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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

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Another Poem from Marty Gerlach, a Couple of My Own, and a Couple Photos


Seeing as how it is Spring Break and Kellie and I are going to spend the next few days hiking, I figured I would get the blog in today. What does that mean? Well, I don't have any new pictures. Kellie took the picture above at Cooper Park in Mountain Home Thursday. According to Plant Identify, the bloom is either a Lily Magnolia or a Japanese Magnolia. The odds are about even, and the shrub had no plaque to identify it.


Today, our special guest returns, my aunt, Marty Gerlach. She is the only "guest writer" that I have ever had on the blog, but I welcome others to send their poems to me. I am always interested in looking over and sharing the works of others. Please email any idea you might have to mbt1966@yahoo.com. I check that email nearly every day.


Anyway, here is Aunt Marty's poem. I think it explains itself.


Mom’s Pantry

 

I'm sure it was built as a pantry.

There were drawers for silverware

And sturdy shelves above for canned goods,

But that's not all we found, so beware!

 

We as sisters were delegated

To prepare the sale of Mom's estate,

To clear, clean, and sort it out,

But we were clueless as to our fate.

 

We took a deep breath and stepped in,

And gently pulled the string to the light.

And stood aghast at the task before us.

This was going to take all night!  

 

It would seem this was no mere pantry,

Although we did find a coffee pot. 

Everywhere there were signs of "life savings," 

And it appeared to be quite a lot.


These caches were stored in boxes.

Some labeled with faded ink.

There'd be no telling what we'd find first,

Or from what year I could think.


We opened a box of funeral cards.

Printed with words that Catholics pray,

Our Belgium relatives we figured,

But truthfully could not say.


After some reverent minutes of browsing

Over the dead from long ago,

We silently returned them to the box,

And reattached the ribbon and bow.


Next to this box we found

Obituaries from the past.

Clipped carefully from the Dispatch,

You should have seen what she amassed. 


They were our Flemish relatives of course,

But our friends and neighbors, too.

It appeared Mom dared not part

With anyone she knew.

 

As we lifted a smaller container down,

A rattle echoed from the shelf.

It was a box of broken rosaries.

Mary said she'd deal with this herself.


Time was soon consuming us. 

And at this point it would seem,

That we could get ahead of this chore,

By not working as a team.


So, we began to each take a box,

And revealed to the other its contents.

It was double duty on the sorting.

And it didn't take long to make sense.


Mary found a box with various cords.

From lamps with plugs attached.

Some from Mom's many coffee pots,

They were saved after being detached.

 

I got lucky finding greeting cards,

And chuckled at how dated they were.

Oh! but that box had a peculiar smell

That I could hardly endure.

 

When Mary opened her next box,

To the ceiling she rolled her eyes.

And, smiling, tossed it over to me

So I could enjoy the surprise.

 

It was a box full of zippers!

Cut from jeans, shirts, and pants.

I guess Mom wanted to be prepared

If she needed them off chance.

 

We laughed out loud at this one.

And perhaps you don't even know.

But one thing Mom hated most

Was sitting down at a machine to sew!

 

And now things turned silly,

As I found a bag of ruined hose.

What purpose could these possibly serve?

I guess only Mother knows.

 

Next, a cigar box of elastic bands

Cut from frayed underwear.

This was a no brainer to toss.

We were sure that no one would care.

 

A box of old shoelaces turned up.

Some were tiny and thin.

From a baby's shoe we imagined,

What else could it have been?

 

A heavy box was my next dig.

This must have been an important thing.

As it contained many odd envelopes

Tied tightly with heavy string.

 

Tin containers of buttons were discovered.

The colored ones split from the white.

At least she had them organized

And saved with a little foresight.

 

Next was a box of postage stamps.

Some as cheap as two cents.

Torn out from various letters.

Now saving these made sense.

 

Then, Mary found the Holy Grail.

A box from Papa's store.

With bold "DeKeere" heading the checks.

Our emotions struck to the core.

 

The shelves were nearly done.

The drawers were next on our list.

Mostly filled with small items

And junk that wouldn't be missed.

 

But in the back of a drawer we found,

Wooden rulers with our names and year.

From ol' St. Mary's grade school.

This almost brought on a tear.

 

Cast iron hooks held firmly,

On walls paint-splotched and weary.

Each had provided a special service

At least that was my theory.

 

One hook caught our eyes instantly,

And sent us a memory in a flash!

It lovingly held Mom's red scarf,

The one she wore to burn trash.

 

The "Red Stick" was there, too.

The punishing rod of old.

Why did us kids never hide it?

I guess we were never that bold.

 

The task was suddenly ending.

We looked at each other and sighed.

We wouldn't even be doing this,

If our Mother hadn't died.

 

Coats, hats and fly swatters,

Were discarded from that room

But for being a kitchen closet,

We never found a broom.


And now, a poem of my own--


I did not take this picture. It is from Wix images.

Moonshow

 

The broad, bare moon is round,

A perfect, lusty form

Until the green Earth covers her,

But not to keep her warm.

 

It’s jealousy that spurs our globe

To censor her at night,

To conceal our nudist neighbor,

Keep her peepshow out of sight.

 

Three nights ago, I caught her show.

She began it early.

She strutted through the glitzy black,

Symmetrical and pearly.

 

Her only veils were thinning clouds

That mystified her glory,

A sight no mortal’s ever seen--

But that’s another story.

 

Each night, the pageant starts again,

And I watch as a judge.

I see the poor moon’s earthly stain

Grow from a mottled smudge

 

To quarter blot, then half a spot.

Still, the Earth keeps swelling

Till stars alone sport in the sky.

What a lonely dwelling!

 

But then, I note a glistening curve,

A tempting, lustrous sliver,

Shedding Terra’s covetous garbs,

And causing me to shiver.

 

And there she is, the broad, bare moon,

A perfect, lusty form,

A jolly exhibitionist

Who keeps my earthblood warm.


And finally, I did write a poem about the bird's nest that was lined with the shed snake skin that I showed and wrote about last week. Here is the picture of the nest again, and my poem follows.



 A Brave Bird

 

The nest was in a sumac bush

Grown on a rocky hill

Less than four feet above the ground

And near a well-worn trail.

 

A bird had formed with leaves and twigs

A swaddle like a cup

And it was out in plainest sight

And no wise covered up

 

As if the bird was crazy brave

And tossing out a dare,

“Come get me all you creeping things

And hunters in the air!”

 

Its foolish pluck attracted me

And I peaked in to see

Whether the bird had met success

With stupid bravery.

 

I found no eggs inside the nest

But it was plain as day

That fledglings had been nurtured there

Perhaps last June or May.

 

Though down clung to the spikey twigs,

I was surprised to see,

The bird had used a skin sloughed from

Its mortal enemy.

 

A shed snakeskin turned smooth side out

Made up the aerie’s walls.

The hide still had the eyeless hoods.

My gosh! That bird had balls.

 

To take the thing it dreaded most

And wrap it ‘round its brood

And treat its helpless nestlings as

A late snake’s living food—

 

I hope that brave bird did survive

And raises young for years

And teaches them what it has learned,

To thrive in spite of fears.


Well, that is it for today! I hope when I get back in a few days that this post has had 40 readers or more. Most of all, as always, I hope that you ENJOY!

Kommentare


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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