Okie is our orange tabby. His name has nothing to do with the Sooner State and Ethan is the only true Oklahoman in this house. When Okie adopted us in Texas, we dubbed him “O.K.” for “orange kitty” and that was all right with him. Since then, the name has shifted slightly. Okie shares the house with us, our finches, our two other cats (Scout and Ragget) and whatever wildlife temporarily comes in. Ethan and I rescue what we can. Here’s our latest adventure… involving a chipmunk and told in poem form:
A Hickory Creek Hike
On this windy but mellow afternoon, I walked the extra distance to Hickory Creek Park and was rewarded with beautiful scenes and intriguing finds. For example, a certain type of tree caught my eye because it had retained most of its blade-shaped leaves, which were still green shifting to yellow. Upon investigation, I found a profusion of large, unusually-capped acorns on the ground beneath the tree. Many had fallen to some nearby pavement or among the rocks and gravel that edge it.
Poetry: Villanelle
Yes, the “Villanelle” verse form relates to villas, or at least to villagers. Possibly, it derived from the work songs sung by Italian peasants as they tended crops.
As a poet, why have I avoided traditional forms so long? …Arrogance, laziness, freedom, efficiency—or what? My response is: All of the above, plus a good dose of fear. To me, it seemed a violation of an emergent poem’s integrity to stuff it in a straitjacket of just so many lines, beats per line, rhyme patterns, or even a prescribed mood or theme. “Let the poem make its own choices,” I protested, considering myself more midwife than mother. Besides, following all those writing rules is hard work.
Cedar and Sycamore
The more I try to avoid my neighbor, the more often we seem to cross paths—literally. This woman is older than I and smaller. Her two terriers are about the size of my cats. Twice a day or so, she walks the dogs along the road by her house—the same road I walk at least three times a week. If the dogs catch sight of me, it’s all she can do to restrain them on their leashes, so, naturally, we try to avoid each other. Trouble is, neither of us has a set schedule of when we do our walking.
Poetic Life
It didn’t seem like a very promising afternoon for a walk. I turned back just after leaving the house to grab an umbrella. But it never rained. In fact, the gray clouds lightened and lifted, and the sun almost broke through by the time I reached the lake. No one else was at the boat ramp, so I found a sizable rock to sit on and silently fell in with the scene.
Post-Halloween Post
Poems — Oct 2013
Photo “Enhancements”
Why be happy with what you’ve got…
when you can have more, more, MORE?
Those lyrics from a Pinocchio presentation made such an impression on me years ago that they are firmly entrenched in my mind. Apparently, I’ve lost all related details because now I can’t find any connection online between the lyrics and Pinocchio. Did I dream this up?
Pinocchio is a cautionary tale about over-desiring and overdoing. What brought the lyrics to mind was how easy and inexpensive it is to modify photographs these days.
Outdoors in October
FUTZING? A Facebook Post…
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Compelled by blue skies and still-green foliage, I took my own advice yesterday and went walking. Continue reading
Creative Realms
Clear-Mind Flow
After a decade of writing near-daily poems, I’m surprised at how often I’m surprised doing it. When I don’t come to the task ready with a topic, I often simply position the pencil over the paper, clear my mind, and wait for some kind of flow (words, images, or emotions). If I resist writing whatever first appears, that resistance sets up a blockage. So no matter what comes, I welcome it, even if no poem results. In every case, though, a wonderful gift arrives—an absurdity, a memory, an exploration of pain, or something else altogether.
Writing this way is akin to dreaming. It taps into normally hidden or disowned realms of consciousness. Once retrieval is made, analysis can begin. Today’s poem-writing process illustrates that adventure.