Friday, July 27, 2012

MOLE POEMS: Variations on a Theme

Every now and then, I like to write poems about a particular subject in a number of different ways. I have arranged the following three mole poems in the order in which I wrote them. The first poem is a “things to do” list poem; the second and third are mask poems.


Make your home
in the damp darkness
unknowing of snow
and stars
and summer breezes.
Live among roots
and rocks
and sleeping cicadas.
Excavate tunnels
in the moist brown earth.
Listen for the soft music
of seeds sprouting,
worms wiggling,
rain pattering on your grassy roof.
Spend your days in a world
of unending night.


I live in the earth.
I burrow through soil.
A claw-footed creature,
In darkness I toil.
I excavate tunnels.
I really DIG dirt!
I’m a fine engineer.
I do hate to be curt…
But I’m here on the job…
I can’t stop now to chat.
I’m a hole-digging mole.
I’ll just leave it at that!


Psst! Psst! HEY! I’m right down here.
I’m a busy little engineer
Building tunnels underground.
You rarely hear ME make a sound.

My life is lonely…one of toil.
I claw my way through darkness soil.
The sun’s is not a face I know.
I live where seeds begin to grow.

Dear Mother Earth is my good friend
And through her big brown heart I wend
Digging tunnels right down here.
Listen! Listen! Cup an ear.


The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Life Is Better with Books.

Friday, July 20, 2012

CRICKETS: An Original Acrostic

One of my favorite sounds is that of crickets chirping on summer nights. I haven’t had the opportunity to listen to them lately because it has been so hot around here lately that we’ve had to run the air conditioner in our bedroom.

Here’s an acrostic poem I wrote some years ago about crickets strumming on summer evenings:

Chirping in the dark, their song
In the still air. A
Chorus of summer night strummers in concert with
Entertaining warm evenings with
Symphony of wings.

One of my favorite things to do is to feed my little granddaughter. She enjoys eating all kinds of food—including broccoli, snap peas, carrots, and bananas. In addition, I can usually snap my best pictures of her when she’s sitting in her high chair and can't make a fast getaway. Here are some recent pictures of Julia:

Julia enjoyed dropping food on the floor
when we took her out to eat
on Father's Day.
A two-fisted eater!
 She can now drink from a "sippy" cup.

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at A Teaching Life.

Friday, July 13, 2012

SUMMER RITUAL: An Original Memoir Poem

In June, I wrote a post about Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) that included a memoir poem about picking strawberries in my grandfather’s garden. Every visit to the home of my maternal grandparents in summertime meant a trip to Dzidzi’s garden to pick fresh vegetables. Dzidzi loved sharing what he grew with relatives and neighbors.

 Here’s is a poem about my memories of my visits to my grandfather’s garden:


My mother and I arrive at my grandparents’ house
late one Sunday afternoon.
Babci greets us in the kitchen
with cold drinks clinking with ice cubes.
Dzidzi fetches a small wooden basket
from the cellar, takes my hand,
and walks me down the stone path to his garden.
He leans over a tomato plant,
holds a fat red globe in his cupped hand,
and looks at me. I nod approval.
I can almost taste the tomato’s warm, juicy flesh.
We choose a dozen more and place them in the basket.
We pick three green, glossy-skinned peppers,
pull up a bunch of feather-topped carrots,
enough beets for my mother to make a pot of zimny barszcz
thickened with sour cream and floating with cucumber slices.
Every visit to my grandparents’ house
is the same this season—
a small harvest of vegetables—
and when we leave, I take home
a little basket of Dzidzi’s garden.

Jone has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Check It Out.

Friday, July 6, 2012

A Home for the Seasons: An Original Memoir Poem


Last September, I wrote a post titled Cleaning House and Discovering Old Poems. Well, I’ve been cleaning house again—that’s why I’ve taken a brief break from blogging. This time, I am truly a woman on a mission. I’ve been throwing away TONS of stuff—except for old poems. My library/office in my basement had become so cluttered and disorganized that it was difficult to find things. (That wasn’t the only room in the house that needed attention!) It feels so good to be getting rid of things that I don’t need or no longer use…to be organized…to have room once more in my cupboards and drawers and closets…to be able to locate things easily. 

While going through all my stuff, I found some old photographs and newspaper clippings. Memories came flooding back—memories of family…friends…times past…places we have traveled to. I also began to think about all the happy memories the house where I live holds for me. I admit that I have a sentimental attachment to my home of thirty-six years.

There is another house that holds a special place in my heart. It’s the home of my maternal grandparents where I spent many of my of my happiest childhood days. This Friday, I’m taking a stroll down memory lane with the following poem about my grandparents’ house.

A Home for the Seasons

My grandparents’ house seems to hug their shady street.
A white duplex, its twin front doors
stand side by side
just three steps up from the sidewalk.
We always enter the house through the side door.
Stepping into the kitchen,
we find Babci sitting at the far end of the table
spooning filling onto circles of homemade dough
and making pierogis, crocheting afghans,
or snipping lacy designs from paper—
a traditional folk art she learned in Poland.
Sometimes we see her painting flowers on the cupboard doors
or hanging starched curtains she embroidered by hand.
The aroma of stuffed cabbage or babka baking in the oven
often greets us at the door.
Most days, Dzidzi spends outdoors tending to his garden
or painting the shutters green
or mending the picket fence
or building a backyard fireplace for summertime barbecues.
My grandparents always busy themselves
making their place a special place
for the family to gather throughout the year,
making it a home for all the seasons.


Tabatha has the Poetry Friday Roundup at The Opposite of Indifference.