{poetry friday: p7 play “Statues in the Park”}

How on earth is it already August!? This year has seemed to be the longest parade of awful, ever but somehow this summer is flying by like greased lightning. I guess it’s just that the pace of the chaos has sped up…? Who can tell. This week, I’m writing poetry from a new garret, in a house still filled with the odd unpacked box or stack of somethings.

Vacaville 2Vacaville 1

Our August Poetry Project is another Salas Special, wherein Laura gave us the title and let us go hog wild. Well, that’s never a good idea for me. I was stumped for ideas for a hot minute until I narrowed down my Flickr selections of statues to the actual park, and not entryways, old buildings, cemeteries… These bronze statues are in a graveled park, a short cut between a strip mall and a street of shops. The pair of them are gathering pears. The girl is gathering windfalls, while the man takes care of the official harvest. The light and the wet day perfectly captured the ineffable quality of an autumn afternoon:

Statues in the Park, Vacaville

Gather ye orchard’s gleaning
As sun decants to starlight.
The summer leaves no greening
Untouched by autumn’s appetite.
Soft, the season turns, governed by winter’s oversight.

I like that, but still find five-line poems a struggle (if I actually follow the rules for syllables, which I patently did NOT in the final line). Five lines are just not enough time for wordy-old-me to invest a poem with emotion – which is why I deeply respect people who can really make tanka really work. (I keep trying, though.)

I gave up on the quintet form and just went with rhymed couplets — and a statue that stopped traffic for me. Ever been to Treasure Island?

Treasure Island 36Treasure Island 34Treasure Island 30

Statues in the Park: Bliss

Like no one’s watching, dance, they said
Away your fears, take joy instead!
Such glib advice! So hard to take.
(Perfectionists can’t risk mistakes.)

Who wouldn’t choose a bird to be –
All blithe-winged swooping, flying free –
…But, what goes UP must come to grief.
DOWN follows up. Joy’s flight is brief.

Light, soaring thistledown I’d fly
Wind’s fickle dance exemplify,
But plodding, scaredy-self the rope
That leashes whimsy’s gyroscope.

Is fearing, living? NO, say I
If convention we satisfy
And let “tradition” turn our feet!
Take back your drum! Dance to your beat.

They’re watching, but dance anyway
Sing loud. Love hard, life’s cabaret
Plays rarely past four score and five –
You have RIGHT NOW to be alive.

This is “Bliss Dance,” by Marco Cochrane, on the great lawn at Treasure Island. She is forty feet tall, and she literally, the first time we saw her, caused us to hit the brakes and gawk. She. Is. Huge.

Some art you can encounter once and simply remember it. Bliss, I could visit repeatedly. She’s just…there larger than life, and …brings to mind the William Carlos Williams poem, “The Kermess,” another poem I memorized in college. I love the joyous defiance of Breughel’s-great-picture-The Kermess; the poem’s thick shanks and big butts and bellies all swinging round made me so happy. Bliss’ body is traditionally symmetrical, but her nudity puts her on the same level – she’s unashamed and getting her slightly awkward, spinning groove on. She’s probably going to trip over her own feet, in a minute. Do you think she cares?

Treasure Island 31

She does not.


The poetry sisters are in the house! Some of Laura’s statues are just waiting for you to leave. Sara’s diving into the complicated uses of Lincoln’s memorial. Tricia’s managing to write surrounded by family. Kelly’s playing with the idea of release, while Liz is traveling. And don’t forget to wave hello to Andi, who is cheering us on from the bench this week.

There’s more Poetry Friday this lovely early August day! Our hostess kicking off the month in style is Donna@Mainely Write. Put on your dancing shoes, dearhearts, and shimmy through your weekend. They’re all watching. Who cares?

{pf: p7 in the style of “she walks in beauty”}

It’s the first Friday of the month, and it’s time for a bit of Byron!

For preference, “The Destruction of Sennacherib” will always be my favorite of the poetic stylings of Mr. “mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” but “She Walks in Beauty” is gorgeous, too; a lovely example of the poetry of the Romantic era, and a personification of the Beauty that is Womanhood and all of that you learn in Sophomore English. As all Romantic poems do, it deals heavily in hyperbole and is a tiny bit on the ridiculous side, because I don’t know any women in whom all the best of anything meet anywhere, but your mileage may vary. When tasked to write in the style of Byron, I tried to gently capture that feel, going for the over-the-top flowery language and deathless symbolism while still writing something coherent (this may not have worked, but…). Instead of Beauty/Womanhood, I explored truth, via the story of Diogenes and Ma’at.

Calochortus amabilis 2.jpg
By Eric in SFOwn work, CC BY-SA 3.0, Link

Diogenes’s Daughters

Mere Beauty waits to take its bow
Beneath Cardinal Virtue’s gaze,
Seven, the Sisters make their vow
To Veritas, its arts to raise –
And to its Muse – her craft allow
To bright illuminate their days.

Their clear gaze focused on the Truth
Seven set forth their Lamps to raise.
These, undeterred by age or youth
Eschewing private gain or praise,
Sought but to find, by means more couth
Knowledge to set the world ablaze.

Astronomers’ celestial quest
Can no more match this thirst divine
‘Sapere aude!’ Know, and wrest,
From clamor’s call, an anodyne;
Against a world in sore distress –
One honest heart that’s genuine.

In college, there was a yearly competition to find these glorious early Spring flowers, called calochortus amibillis, commonly named Diogenes Lanterns. In the story, Diogenes walked about with a lit lamp because he was in search of one honest man. We never know if he found him, but he should have looked among the women, maybe…? Ma’at is old Egypt’s goddess of truth from which the personification of Justice as a woman holding a scale gets its basis. Though cuneiform tablets and old drawings do not depict her with a scale, her job was to weigh hearts and souls against the ostrich feather she wore in her hair. Only those souls lighter than her feather could go on to the afterlife.

Ma’at

She does her duty – what is right
In desert storms when high winds rise
When taloned carrion birds take flight
– and venturing out would be unwise.
When her gaze finds all clear and bright,
She still permits no compromise.

Though deeds obscure, though lies oppress
The Scales she scries do not displace
A feather’s weight of faithfulness –
True hearts will show their truest face.
No matter if our hearts transgress,
An honest scale’s our saving grace.

She walks ascendant, even now
Though clouds of lies disorient
Her staff in hand, her neck unbowed
Her feather weighs the soul’s intent.
So let it be: let us allow
This lightness, Love to represent.

Sapere aude is Latin for “dare to know.” Humanity has searched for and championed from antiquity various versions of The Truth. Do we dare to know? From myths and gods onward, the search continues…

Here’s Kelly, who started us off, telling us what that cousin really thinks. And Laura’s, which takes a decidedly glittery angle on things. In Sara’s, equine hoofbeats pound in iambic pentameter. Like most of us, Tricia found this challenge both fun and impossible to do while trying to do other things, and Liz skidded in at the finish line – with her usual grace. Andi continues to walk in beauty this month, and will catch us later. For more poetry, check out the Beyond Literacy Link blog.


BONUS ♦ BONUS ♦ BONUS ♦ ~ Next week, July 14th, is National Mac-and-Cheese Day. You know Poetry Friday Must Celebrate, right? Next week’s round-up is at Tabatha Yeats’ blog The Opposite of Indifference. Be there with cheese on – be it Gruyere or vegan cheddar.

{poetry friday: the p7 shovel gold}

When they invented the sestina, indeed, the resultant yowling by Aquitanian poets throughout Europe was no doubt noteworthy… but that was before they invented the Golden Shovel…


The Golden Shovel’s title enlarges the idea of tribute, of “shoveling” the golden bits of another poem for reuse. First, a poet takes an admired line, then, keeping the words in order, uses the words from this line as line endings in a new poem of their own creation. Finally, the poem reveals their new creation, and credits the old.

We chose the hardest poem to work with, Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty.” You remember the tongue-twister that you utterly failed to memorize in the seventh grade for speech class?

Yeah, that one. (What? Was it only me?):

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –
    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
        For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
    Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
        And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
    Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
        With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                Praise him.

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1877

Once I got over the shrieking horror of How am I supposed to work with compounds like ‘chestnut-falls’??? Is that one word, or two???, I began to figure out what this poem was – and what it was not. Foremost, it was not a rewrite of Hopkins’ original. In Terrence Hayes’ original poem, “Golden Shovel,” based on Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool,” (1959) he took her words and whipped them into a whole new dish. The poignancy and bravado of a nameless black boy cresting the hill of adulthood is certainly there, but he’s not leaning heavily on the bravado of school-skipping adolescents hanging out at a pool hall. Once I stopped trying to rewrite “Pied Beauty,” my process cleaned up a whole lot… though I was still tempted by it. As you can see, I took for use the first line of Hopkins’ exultant poem:

Photos via Wikipedia

lilium fatale

there blooms the lady, gaudy in her glory
as a trumpet blast. Bright freckles massed might be
music, presaging summer’s solo. Oh, to
grace a garden, now that spring is here. Does God
dream in stargazers? Let no beauty be for
gotten: strumpet striped, dewy, sunlight dappled;
dizzy, drenched, these senses! delight in all things.

   ~ after Gerard Manley Hopkins

Moving past my usual squeamishness about blank verse, with its resultant no-rules/no-brakes feeling, I wondered, next, if it was possible to add a little lightness to these poems. Oddly for a tribute form, most I’ve seen are quite serious in content. While the rules in a Golden Shovel freed me from the tyranny of end-line rhyme, I found that thematically, with this poem specifically, thematic variance was nearly impossible. (I’ll be interested in seeing how my other Sisters managed this — I could not.) I’m just not sure how else I could have used these particular lines, although the second half of the poem might have .

star talk

“we’re made of star-stuff.” this, a dazzling sendup of us all;
humanity made luminosity. great, glowy things
reactive (con)fusions, ticking like a Geiger counter,
our radiance cosmic, scintillating & original
yes, we’re stars… but, mostly quarks: odd parts in a box marked ‘spare;’
we broke the mold. we’re distinct, authentic, genuine… strange.

   ~ with genuine affection for the brilliantly strange Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson

My one regret is running out of time to try for the last two lines (despite what Laura was told, the last two words constitute no challenge at all, thank you) – but maybe someday!


With such a busy month, we had zero time for collaboration, so like me, I know you’re dying to see what Sara (who is in NM with her kids just now, so may post later next week), Tricia, Laura, Kelly, & Liz are shoveling up this week between commencement, travel, and other ceremonies. Andi’s not with us this month, but we know she is reading and being filled. She will be back. More Poetry Friday goodness to dig your teeth into is found at Buffy’s Blog.

{#npm’17: p7, talking back to Rilke}

It’s the first Friday of National Poetry Month, which means a doubly special poetry challenge, participated in by Kelly, Sara, Liz calling in from the road; Laura, and Tricia (Andi is sitting this one out) as part of the Poetry Seven’s Year in Poetry challenge. This month, Sara chose a poem by Rilke for us to respond to directly –

You, darkness, of whom I am born—

I love you more than the flame
that limits the world
to the circle it illumines
and excludes all the rest.

But the dark embraces everything
shapes and shadows, creatures and me,
people, nations—just as they are.

It lets me imagine
a great presence stirring beside me

I believe in the night.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

Stirling Holy Rood Church T 13

We all read this poem a few times, and then a few more, and then decided what to do with it. I tried to write a line-to-line response first, which didn’t work at all. Then I tried to write a kind of …Big Picture Thought about how the poem made me feel. Also didn’t work. As I was trying to work through my daily poem challenges for National Poetry Month, I begin to get a little worried… Rilke, with his usual straightforwardness, was not striking any sparks with me.

And then, I started thinking about sparks… little spangles of light, illumination. And the opposite of said. Sparks don’t actually let us do anything but see that there’s contrast. They don’t help us see anything but the light itself, and what is it, really?

This is a dude who likes the dark. I respect that about him. Few people actually do. Oh, we think we love the dark, the stars. We quote “When I Heard The Learn’d Astronomer,” and gaze up wistfully. But, where most of us live is so much light pollution we don’t actually have dark. I have become acquainted with the night, because I briefly lived way out in the country, in Glasgow. Our neighbors were sheep. It was flippin’ dark out on those country lanes. It was …kind of amazing. And, I knew I was walking right next to spiders. I had to decide how much I was going to let that bother me.

In the end, I decided that I agreed with ‘ol Rainer, because I like the dark, but I also want to like the dark. Being who I am, the literal girlchild who has thought a great deal about the word “black” as reflected in theology and hymnody, darkness is going to mean a little something different to me — and I could see that reflected in the seven’s poetry, as we wrote on our shared Google document. I may be the only one who likes the dark, but I won’t hold that against anyone. I have walked a different (spider-adjacent) road, and I tend to have to reject the experience that “most” people have with darkness – because I am not most people.

Took me long enough to figure that out.

“the absence of color”

from darkness thou art formed & dust thou art
first secreted within thy mother’s womb
deep shadows, holding fast creation’s start
to secret hopes in dreamer’s sleep entombed

(blackness is sin, a moody study’s brown
and white holds light, a purity renown
a Presence stirs, beneath the surface bright
foul fiend, forfend, or wisdom’s erudite?)

before the light can drown thy timid sheen
enlightening with fact that still deceives
hold to thine task: believe what is not seen
and be ye blesséd by the unperceived.

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Irene Lantham at her blog, LIVE YOUR POEM. Check it out, for more!

{poetry seven: the cloister ekphrastic}

This month, Andi had the most amazing images for us to share of a site in her home state, the Glencairn Cloister, family home of Mildred and Raymond Pitcairn. If you want to take a digital stroll there, you can look at the front of the church that the cloister adjoins. As to what a cloister is:

During medieval times cloisters served as a quiet place for religious contemplation, and cloister arcades were often carved with symbolic sculptures to encourage mindful meditation. In planning Glencairn’s cloister, Pitcairn, a member of the Bryn Athyn New Church congregation (Swedenborgian Christian), continued this tradition. The visual focal point of the space is a series of symbolic bird capitals surmounting the columns that form the inner arcade. According to E. Bruce Glenn, author of Glencairn: The Story of a Home, in New Church tradition birds are used as spiritual symbols of “those ideals of the mind that lift us above worldly concerns as the flight of a bird draws our eyes from the earth.”

There are birds and arches and courtyards and benches carved with animals, and they’re full of meaning. It’s lovely, and I really want to go there in person someday.

There’s a tiny bench carved with a sheep and a lamb – representing family – that especially spoke to me. In this Sturm und Drang world in which we live right now, a tiny bench, where we’re forced to sit close and look at each other seems… ideal. When I was teaching, I was fond of the “Nose-to-nose, knee-to-knee” approach. With fifth graders, who seem to boil up into quick conflict that fades nearly as quickly, it was a surefire way to force my grudging grumps into proximity with each other. If you’re sitting facing someone, it’s harder to lie to them – and to yourself – about what happened to your friendship. It’s also harder to avoid each other. It’s harder to interrupt someone who is right there (well, usually). It’s easier to listen (mostly). One on one, knee-to-knee, the problems we face could take the first steps toward healing, if we could just listen. Reason. Together.

glencairn-ekphrasis-photo-december

House Your Heart

your head (my heart)
comprised of stone:
you (willful) push
and I (alone) retreat
and leave you to your phase –
our glacial war goes on for days.

my spirit (weak)
(my flesh) unnerved
I, at the table, bargain served,
but you (the victor) call the tune…
I cede the floor.
you dance (your doom).

don’t build your house (your heart)
of stone. foundations firm are fine;
but iron forged from chill confines
(of earth) do not then grow,
Or change. rebirth erupts from soil.
from honest sod. disruptive dirt!

the breath of God breathes in
(and seeds. and life. and health)
the wind blows through and tides
that ebb become renewed.
contrive some wriggle-room to find
within the walls. (within the mind)

so hearts (still beating)
won’t anneal and iron wills
won’t meld to steel.
let distance, love,
(begin) to heal.

your head (my heart)
a maze of cracks
gray loneliness is our new black
life’s tepid soup no tears can season…
come, knee-to-knee, sit.
Let us reason.


More poetry abounds; the Seven Sisters celebrate another twelve months of poet-ing with forms of all kinds: Kelly, sharing a poulet-appointed, puffed-up perfection; Sara, who also found the same bench appealing; Liz, whose poem has itself a beautifully cathedral-like tone; Tricia, venturing aloft — and into love poems; Laura, hallowing the artistry of stone. Thanks, Andi, for the inspiration!

This concludes 2016’s Seven Sisters Poetry… next year should be interesting!

More poetry, hosted by Words for Wee Ones, in praise of community.

{p7 – ekphrastic on l’arlequin}

the poetry seven

The OED explains that the “arlequin,” is, a. A character in Italian comedy, subsequently in French light comedy; in English pantomime a mute character supposed to be invisible to the clown and pantaloon; …he usually wears particoloured bespangled tights and a visor… (In reference to quot. 1590, it may be noticed that the arlecchino is said, in Italian Dictionaries, to have originally represented the simple and facetious Bergamese man-servant. Cf. the stage Irishman.). Meant to be many amusing things – the arlequin is part of the fun, a figure to be made fun of, and a “funny” racial minority – Irish, if one is English, or, if one is Italian, Bergamo (a province in the state of Venice), a people ridiculed as clownish in manners and dialect by, among other famous folk, Shakespeare in 12th Night. Clowns. Based on real people.

Image from page 135 of "Masques et bouffons; comédie italienne" (1862)

The image to the left here dates from 1862, and was printed on the program for a theater troupe. So amusing, those eyes. Those exaggerated eyes remind me of blackface, actually. Punch, the viciously violent, wife-killing puppet from the Punch & Judy Victorian plays – started out as a harlequin called Pulcinella – with those same exaggerated eyes, the emphasized nose, and those hilarious murderous tendencies. Hah-hah, he’s subhuman, that Punch. Hah-hah, what a clown. The French sculptor responsible for this 1879 image, Charles René de Paul de Saint-Marceaux, recreated it in myriad forms – clay, bronze, marble, small, large, plain, painted. The arlequin is an eternal figure of fun, after all.

Which helps me understand that humor – and all things – change over time.

arlequin

As I looked at this image Kelly chose for us this month, I did some freewriting, and produced words like romance (because my mind is ever with the Harlequins, I guess) smirk, insouciance, cheek, hidden, obscure, veil, misunderstood, concealed, suppressed – and a few more in that vein. I found that I was reacting mostly to his mask… apparently because, Mask = Somehow Not Good. Additionally, here’s this dude standing, arms crossed, stance wide, looking down – maybe in that down-then-up eye-flick thing that people do once they’ve looked you over and found you wanting. Flick. Dismissed.

Ugh.

Ugh on two fronts, really. I mean, REALLY, Tanita? All this angst? I keep rolling my eyes at myself for reading SO MUCH into a piece of artwork, but – well, ekphrasis by definition means description – and I’m describing, I guess, how this artwork makes me feel at first blush – granted, against the backdrop of everything else going on in the world that’s getting into my “feels.” Look at him, standing there. I’m ready to laugh with the joke. Resigned, equally, to being the joke. I’m uncomfortable, yes… but could he be, too?

Digging deeper past our first flinch responses is what creates a higher consciousness in the human animal than in the average mammal. I know I had to think deeper than my first response – often – when I was teaching. So, this poem goes out to all my clowns, all my little smirkers, and fast-talkers, the cocky little turkeys who drove me nuts with their attention-seeking — dragging the attention of the class from the lesson and onto them with their constant caprices and blethering. Did you derail the lesson because you couldn’t understand, and were afraid to ask…?

Come, be brave, my lads, my ladies. Take off the mask.

NOTES TO A MALAPERT
FACING MIDTERM REPORT CARDS

Imperfect paste, insouciance, affixing scorn to sneering mask
And closing minds to fresher things – for it ASSUMES and does not ASK.

Assumption traps the imprecise, beguiles wit to buffoonery
It builds a faith in rank surmise and makes “an ass” a guarantee.

Incorrigible, too cute to care that laughter only lasts so long
Consider that the spotlight’s gaze may soon become your siren song —

Ask, knock, and seek – old-fashioned tasks – find facts the proven way
Don’t stand and smirk and “guesstimate” – and lead yourself astray.


head-arlequin



You’ll not want to miss the rest of the gang who could make it this week. We wave and blow kisses to Andi, under her pile of blankets this week, but Sara starts us off with wondering what this guy’s up to. Laura’s pretty sure she already knows. Liz remembers him as that one guy in high school. Despite a busy week, Tricia sneaked in there, too. And Kelly – who saw the trickster first – is the cherry on top, even though she’s still working on her poem.

Poetry Friday’s roundup is hosted today by Violet Nesdoly.

{p7: ekphrastic on wonder exhibit}



IMG_0057

Today’s images are taken from Jennifer Angus’ show, “In The Midnight Garden” from the Wonder exhibit at the Renwick Gallery in Washington DC, courtesy of photographing poetry sister Sara Lewis Holmes.


I both love and kind of dread our ekphrastic months with the Poetry Sisters. We all have such eclectic tastes, artwork is so subjective, and I’m never sure quite what I think of a sculpture or image until I’m writing about it – which has been kind of an adventure. Lately, though, as I’ve been working to finish a book manuscript and kind of feeling the chill of the winds of change in the country lately, it’s been a struggle to stay on the …er, sunny side, as it were. I’m not actively depressed, but I have pretty much got the gallows humor going on, and …yeah. So, when Sara brought us pictures of a room full of bugs I… Hm. I looked at it. In a way, with its cochineal-washed walls, the exhibit space is gorgeous. The insects themselves are so beautiful, but then I got entangled in the details… details like, the bugs are DEAD. Sure, they were wonderful (perhaps wonder-full?) when alive, but they’re now simply rank on rank of dead bugs, or dead chitinous outer skeletons of bugs, ordered, empty, husks which should have been alive.

IMG_0056

And can you believe it, of all the ideas I had? That one stuck.

Somehow, seeing that and the tiny drawers – which reminded me so much of the old card catalogues – made me think of emotions, or how we deal, or don’t deal with them… How, when they’re not alive within us, they become useless, dead things that we just …shuffle around in drawers? I don’t know. I would apologize AGAIN for being the weirdo in the room, but by now we all know this is apparently just who I am.

Asi es la vida.

classified

Because there is no remedy for woe
And lacking physic, panacea, cure,
We package it, with labels, just to show
How fine we are. We can – we will! – endure.
Because life has no cure, save for the grave
(And deathless, sunless, half-life not our aim – )
What can’t be changed, we archive. We, the brave
Recorded, classed, but empty all the same.
Systemized sleight-of-hand is what we use
To keep what matters indexed deep inside.
Chameleons playing shell-games, we excuse
Our hollow places. (Grief? Undignified.)

Why, when this world would gut us, should we leave
Our undefended hearts upon our sleeves?

This, the month when summer school classes are ending, school is resuming, and the last frantic scramble of this and that is taking place, we didn’t all make today’s poetry date, but we’ll see them next month. Meanwhile, don’t miss Liz, Sara, Andi & Tricia’s contributions – which include a video and artist interview – for today.

Additional Poetry Friday contributions are hosted today at A Teaching Life.

{p7 poetry friday ♦ sedoka form}

Not to be confused with the math game Sudoku, the poetic form Sedōka is also mathematically based, but it’s a words-and-numbers logic game, rather than being numbers alone. It’s best described as shadow poetry; conceptually parallel, echoing the same syllable length as haiku, but in a different order. Inasmuch as a haiku is syllables organized as 5-7-5, the Sedōka is 5-7-7. Each grouping is a standalone stanza, but joined, they complete the stanzas complete each other.

The haiku-like form allowed several of us to race and just begin to work on them right before the deadline. Unfortunately, sometimes the shorter the poem is, and the tighter the form, the harder it is to be happy with it! When I’m stuck, often poetry I already know begins to ring in my mind. This one came from Whitman’s “Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking,” and the images of a fractured lullaby and a disquieted wandering nagged at me. I love the direction it’s going, but I’m not convinced that this is my best work – it’s hard to pack much of anything – for me, anyway – into such tight forms. I left the poem untitled, as the 1950’s era ad jingle seemed to suggest too much to some readers, and I wanted to let you draw your own conclusions. Anyway, the point of the exercise is to FINISH, so:

Sonoma County 178 HDR

A blanket of foam
Unfurling hypnotically
The surf roars a lullaby

Home is the sailor.
Landlocked. Sleepless; he listens
As the wind shrills sharp like gulls
2015 Benicia 54

the poetry seven

There are more pithy little poems from the Poetry Seven littering the landscape. Laura’s was written in Taco Bell. No, really. ♦ Sara, caffeinated, nonetheless managed to settle in, after a few jokes. ♦ And Andi’s back with a little poem to bring on the Spring. ♦ Tricia stopped by with a little background on the recent space return. ♦ Finally, Liz continues to be adored by her dog.

More Poetry Friday submissions can be found at the Teacher Dance blog, and stay tuned for another ekphrastic poetry series from the Poetry Seven next month… a ceiling fresco from the University of St. Thomas in Minneapolis.