NaBloPoMo: I Did It!

I did it. I posted every day in April and now I am going to try in in May. I love the theme of comfort. I find comfort in writing each day. It keeps me in a routine of getting thoughts down and provides a journal I can refer back to days, weeks, months, and years later.

Along with writing I find comfort in creating bouquets. I picked spring flowers today to give as thank you gifts to some staff members tomorrow. The colors, smells, and shapes of the flowers were intriguing today.

The Last Poem: Autobiographia

Today is the last day once again that I celebrate National Poetry Month on my blog. I have shared new poems, old poems, and a few favorites once again. I found this poem once again that I had posted a few years ago in April. I love to write and read memoir. This is a memoir-like poem worth posting again.  Reflecting on the theme of the poem, I have to say I had everything also and still do. Above are Mom and Dad back in the day.


Autobiographia

I had everything and luck: Rings of smoke
blown for me; sunlight safe inside the leaves
of cottonwoods; pure, simple harmonies
of church music, echoes of slave songs; scraps
of candy wrappers-airborne. Everything.
Mother and father, brother, aunts, uncles;
chores and schoolwork and playtime. Everything.


I was given gloves against winter cold,
I was made to wear gloves when I gardened.
I was made to garden; taught to hold forks
in my left hand when cutting, in my right
when bringing food to my mouth. Everything.

I had clothes I was told not to wear outside;
a face you could clean up to almost handsome;
I had friends to fight with and secrets, spread
all over the neighborhood, the best teachers,
white and colored. I'm not making this up.
I knew that I had everything. Still do.

-G.E. Patterson

This House: Memories of Autie Lila's on Michigan Avenue

 When I returned to Orofino, Idaho last week for the funeral of my aunt I spent time walking inside and outside her house.

Looking out the kitchen window I remembered summers of my childhood and could just hear cousin John's logging truck like it was yesterday, honking the horn  as he drove by.

Walking down the narrow hallway I revisited the timeline of family photos, the shelves of books, and the many knickknacks.

She loved knickknacks.

Sitting in the living room drinking coffee with family I remembered late night cookies, breakfast smells from the kitchen, and a house full of treasures.

This poem illustrated what a house can hold.

THIS HOUSE
This old house has seen the sunshine 
of many different years.
This old house has seen some happiness
This old house has seen some tears. This old house now seems so
empty
Since you left with last
goodbyes.

The smiles and talk, the
happy laughs
Echo above the lonely sighs Whether leaves are green in springtime
snow leaves lightly on the ground
This old house will hold the
memories
Of all the old families sounds.

Edna Howard White

Verse for A Certain Dog

 This poem could have been written for all our canine friends, past and present. Here is Annie "singing" to Shelby.

Verse For a Certain Dog 

by Dorothy Parker

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

"Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!)
You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)

A Place Called Home

A Place Called Home

I’m from

A logging truck hauling along the rutted road

sun peaking over the eastern mountain.

I’m from baby starlings squawking for their first feeding.

I’m from

a glowing fireplace, icy cold Busch beer, BBQ, bluebirds

dark soil, dogs song singing, daylilies, dame’s rocket.

I’m from fresh garden peas, farm eggs, morning glory, fur,

water gurgling, clouds dividing, lilacs lingering, green beans sprouting.

I’m from

first spring crocus, frosty winter ice, fiery autumn leaves, fragrant summer roses.

I’m from

four dog memorials, cats that never came back, rabbits that grew old,

funerals for neighbors too soon and weddings in the yard.

I’m from reminders in the handwritten recipe,

vivid orange trumpet vine, a blooming dogwood.

I’m from

empty food dishes, a collar on a nail, and a photo of two black cats.

I’m from laughing at a joke, sharing a simple meal, saying a prayer,

early evening garden tours, and creating a place called home.

by Christy Woolum

Tulips

I love Mark Halperin's poem about tulips.

Tulips

May our failed hopes rise like tulips

Out of the cold ground,

And, when we look around,

There our satin bowls are, chocolates,

And swaying, velvety clarets, aglow

With memories of help we thought would

Appear and beliefs we watered.

And we do have something to show,

goblet-like reminders of our stubborn

labors – or we don’t, and refuse

odorless flowers and choose

to live without consolation.

Mark Halperin

First published in River Styx, issue 61, 2001