{nat’l poetry month: zzzzzzzip}

Laura’s “riddleku” yesterday was lovely – the imagery of I’m singing/ the room full of breeze reminded me both of a fan’s atonal song, and of today’s subject — the tiny flying piggies that live in the yard — and think it’s theirs.

Skyway Drive 152

Our friend “Moll” visited us from Scotland last month, and her reaction to them was open-mouthed wonder. “Real, live hummingbirds!” she breathed, and we smiled. (Of course, she’d had the same reaction to Mennonite ladies with their headcoverings -“Oh, just like in a book!” – and to the various fountains and wineries and vineyards and other touristy things we’d taken her to see. She actually jumped up and down at the Jelly Belly Factory.) Moll is just like that; full of enthusiasm, though we agreed with her about the hummingbirds. They were a hard loss for us when we lived in Scotland – bluetits, while fast and beautiful, are just not the same. There’s just something so cheering about a hummingbird’s little greedy, flashy, and most of all, speedy interactions with us, helicoptering around our heads as we fill the feeders, bickering bitterly with each other over whose turn it is to drink, making tenuous treaties which are almost immediately broken in a hail of tiny, shrill squeaks as the aerial battles engage again and again — that makes us glad to be home, where they live.

bejeweled

a blur –
at edge of sight –
its electric flight, dance.
effervescent. iridescent.
bejeweled.

Cinquain is hard for me, because it has Rules and I generally dislike Rules and Poetry at the same time. Classic cinquain, as we were taught them in school, anyway, uses the first word and the title as the same; the third line usually ends in -ing, and is descriptive verbs. Sometimes the fourth line is a full sentence. Well…I tried to follow the descriptive feel of the cinquain, and to respect the stresses and syllables in the line, but — as usual — not much else of the rules got through. Oh, well. I’ll try this form again, when I’m feeling less rebellious. ☻ Whenever that might be.

Meanwhile, all hail the tiny, flying pigs.

Skyway Drive 158