POEMS OF THE WEEK ~ Boomerang Poems by TONI, KIM AND SARA

I have always loved Hannah Gosselin's Boomerang Metaphor Poem form, and  used it some weeks ago for a prompt at Real Toads. All of the responses were wonderful, and it was difficult to choose only three for this feature. These poems, written by  Toni Spencer, of Kanzen Sakura, Kim Russell, of  Writing in North Norfolk, and Sara McNulty, who blogs at  Purple in Portland, really touched my heart. We hope you enjoy them.  It seems a lovely way to begin our week, contemplating the beauty of the earth.

THIS POEM IS MOON, STARS AND SUN

This poem is a moon reflected on black water.
This poem is the sun rising over the ocean in an explosion
of red.
This poem is the stars floating in the black night sky.

This poem is a green forest rising from the mist.
This poem is green cedars against pure white snow.
This poem is tiny white flowers hiding in spring green grass.

This poem touches us with wonder and awe,
it makes our breath catch in our throats
and look about our feet to not crush those tiny white flowers.

In our wonder and awe we look at the small animals
hiding beneath and under the cedars seeking nourishment and shelter.
The stars fall silent as dust in a dying blaze of fire.
We see the tiny white flowers beneath our feet too late
as we crush them into oblivion.
We weep in sorrow at the death of tiny flowers.
We weep in joy at the rising sun and the night stars
and the moon rippling on the water.
This poem is joy and sorrow,
silence and starry music,
this poem is about living in partnership with the earth.

Sherry: This poem is beautiful! Such lovely images, such a beautiful world!

Toni: I was afraid I was not going to get the form right.  I find many forms difficult because of my dyslexia.  However, after my morning walk, the poem basically wrote itself.  I have written “This poem is….” Before.  I took another walk and thought about the beauty I encountered on my walk, the everyday beauty. The blue of the skies, the shapes of the blades of grass, the clouds, the birds singing and the bark of distant dogs.  I thought of all I could lose if the changes to our world kept occurring.  So I wrote from my heart.  In essence, the poem was about living in harmony with the earth, about honoring the seasons.

Sherry: The way we are meant to live, since we are part of nature. Sigh. Thank you for this beauty, Toni.

Let's take a look at Kim's take on this form.

ThisPoem is a Hill, Indigo Water and Whiffling Geese

This poem is a distant hill.

This poem is a welter of indigo water.

This poem is geese whiffling overhead.

This poem is a rolling, breaking wave

of corn the colour of honeycomb,

washing against the grassy spine

of an ancient sleeping dragon,

a landslide rinsed green.

This poem is a distant hill.

This poem is a lively chatterbox of a river

flouncing skirts of blue and glassy grey surges.

This poem is a welter of indigo water.

This poem is a rush of air through wings,

white as Arctic snow, a flash of blizzard

twisting and turning,

climbing and falling

metamorphosing shapes.

This poem is geese whiffling overhead.

This poem is a sleeping dragon of a distant hill.

This poem is a chattering welter of indigo water.

This poem is air through geese wings whiffling overhead.

Sherry: I love the sleeping dragon of a distant hill, and the whiffling of geese overhead. So lovely! This form seems to bring forth wonderful flights of imagery. This is beautiful, Kim.

Kim: Since linking this poem up to your wonderful boomerang prompt, Sherry, I have added a final stanza to complete the boomerang, following your instructions and the beautiful example you gave us. 

In this poem, the hill represents my daughter and grandson, who celebrated his first birthday on 6th March.  They live in the undulating hills and downs of Surrey in the south of England, whereas I live in Norfolk, in the east of England, which has a flat landscape with lots of water and wild fowl, including geese, which fly in amazing expansive, expressive skies. The poem represents the pull between both places; I would dearly love to live closer to Ellen and Lucas but, after twenty seven years in Norfolk, eighteen of which have been spent happily in our cottage with its garden full of wildlife, it would have to be a very special place to tempt us to move away. I’ve recently returned from a visit with them and I had forgotten how crowded together the houses are where my daughter lives, and how busy the traffic is. When I arrived in our little village, I took a very deep breath!

Sherry: I know that feeling so well. I adore living in a village. However, we get a million tourists here every summer, and then things get rather crazy! Thank you for your beautiful poem and for sharing your thoughts with us today. 

Sara wrote a poem full of gorgeous nature images, which really lifts the heart. I note on her banner, she has written: Each day is a beautiful gift. Open it. What a wonderful philosophy!

Of Waterfalls, Sunflowers, and Breezes

This poem is a waterfall
sliding down mountain walls
in sunshine.

This poem is a sunflower
opening its eye to greet summer.

This poem is a breeze
fluttering leaves
on a sycamore tree.

This poem trickles tickles
my nose with water mist,
watches couples kiss,
and make a wish.
This poem is a waterfall
sliding down mountain walls
in sunshine.

This poem boasts brilliant
pineapple petals framing
a chocolate velvet eye.
Catches sun, bending
in the breeze, having fun.
This poem is a sunflower
opening its eye to greet summer.

This poem flit-flies between
leaves and flowers in
garden bowers, encouraging dance.
This poem is a breeze
fluttering leaves
on a sycamore tree.

This poem is a waterfall
sliding down mountain walls,
splashing on rocks, so small.

This poem is a sunflower
raising its lashed eye
toward sun, praising.

This poem is a breeze
fluttering with ease
through the sycamore’s leaves.

Sherry:  I love the sunflower raising its lashed eye. And you are so lucky, to have two dogs!

Sara:  I am honored to have my boomerang poem featured. The sunflower has always been my personal favorite. That wide eye, and bonnet-clothed appearance softens my heart. When I lived in Portland, Multona Falls was a short trip away, and breath-taking. It overlooks the Columbia River. Breezes make me feel alive, touched by an unknown force. This poem is about three of my favorite parts of nature. 

Sherry: That is it exactly: being touched by an unknown force, so much larger than we are.  Thank you, Sara, for this beauty, for writing it, and sharing it.

Thank you, ladies, for three absolutely breath-taking looks at the natural world. I think I love the boomerang form so much because it so often brings forth these images of a very beautiful world.

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved

This week, we are looking at the furry felines we have known and loved, since last week was devoted to dogs. We hope you find these poems by Toni Spencer of  Kanzen Sakura, Susan Chast of Susan’s Poetry and Rosemary Nissen-Wade, of Enheduanna’s  Daughter as much as we do. Get ready to meet some beautiful creatures, so lovingly remembered by the people they adored.

Pugsley under the crepe myrtle

Haibun: That which saves us

Twenty years ago, I was living in the Fan in a small two room apartment. It was a hard winter and snow was on the ground. I stepped out my door to fill the birdfeeders when I noticed a skeletal ginger cat gobbling up popcorn that had been thrown out for the birds. It looked at me. I called softly, Kitty? It made a step towards me. I ran in the house and quickly opened a can of tuna which I put out. I backed away and the cat began to eat as if starved. The cat was there the next day and I put out some leftover chicken. This time I walked towards the cat and it hunkered down. I rubbed its head and it stretched beneath my hand, grateful for the attention. I picked it up and it snuggled in my arms purring. I told the cat, not on my watch are you going to starve. It took it in the house and noticed it had on a rhinestone collar which had grown into its skin. You are somebody’s pet, I told him. I had determined the cat had been spayed. I put up notices around the neighborhood and three streets over, an old lady answered the ad and told me it had been her neighbor’s cat that had been tossed out when her neighbor died. I kept the cat. I renamed him Pugsley. He was quiet, well behaved and affectionate. My fiance’ was not happy but knew I was determined. When we married and moved into our home, Pugsley went with us.

A few years later, my PAP smear came back negative. I had cancer. I felt like I had been gut punched. I cried for several days and Pugsley never left my side. He walked around after me in the house and got in my lap when I sat down. A biopsy was done and the results were malignant. I started a round of chemo and finally surgery. When I went for the chemo, Pugsley rode with me and sat with me whenever it was possible. Often I was sick and exhausted. I did not complain or tell people what was going on with me.  But I told Pugsley and he reminded me that he loved me and listened.  He’d lick my face when I cried. I came home after the surgery during which I almost died due to reaction to the sedatives and painkillers. When I finally went home, my husband told me Pugsley had not eaten and meowed constantly. The first thing when I lay down, he jumped on the bed and lay by my side, purring softly. During the weeks of recovery he made me laugh and snuggled. I talked to him and he laughed at my lame jokes and loved me. My husband had the perfect baby sitter in Puglsey.

About five years ago, Pugsley stopped eating and didn’t want to be held. I took him to the vet who determined he had a huge tumor growing in his stomach. My heart broke. I talked to the doctor and then talked to Pugsley. He lay in my arms while the vet put him down. This cat who had been so loving and faithful, I could not save this last time. I had him cremated and when I inserted my mother’s ashes in her mother’s grave, I inserted Pugsley as well. He was the best boi in the world. I cry still at his loss. I take him flowers when I take flowers to my mother.

snow falls quietly –
a starving cat won my heart –
flowers bloom on his grave

source

Sherry: This poem went straight to my heart, Toni. Pugsley saved you indeed. I am so glad he was there during such a hard time. What a beautiful being!

Toni: That which we save truly does save us.  A few years ago I noticed, around the apartment complex at which I was living, a skinny orange and white cat scrounging for food. I saw him eating popcorn off the snow and I determined to bring him in. I had another cat at the time but they adjusted to each other. A couple of years after that I was diagnosed with cancer and my older cat died suddenly. Pugsley stayed by my side constantly as I mourned my Sam, while undergoing chemo and after my surgery. He showed me so much love. He truly did save me.

Sherry: He did. Beyond doubt. Thank you for this poem, Toni. It runs as deep as your love for him.

Let's meet Susan's Miracle kitty next.

Miracle at the table

Ancient Kitty I

My ancient kitty sits tall and still as a sphinx

gazing at me with her clear celadon eyes—

measuring me, memorizing me, saying to

me “Hey there.  I love you” with a spiritual

softness that is new. 

                            She has turned a corner

in her life—sleeping more than she’s awake, alert

to meal and playtimes out of habit rather than

need, looking for dark quiet places to curl up

and dream of pleasures.

                                                I show her my gratitude

for the latest of her gifts—feline fortitude—

by gazing back, combing her itchy places and

giving her more time and touch without lifting her—

Oh my darling cat!  You don’t complain at each new

disability—

                                                you simply go on and on

as is your job and mine: live life to the fullest!

I did not anticipate learning this from you,

my dear.  Have I given you enough love and food?

Have you felt my affection through your fur and my

skin, touching, being?

Miracle

Sherry: What a beauty she was! Her eyes are so clear, her gaze so wise.

Susan: A picture of my dear Miracle Kitty is in the side bar of my poetry blog.  She died in 2015 at the age of 21, but I keep her alive as a character in a novel I may never finish writing.  Except for blood relatives, my relationship with her was the longest I've ever had.

Sherry: Pup was my longest, other than nuclear family relationships. These loving creatures are the source of perhaps the only unconditional love we receive on this earth. This must be why it is so hard to lose them. Thank you, Susan. Miracle was a beautiful being.

I have been moved by Rosemary's poems written to the beloveds who have passed during these years we have been sharing poetry: her dear husband, Andrew, and her beloved cats Levi and Freya. In the following poems she remembers them, singly and together.

Levi

They Leave Themselves Behind

Walking down the hall, I see
through one door, Andrew
at his desk by the window
(where the second bed is now)
pantherish Levi snuggled at his feet;
or glimpse Freya through glass
reclining outside in sunshine –
cats and man, all gone,
always remaining.

  

Summer Evening

The heat cools to comfortably mild.

I look out the front door

and see, on the top step,

my dear man taking the air

in his chair on the landing.

Our pantherish old black cat, Levi,

sprawls near him on the mat.

Tortoiseshell Freya is curled up neatly 

close by on the second step.

And there's me. I am sitting  

on the top step, leaning back

against the rails: positioned to see,

talk to and touch all three....

             *********

It's five years ago and more. 

All of them are dead now.

Even on such a pleasant evening

I never sit, these days, on 

the front steps, enjoying the air.

              *********

Sherry: Oh, I feel this! Impossible to sit out there without them. Yet how lovely, that you get glimpses of your beloveds, from time to time. Sigh.

Rosemary: Levi and Freya came to be with Andrew and me when they were only seven months old.  We were renting a house on a horse stud at the time; plenty of room inside and out. A friend needed to leave a violent relationship in a hurry, phoned and asked if she could come NOW and of course we said yes. She arrived with her 7-year-old daughter, one puppy and the two young cats. Another friend offered the puppy a home, so he wasn't with us very long. We were happy to have the rest of the family, but as we were renting we couldn't make it indefinite. After seven weeks our guest found a flat for herself and her daughter but wasn't allowed pets. 

Meanwhile, these delightful kitties had been in our home for seven weeks and won our hearts.  I said to Andrew, 'I've been catless too long.'  He looked at them playing together and said, 'You couldn't possibly separate them. We'll have to have both.' Our landlords were fine with it, and so they became ours. By that time they were used to us and our home, so they weren't anxious when their previous humans left them with us. 

Levi had been more the mother's cat: the runt of the litter when she got him, on whom she'd had to spend a lot of time and care to make him healthy. Freya, consequently, had been more the little girl's cat, and ever afterwards young girls were Freya's favourite kind of people. When any visited us, she was enraptured, and made a huge fuss of them.

It wasn't long before we were referring to our new pets as 'the children'. We still did as they grew to be mature and then elderly. Andrew and I met and married late in life, when all our real children were adults. Our fur children became the family we had with each other – to the extent that Andrew sometimes absent-mindedly addressed Levi by the name of his first-born son.

People who rent are liable to move around. Landlords, sooner or later, for whatever reasons, tend to decide they want their homes back. Over the years we moved five times, and the cats with us, before finally settling in the home I'm in now. Some places suited them and us better than others, but cats are very adaptable – and they had each other, plus they had us. We were always lucky enough to have good friends who were able to come and look after them in their own home whenever we went away – as we did a few times, with all our children living interstate.

We loved both of them and they loved both of us, but Levi became a little more Andrew's cat and Freya a little more mine. Freya was my familiar, adding her energy at crucial times. If I was hosting a meditation group, she would claim a chair and join the circle. If I was doing a healing or a psychic reading for someone, she would place herself nearby for the duration. Levi was more the guardian, warning us when strangers were approaching, needing only a fierce glare and a bit of a yowl to keep any bully-boy cats in the neighbourhood from terrorising his sister. They both slept on our bed in later years, Levi at the foot where he could also guard the door, and Freya curled up between us, purring long and loud.

Freya was a soft, gentle girl – except, unfortunately, for being a mighty hunter. I was pleased when she eradicated mice from under our house, not so glad about her other prey. I never let my cats out at night,  discouraged birds from our yard as best I could, and even saved a few from the jaws of death, but sometimes she caught them. She learned to clamp on to them with an iron grip of her teeth so my rescue efforts didn't work. It didn't matter how I scolded her, she never reformed. Bells on her collar didn't seem to do much good. She would bring her catch inside through the cat door and into the kitchen, I would try to take it from her and she'd clamp on hard, I'd yell at her to take it outside and open the front door, and she'd dash down the steps to demolish it elsewhere.

Eventually she taught Levi how to hunt too. He would make himself sick eating nasty things like spiders, which I'd see as he sicked them up. One time he regurgitated the remains of a small-eyed snake – venomous! – but the vet reassured me it couldn't have poisoned him from the inside; his digestive juices would have taken care of that.

Like me, and unlike most domestic pets, they adored thunderstorms. Instead of cowering and running for cover, they would sit with me just inside the open front door, thrilling to the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. In hot weather, even though they were allowed inside the house whenever they pleased, they loved to curl up in their own personal leafy spots under the hedge, almost invisible. In winter they preferred the spare bed in the northernmost room, to get the winter sun.

Neither of them was a lap-cat, but they did love snuggles. Freya was usually the spokesperson if either or both of them needed anything. In the way of felines, from lions down, he was lordly while she was the doer. No cat likes going to the vet, but Freya was well-behaved there. Levi, on the other hand, changed from being a great big pussy-cat (sic) whom I could do anything with to a fierce hissing devil, all fangs and claws – not to me but to the vets and nurses. They managed him somehow, but I think they dreaded his visits. I always used to think of him as my panther-cat; on those occasions he lived up to the name in more than looks. The rest of the time, he loved people.

Andrew died in September 2012 at the age of 83. The cats were old too by then. They missed him badly. Levi in particular grieved visibly for many months. Freya still slept with me, but it was a long time before she began purring again. Gradually we adapted to our new lifestyle with just the three of us. It was a great comfort to me to have them in those first years of widowhood, and gave me a reason to go on functioning. Then Freya developed breast cancer. It took a while; she went into remission for nearly a year, then downhill fast. She died two years, almost to the day, after Andrew. She was 16.

Levi stayed another 11 months after that, during which time we two survivors became even closer. On both sides, our relationship became intense and possessive. He would groom me, nibbling gently at my fingers as if to clean them. I would gently butt his forehead with mine, knowing that is cat language for 'I claim you'. He slept on the pillow beside my head on what had been Andrew's side of the bed. Without Freya to speak for him, he finally became very vocal.Then he suddenly started dying before my eyes, losing weight fast and in obvious discomfort. The kidney disease which we had kept at bay with medication for years finally claimed him. An adventurous lad in his younger days, who survived various injuries, he must have used up all of his other nine lives by then. I didn't think I would ever get another cat.

As it happens, I have never actually gone out and sought to get a cat. They all come to me as gifts from the Universe (via some human agency) and so it was with Selene, who came to live with me six months after Levi died – already mature, not a fur child so much as a Significant Other. She is both familiar and guardian. I love her dearly, but she is not a replacement. She is loved in her own right, while I still love and mourn her predecessors, those beautiful beings who were part of my life so long.

Sherry: I love how exactly the right cats have come to you, Rosemary. Lucky cats, to find such a loving home! I have enjoyed watching Selene settling in and learning to trust.

Selene

Thank you, my friends, for sharing your wonderful fur companions with us. It has been so moving, reading of the journeys you have made together. I think of the phrase "what we save, saves us"; I think this is exemplified especially in our rescuing of and giving loving homes to these beautiful beings.

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

POEMS OF PEACE: BY BJORN, TONI AND PAUL

Today, my friends, the day before September 11th, a day when the world we knew toppled around our ears 17  years ago, we are contemplating peace, in poems written by Bjorn Rudberg, of  Bjorn Rudberg's Writings,  Toni Spencer,  known to us as Kanzen Sakura, and Paul Scribbles,  who writes at his blog of the same name. Peace being even more elusive these days, I thought it would be nice to contemplate the topic, in all of its colors and possible locations. We hope they speak to you.

source

WHAT'S THE COLOR OF PEACE?

It must be a color less like the soil
not ochre, sienna or brown
reminding of trenches or graves;
it cannot be red
as the rage of revenge,
the color of wounds.

It cannot be blue as depression of death.
nor green as the battlefield grass;
not grey as the ashes of seamen
tossed to the waves;
not black like a dress for a widow
not yellow of gangrene
or corpses left in the sun.

The color of peace has to be white
white as the carrier pigeons
      bringing back letters to home,
white as the paper of unwritten poems
white as the canvas for painters
white as daylight in spring;
white as the hope of armistice,
white as the mother of rainbows,
white as beginnings and ends,
white as the new fallen snow,
white is the color of peace.

source

Sherry: White is such a peaceful color, the color of doves. I love the idea there is a mother of rainbows.

Bjorn: I wrote this poem for a prompt on peace. If I remember correctly the prompt was originally more in the terms of a peaceful place, but I think that any place can be peaceful if you find peace in yourself.

I actually started my poem by asking myself what color I could associate with peace, and when I thought awhile I found it easier to dismiss most colors because of their association with war and death. Of course white could also have association to death, but I thought that the best part of white is that of opportunities in a blank sheet of paper or a painter’s canvas. That peace always means to start anew, by hinting at from the white we can reclaim every color again (as the mother of rainbows). I was actually stuck when I wrote this poem, but it incorporates some of the elements that can be used when writing about something as abstract as peace:

• Tie it to something you can feel with your senses (sight, scent, sound or touch)
• Remember also the opposite… describing peace in opposite to war.
• Lists are always effective when you get stuck.

As this poem was a very rough sketch, I think that it could be worked on a little bit more, like using some of the nuance of color rather than the primary colors. I think it might benefit from making some of the descriptions more specific, like writing trenches of Somme instead of just trenches. I don’t think any poem is ever finished… and most ideas could be worked on using our poetic toolbox. 

Sherry: Thank you, Bjorn, for your poem and for some cool tips on writing. We so appreciate that!

Toni had a very definite perspective on the color of peace. Let's take a look.

RED IS THE COLOR OF PEACE

Peace comes in many colors – like the rainbow,
like us humans or animals or flowers.
You may not think so, but red is the color of peace –
the tomato plucked from the bounty of my backyard garden
and handed over the short fence to the neighbor next door –
red of holly berries nestled among dark green clusters
of leaves hidden deep in the forest, with white snow
softly falling or the cardinal perched on the branch –
The red of maple leaves preparing for winter sleep
or the red of the rose given to a beloved.
Long blondeblackbrownred braids tied at the ends
with perky red bows.
Red is the color of peace – of units of blood donated
for someone about to undergo life saving surgery
for the child with cancer
or the service person needing
emergency treatment.
The wild apples are red and hang down far enough
a herd of deer can satisfy their hunger.
Red are the azaleas planted by my father years ago
that continue to bloom after all this time.
Strawberries from my garden are rich and red and sweet.
Red is also the color in the jars of preserves
I make and give out as gifts to anyone.
Red is my generations old flowering quince
blooming in a freezing snow.
The heart your child drew and the words “I Love You”
hangs with pride on your refrigerator door
photographed and posted on Facebook so everyone would know
– drawn with a bright red crayon.
Peace is what we make it and it is colored by our souls,
our hearts our words and actions.
If our words and actions do not speak of peace and hope
how can we be peace and hope to a world
sadly in need of both?
You may not think so, but red is the color of peace.

copyright kanzensakura

Sherry: I believe it is. I can see that red tomato, handed over the fence to a neighbor. 

Toni: People often think of the color red as being a color of aggression. Because I volunteer at the local Food Bank, cooking or delivering food, I have learned people miss fresh produce the most. So I began planting extra produce to share, especially luscious red tomatoes. One of my elderly people, Miss Pearl, particularly loved summer tomatoes but had not had a garden for years and could rarely afford a fresh tomato. Last year I shared my first tomato with her. Her yes grew big and full of tears as she cradled it against her cheek. I realized then that the color red was the color of love and peace. I began working on this poem, pulling out all the positives I could find about red. Red was also my mother's favorite color, so it is also the color of happiness to me.

Sherry: How I love the story of that tomato! I can see Miss Pearl's eyes, and am so happy you make sure she enjoys fresh tomatoes. Working with the Food Bank must be very rewarding. Good for you, doing what you can to ease peoples' struggle.

Let's wind up by reflecting on Paul's poem about peace. It is a beauty!

PEACE

Peace comes easy in the glade

birdsong soothing every moment

Peace comes easy in the forest

trees whispering songs of the ancients

Peace comes easy in the cabin

time moving so slowly it is stopping

but how do I find Peace in the broken

how do i find Peace in the war zones

how do i find peace with my own troubles

how do i find Peace when so many cannot

it is there

in the breath of the life i engage with

in the simple knowledge of being alive

in the  ever present eternal now

in the understanding that Peace is presence

and in the acceptance

that i can only be responsible

for my own

Sherry Marr photo

Sherry: You have summed it up perfectly, Paul. The only place we can truly find peace is within. Your glade sounds very beautiful, and must contribute greatly to your peacefulness.

Paul: I have often pondered the concept and practice of locating peace when others cannot. Can I truly have peace knowing others suffer? Can I find peace in the midst of my own suffering? In the poem, I lead with thoughts on how easy peace can come in nature. How it just drapes itself about our being.

However, what happens when thoughts arise that link us to situations that are not peaceful? Where do we go with that? My answer is to drop into being....into full presence...into the breath.....it works....and it perhaps allows us to accept that which we cannot change, allowing our own sense of peaceto remain alongside a compassionate heart for the suffering of others.

Sherry: Paul, you have expressed it to perfection. I have had to re-learn this truth personally this summer,  working to preserve my peacefulness in a situation where my response was all I could control. Thank you for saying this so well.

Thank you, dear poets, for your wonderful contemplation of peace. We do hope our readers enjoyed them as much as we did. Do come back, friends, and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!