weekend, so stay tuned.

For more Poetry Friday offerings, and to share your own click here. Thanks for stopping by.


With my affection for the villanelle and the sestina, you’d think I’d be at ease working with a refrain, but perhaps it was something about a group-sourced refrain (hat tip to Poetry Sister Sara) that tripped me up. For whatever reason, the refrain in the Bop seems wholly separate from the stanzas… so much so, that I ended up hitting a wall at the end of my first stanza. Suddenly the fourteen-syllable lines seemed clunky, and the beats fell oddly. I started over, trimming my lines, but then the rhyme felt forced. Another draft, now completely unrhymed, but the internal rhythm and more polished language of my lines felt off when faced with that casually worded refrain. Isn’t that just the way it goes when you have a poetic form you’re certain will be simple? Eventually I got it to where I was …just done messing with it. I left the rhyme imperfect, with an off-meter step near the end of each stanza to signal that repeated refrain coming to pause the discussion again. Reminding myself these poems are meant to be exercise and not perfection, I stumbled and limped into my imperfectly perfect topic… housekeeping.


Click to enlarge

(Ashes to Ashes, and) Nuts to Dust

Disorder settles like the dust
Drifts into velvet piles
In quiet corners. Laundry Lurks,
disheveled. All the while
Freedom peers in through glass panes
Begrimed by birds. It waves hello….

Let’s kick that can down the road.

“Filthy” is not the kind of word
That tells the tale. There’s no mildew.
The difference between “clean” and “neat”
is miles apart. The follow-through,
Is that perfection never lasts:
A moment’s lapse, and things explode.
Chaos comes roaring, moving fast,
disrupts, dismays, and discommodes…

Let’s kick that can down the road.

Through window streaks you’ll see sunrise
And sunbeams dancing on the air.
A wrinkle will not scandalize
A meadow when you’re walking there.
That cabbage moth’s not judging you,
So, take today, get out and go.

…And kick that can down the road.


Just now, we all have so much to do – classes to start, books to buy, odd socks and lunch dishes to find, dust bunnies to rout, and water bills to pay. I hope we can find a moment to take stock and figure out which cans can be kicked down the road indefinitely – and which cans are absolutely only for right now, and must be cracked open immediately to let the full fizz of life bubble out. Carpe diem, poets. Don’t let that just be a catch phrase, life is way too short. Grab all the joy that you can – and splash it out. Happy Weekend.


(Commenting snafus: Commenting issues are an artifact of a sometimes aggressive spam filter. If your comment seems to vanish, it likely got caught. No worries, I’ll fish it out shortly!)

{pf: the poetry peeps rise}

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge in the month of August! Here’s the scoop: Get on your flippy poodle skirts, your tough leather jackets and penny loafers; we’re going to The Bop. A form created by poet Afaa Michael Weaver at a Cave Canem summer retreat, this is a poem with three stanzas, each followed by a single repeated line as a refrain. The first six lines presents an issue, the second eight line stanza discusses it, and the third six lines resolves it, and/or discusses the failure of resolution. Are you in? Good! You’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering with the rest of us on August 26th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.


The truth is, I never really give acrostics much weight as a poetic form – even phrase acrostics. It’s possible it’s because they’re so often used as elementary school art projects, where every kid finds a positive word to go with each letter of their name. Though I do like them, and the Poetry Peeps and I have messed around with them before, they’ve never really taken off as a form I’ve mastered. They’re simple, but… sometimes a little too regimented for how I’m feeling.

When Tricia selected a poem for us to take a line from for our poems, I think we all thought, “Okay, taking a line from a poem we already know? This’ll be easy.”

Yeah, that just shows what our past selves knew. No. No, this was not easy. In fact, using an utterly iconic poem like “Still I Rise” was immensely, fiendishly challenging. Additionally, a few of us found it difficult to separate the poet’s intention from our own poem – especially a well-known poet who lived during our lifetimes. This is Ms. Maya, y’all. This poem has spoken to generations of people with clarity and joy – we surely weren’t going to mess with that.

…well, obviously, we did, though I will say the good thing was that we read the poem repeatedly. I made it hard on myself by pulling the second-to-worst line in the whole thing to work with (the first worst is about having diamonds between my thighs; I’ll happily leave that one to someone else). A random line would work best, I thought, so I closed my eyes and picked…”You may kill me with your hatefulness.” …Great.

I did try to write from that line. I got halfway through and it was getting both long and depressing, and the internal rhyme felt forced. I tried a double acrostic, but those work best with really short subjects – which wasn’t what I was working with. I had to go away and come back several times and fiddle, fiddle, fiddle with word choices and order. I don’t often write a poem I’m happy with in a single sitting, but usually I can at least manage an entire draft. Not this time!

Finally I gave up, which was honestly the wisest choice. I don’t think I can write a good poem about hatefulness yet – not the way I tried to approach it. (ETA -*And here is where I forgot it was supposed to be a PHRASE acrostic…. oops.) Frankly, I’m sick to death of people’s hatefulness and could do without all that for a bit, so I switched to the important and meaningful part of the poem to me – “But still, like air, I’ll rise. Get on with your trifling hatefulness anyway. I’m over it – literally.

One of the ways I worked on creating rhyme within the confines of an acrostic was to record myself (ugh) reading it over, and over, and over. Here’s the last recording I made – it’s a really helpful (if dorky sounding) tool in the poetic arsenal.

I still don’t like the title – it really isn’t much of one – but I’m thrilled I finished with something meaningful, grounding, and largely coherent. I’ll take it.


I’m excited to see what Liz has come up with, if Sara joined the girl gang, and what Laura wrote at the lake. I’m looking forward to finding out what Tricia dreamed up, which one of the probably forty-three that Mary Lee wrote she ended up choosing. Here’s Michelle K’s beautifully upbeat take, and here, Carol V. shares another classic acrostic. Thanks so much everyone for playing along! More Poetry Peeps will be added as the weekend progresses, so check back later for the full round-up.

Meanwhile, Poetry Friday is hosted over at Marcie Atkins’ blog. Thanks, Marci!


Even if you don’t feel like you’re rising above like air this week, don’t forget the poem also suggests that you can rise like dust. Dust or grit is central to the oyster’s pearl, to the clouds that make the rain, and to the fragile impermanence of a snowflake’s beauty. Even the smallest of us has impact and purpose. Here’s to finding yours. Happy Weekend.

{bc casual ableism sucks the joy out of everything}

I finished my Master Pass for GO FIGURE, woot woot for me! And now back to the story that I need to have finished by the end of the summer and I feel like I’m not even halfway through yet (I AM, but it still doesn’t feel that way because I started a third story because it was bugging me and I thought just writing one chapter or so would work to get it out of my system. It did not. ::sigh:: ).


And now for a rant – no, not that one. This is a new one:

We don’t often talk about accommodation in our family. My sister JC uses a wheelchair, and when she got her first chair, my father ripped up all the carpet in the downstairs of the house, and tiled it. The pantry is no longer a narrow closet under the stairs but a wide space next to the fridge, with sliding barn doors. Things are at varied heights, and my sister’s closet in her bedroom has been rebuilt lower. None of this is an out-of-the-box solution my parents bought at The Disabled Store (if there’s any such thing, it’s ridiculously, prohibitively, stunningly, SUPER expensive – like her wheelchairs). They just figured out some things, and made them work. It’s a constantly evolving process.

Woodlands 14

We have learned, living with my sister, that casual ableism – subtle discrimination in favor of able-bodied people – is A Thing, really, an insidious thing, that exists. At her private, Christian elementary school, she was carried around like a piece of furniture – or, more realistically, like a fondly disregarded cat or a rag doll, even though she was a child too old to be carried – and honestly, how safe was it for the school to allow other children to carry her? Would they have allowed that with other children? No.

When she was older, she had to go up long inclines to even get to the wheelchair ramp for junior high and high school. The church our family attends was recently updated and modernized – and still lacks some basic ADA accommodation, including a ramp to the platform. Wheelchair users aren’t expected to actually, you know, be among the people giving the service, apparently. The family noted this, and basically accepted it in silence… because, what could we do? We’d asked a few questions to a few people, and gotten chagrined or blank-faced non-answers. Disabled people weren’t in the plans, and the plans would go forward as they were… because casual ableism Is A Thing. (NB: Some people feel we should have made more noise earlier. Probably. It’s hard to overcome conditioning when you’re in the minority twice over, though.)

We almost expect organizations to fail JC, because they do it so often. When she went to beauty school, they put off her enrollment for a solid month because they were working on getting her a special cart at her height, a special chair for her clients, and specialized seating in her classroom basically panicking, honestly. She did get to go to Disneyland, and she got to go first on all the rides, which was A Really Good Experience, but even though they had time and means to prepare, she had to buy her own specialized equipment. Her beauty school sent people to wash her client’s hair for her… because they couldn’t figure out how to make the world work for a disabled stylist, regardless of what they promised when she enrolled.

Being diagnosed with my autoimmune disease gave me more understanding and compassion about casual ableism than I’d previously had. When some days your hands don’t work to open jars in the kitchen, or your wrists and arms can’t carry heavy platters or a cast iron skillet… you have to make adjustments. When you can’t sit comfortably in every chair… you sit in your cushy chairs at home. You wear your mask everywhere, even though you hate it and would like to burn it with the heat of a thousand suns. You re-learn your life in a way that makes you hate yourself less for your shortcomings, you make allowances for the people who make assumptions, and who don’t understand… but you resent it with the heat of those same thousand suns, and those suns go nuclear over your baby sister.

Skyway Drive 132

So, when JC texted us six months ago, excited about attending her first concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater, we wished her eardrums luck, and didn’t think much of it… until she posted on Instagram that the venue was awful. “What happened?” asked. First, no one knew where the disabled parking lot was, and when they finally found it, they wouldn’t let her friends park there, even though they had a placard and a clear need. The parking lot was unpaved and difficult to navigate in a wheelchair. When they finally got in, finally found someone who knew where the ADA accommodating seats were, they discovered they had to go down a flight of eight stairs.

The woman on staff asked, “Can’t you walk down eight stairs?” and rolled her eyes when JC said she could not. And told her friends to “be quiet” when they interrupted to protest her being asked this.

I’m not the nice person in the family; that’s maybe reserved for …somebody else, maybe my parents? What I’d like to do is focus the light of those thousand suns at the Shoreline with a giant magnifying glass… but I’m instead just offering advice as asked, and quietly seething and ranting on blogs instead.

Some people just don’t get a break. They miss most of their senior year in high school because of surgery. They miss out on doing “normal” things with friends because they have to have friends whose cars are big enough for a wheelchair or who don’t mind breaking it down and putting it back together to get it in and out of a vehicle. They end up back on a kidney transplant list less than ten years after the first time. They’re in their twenties before they’re comfortable and confident enough to go to their first concert. It’s not fair, and while howling that into the stratosphere and a quarter won’t even get you a cup of coffee, I just had to say it out loud. With EVERYTHING ELSE horribly wrong in this country and this state and this world this week, this is icing-on-the-top of a bitter casual-ableism muffin of Not Fair, and we are going to do something about it.

Yeah, yeah, something without the sun and a magnifying glass.

Probably.


x-posted@Hobbits in Rivendell

{pf: poetry peeps try to byr a thoddaid}

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge in the month of July! Here’s the scoop: We’re each taking an empowering and inimitable line from Maya Angelou’s “And Still I Rise,” and from them creating acrostic poems. Each of those forty+ lines are available to poets to create something memorable – grounding, empowering and expansive – of their own. Are you in? Good! You’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering with the rest of us on July 29th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.


Well, first off, you pronounce it beer ah TOE-thy’d, which won’t really help you write one, but hey, The More You Know.🌠 Second, once you get into the byr a thoddaid form, they’re… complicated? But, not actually HARD. I’ve decided that byr a thoddaid are like …long division. You might run out of attention before you finish all the steps (shout-out to my former students), but it is nothing that you cannot handle (Insert authoritative teacher-voice.).

That being said, let’s acknowledge: this seemed like a LOT of steps.

Mistakes were made. Repeatedly.

My process, when dealing with an unfamiliar form, is usually to read a ton of examples. Are there a ton of examples online that I like? No. Would I need to read them in Welsh or something to find a bunch of great ones? Probably. Did I spend more time faffing about on Google than I ought to have? Definitely. I kept thinking I HAD it, when it turned out I was forgetting the near rhyme and just concentrating on the end rhyme. At one point, I rhymed everything to the first stanza, which …could be done, I guess, but wasn’t one of the options listed. I finally pulled off a tiny one, but like that long division, it took longer than I felt it should have:

The season spills a thousand scents,

As summer twilight, liquescent

Shimmers, igniting dreams undreamt. Such light

Sparkles through stars at night.

So, that felt… like a good start, but then I heard people were making two stanza poems from their stanzas, I felt I ought to step up a bit. Also, it was time to pull out the Canva and make-believe I knew what I was doing…

Full disclosure, these are from my backyard nectarine and plum trees, but one of the loveliest things about this area is the many, many sidewalk fruit trees, and of an evening, you will see families – small children, whole rafts of folks in the national clothing of their home countries – with boxes, bags, little red wagons and step-stools, all out to get stone fruit for jam, for eating out of hand, to dry it, and more. It’s …it makes me feel like SOMETHING is going right in the world. Friends, I will gladly take this one thing.

Want to see the attempts of the peeps who also assayed this adventure? Tricia’s is here. Sara’s is here. Laura got inspired here, and Liz’s link is here. Cousin Mary Lee’s is here. Michelle K.’s poem is here. More Poetry Peeps will be added as the weekend progresses, so check back later for the full round-up.

Meanwhile, Poetry Friday is hosted by Catherine, at Reading to the Core. Thanks, Catherine!


And here it is, the end of a week, when just days – or hours – or months ago, you never thought you’d get here. See how much you’ve done with what you’ve got? Remember — like long division, life is nothing that you cannot handle. Take that deep breath of summer sweet, and hold fast. Happy Weekend.