Blogs of the Week ~ Farewell to Mary and Sherry

Today is a bittersweet day, my friends, as Mary and I step away from behind the scenes at Poets United, after nine and a half wonderful years. But never fear: we won’t go too far. We are still poets who love poetry! And we love this community. So we will be around.

Mary 2011

Mary 2019

Sherry asked me to share a poem.  I have written hundreds of them, but I wanted to share one that I find personally meaningful. I wrote it in 2007 before I knew the blogosphere even existed.  It is the poem that inspired the title of my blog (6th line), and it is about my mother. (I think, no matter how old one is and how long one’s mother has been gone, one’s mother is always missed.)  I chose  a short poem, as personally I like short poems best (to read and to write), as they say what is important without rambling on and on.

Each spring I listen for you

Spring was always your season and you waited patiently 

for this time of rebirth so I know you are somewhere 

in my garden perhaps hiding behind the arbor vitae

overseeing and tending to the coming to life as you always did 

and sometimes when I stoop to tend plants in the greening earth

out of the corner of my eye I catch of glimpse of your smile 

between budding branches and hear your whisper in the warm breeze.

Sherry: What a moving and lovely poem. Thank you, Mary. Will you share your thoughts about this journey we have made at Poets United? When you look back, did you think, in 2010, we would still be doing this almost ten years later?  What were the joys, and the highlights. What stands out for you?

Mary: When we began participating in Poets United in 2010, I had no idea how it would evolve and how long I would be involved.  It was just a fun and exciting thing to do then — and the poetry blogosphere was still very young.   And I ‘met’ so many talented people through this medium, and somehow to me it became so very important and real. 

Sherry, you were there right alongside me from the very beginning, and from the time Robert Lloyd left up until this very day we were a great team - as were the other members of the Poets United staff who came on board.  We had a wonderful working relationship for all these years.

Sherry: Yes, we did. Such harmony! How has this community, this site, and the blogosphere impacted your work?

Mary: I had written poetry before Poets United & the poetry blogosphere in general, but after becoming involved with Poets United I was inspired to write much more poetry.  I looked forward to each new prompt, each new time to share one’s poetry (old or new), and also looked forward to reading what others had written.  I know I would not have written as many poems had I not been part of Poets United & other sites in the blogosphere.  Admittedly, Poets United always felt like ‘home’ to me.

  

Sherry: Me, too. What would you like to say to our members on this day of retirement?

Mary: Thanks to all of you who have participated in Poets United over the years.  (And a very special thanks to Sherry who ‘retires’ along with me!) I have enjoyed sharing poetry with you all. 

It boggles my mind sometimes when I think of knowing people through poetry from all over my country and also in so many countries of the world.  We all came together in one venue and shared.  What a wonderful time it was. 

And thanks, more specifically, to people who read and commented on my poems.  It is nice to be ‘heard,’ I think; and because of your comments I felt ‘heard.’  I am not sure if I am really retiring or not.  I will probably be around at one time or another, and when I do it will be nice to find you here!  I wish each of you well & much good writing ahead, as Poets United carries on without us.

Sherry 2010

Sherry 2019

DEAR POETS UNITED,

“Where can I find other poets?”
I asked Blogger Forum in 2010.

“Why don’t you try Poets United?”
Robb Lloyd replied.

This began one of the best journeys
of my life.

Here you all were.
How we loved words,
rushed to share,
received each poem
as a gift of love.

I may step away from my desk,
but never too far,
for I still love words,
and you.

And a day is not complete
until I have shared
my latest poem
with you.

Thank you, my friends,
for almost-ten of the best years
of my life.

They have brought me joy,
and three thousand poems
I would not have created
without you.

Together
we have watched
our worlds changing.
We have mourned,
we have cheered.
We have cared.

We have shared our joys
and some tears.
Thank you, my friends,
for all these
wonderful, poetic
and so fulfilling
years.

Sherry: Sigh. When I found Poets United, I was living in a town where my writing was drying up for lack of encouragement and inspiration. My friend encouraged me to create a blog, and I found Poets United with such delight! At first, I worried I wouldn’t be able to come up with new poetry, or keep up. But once the flame was lit, my pen took off.

I had written around a thousand poems during my life. But I have written three times that many thanks to Poets United and all of you. I had no idea, when Mary and I took it over, that we were embarking on an almost ten-year journey. Very soon, I began doing the Monday features: an interview a week for all these years, telling the stories of poets leading such amazing lives! How I have loved it.

I will be forever grateful to Poets United for what it did for my writing life. And for the wonderful friendships that have resulted with people from around the world. What a journey it has been!

So, yes, blogging has made all the difference in my writing life. Not many people read my poems before I came online. I have been so grateful that people visit my site, read the words of my heart, and leave me encouraging words. It is something that I never take for granted. And oh, my! The amazing poems I have read! There is such astonishing talent online. I often think more of our online poems are read than if they were in books waiting for someone to pick them up off a shelf somewhere.

I gave a lot of my time and energy for the love and support of poets and poetry, through these years. I gave  whole-heartedly, and loved every minute. But believe me when I say, I received so much more than I gave.

What do I want to say to you, on this, my last Monday feature? Just thank you: for being there, for being you, for sharing your words and your friendship, and for showing up every week to share our love of poetry. What an amazing journey we have made together. And more poems and journeying lie ahead. I am grateful for it all.

Thank you, Mary, for steering our ship so steadily through the years. Thank you, also, to the staff, who have worked alongside us with such dedication, even during times of challenge in your personal lives. And thank you to each of you, members past and present, who have shared your poems, your words, your lives and your hearts with us. Our lives have been made richer by every one of you. So, today, we say, not farewell, but “See you in the ‘sphere!”

Poems of the Week ~ Then and Now, by Wendy, Mary and Rosemary

This week, we have bouquets of beautiful memories, both joyful and poignant, as all memories tend to be, for you to enjoy. Our poets are Wendy Bourke, who writes at Words and Words and Whatnot, our very own Mary, of In the Corner of My Eye, and Rosemary Nissen-Wade, our beloved Passionate Crone, who blogs at Enheduanna’s Daughter.

Wendy Now

Wendy Then

What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

- William Wordsworth

These stunning lines*, penned several centuries ago by William Wordsworth, have long reverberated, deeply, with me and thus are some of my favorite lines of poetry.  As I grow older, I find they speak to me with more redolence than ever, as much of my own poetry cascades in a similar direction.  I find myself harkening back to 'the hour of splendour in the grass' ... processing the effect of that metaphorical 'hour' upon the life that followed ... and coming to terms with the promise of youth:  the dawning of the age of Aquarius, that has yet to dawn.   These ruminations were the genesis of my poem:

It Dawned THAT SUMMER

eons ago … when flora infused moments … with a blithe defining spirit that wafted round the last of childhood's summers … the smell of fresh mowed grass and earth and garden-green and sweet peas … was mine

on this scorcher of a day – held, as I am – in slabs of gray concrete, buffeted by electrically spun breezes, that – which was mine – comes to me, again … bittersweet … by virtue of its long-away … and yet … it returns, on a breath

there were bouquets of commitment and vases of amends and corsages of achievement … there were buttercups of affection and sunflower fields but … even so, the essence of that halcyon sublimity arrives once more, as new-as-now

there were hard lessons to swallow down – bad fish to starving men – there was rage against tyranny, might and money … there was  beauty and compassion and justice … there was love … occasionally, there was a hope or a dream

sweet peas,  a-rambling in tendrils, entwined, on a staff of strings – colourful notes to an opening prelude – in sips of cold water and good music and the spell of a great book … in the sunny comfort and enthrall of home's backyard

the joy of finding oneself at the dawn of connectedness to a stirring soul … when childish things fall away and our eyes are opened, with thrilling clarity, to all that is there … for me:  THAT SUMMER … ah yes, I remember it well … it is, mine, still

My parents grew sweet peas on a stringed trellis they put up in late spring, at the edge of the family garden.   The fragrance of sweet peas (for those who may not be familiar with the flower) is lovely and delicate and yet, so omnipresent, as to scent many of my childhood memories of summer days, in my backyard.  The last summers of grade school, before I went on to high school, were defining summers for me.  Without a rigid school or work agenda, I was free to do whatever made me feel good.  When I wasn't swimming or biking or playing baseball with friends, I spent a lot of time in that backyard.

Sometimes I would listen to my transistor radio.  The 60's was an incredible time for music.  Musicians protested; they sang of injustice; they questioned; they embraced sensuality.  Often these songs had the effect of making the listener feel GR-R-R-EAT!!!

I was never without a book, usually read on a blanket placed atop aromatic green grass.  One summer I went through every Trixie Belden:  Girl Detective Book, in the series.  By the next summer I was into tomes like:  Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment and Rachel Carson's Silent Spring.   If I couldn't be bothered making Kool-Aid, I generally settled for a glass of ice water that I sipped through the tunes and pages of those enchanted hours. 

The universe was full of possibilities, and opportunities to make the world a better place were EVERYWHERE.  The thought of what lay ahead was exhilarating.  I was not alone in this heady coming-of-age, rite of passage.   All around me, friends were 'piling on' with conversations about new recording artists and emerging political movements and the War in Vietnam - as more and more American boys crossed the border 30 miles from town and never went back.

Many poems shared by fellow poets, at Poets United make reference to that glorious time-of-life and speak to the nuances of the emotional tug of a backwards glance to bygone youth. 

Perhaps all generations, are doomed to have their lofty expectations fall short.  I often wonder, though, if the social movements of the 60's didn't set up the 'Boomers' for a particularly hard crash landing back to brutal reality.   That - and the fact that qualities which were universally disdained for centuries - primarily:  greed - have become acceptable - even laudable ... to say nothing of electable.  I don't think anyone saw that coming.

At one time, realistic people acknowledged that life is complicated.  It isn't always black and white ... it is often grey.   However, the acknowledgment that solving problems is not straight-forward has become so tainted by greed, and the accompanying lack of empathy that greed runs on - issues often play out in terms of a horrible choice versus a slightly less horrible choice ... possibly.   Choices such as:

- Vote for an enviro-damaging job to feed your family or kill the planet for your grandchildren.

- Stay and be killed in Syria or risk your life, and the lives of loved ones, trying to get out.

I summed up my frustration in my poem with the line: 'bad fish to starving men'.  Though not new, I feel that such impossible scenarios, are far more the norm - everywhere - than in the past. 

Wordsworth ends his piece with the line 'In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind'. While it is true I will always have THAT SUMMER  - the summer of my splendour in the grass - and the wonderful memory of that exuberant time, I wait - given the state of the earth I will be leaving behind - for the philosophic mind to confer upon me a measure of hope for this planet.  

[* The Poem that has come to be known as Splendour in the Grass, is a portion of the much larger Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, published in 1807.]  

Sherry: I so resonate with this poem, Wendy. That time of "splendour in the grass" takes me back, too, to the shining hours of my youth, when life lay ahead like a golden dream. Books and music were part of my every day, as well. 

We did believe, back then, that we would change the world. Until all of our leaders were assassinated, one by one. I was struck by your line "bad fish to starving men" - such a powerfully affecting line. I, too, am having a hard time hanging onto hope. And yet, we must, for we have grandchildren who want and need to live.

When I look back, those glorious times were full of flowers, too, those of my grandma's garden. She always had sweet peas. Sigh. I love your poem, and your memories. Thank you so much for sharing.

Mary, with her mother

MY MOTHER’S FLOWERS

Every Memorial Day weekend we journeyed to the greenhouse
to pick out flats of petunias, geraniums, and marigolds
to plant around our home and also for the gravestones
of the two cemeteries where my parents’ deceased were buried.

Stooping over the soil with her shovel, hand digging holes,
Mother artfully arranged geraniums, marigolds, and petunias
and an occasional coleus in her front yard flower beds.

As a child, I often found my mother standing with her garden hose,
watering her flowers before the rise of the strong morning sun.
I knew not to disturb her then, as this was her time.

Time passed. My mother could no longer care for flowerbeds.
Her eyesight dimmed year after year, blindness was inevitable.
Instead she planted flowers in large pots on the front porch.
It was important for her to grow flowers.

Then one day when my mother was almost blind
she awoke to find her flower pots stolen.
Gone were the plants that had been her pride,
the only reminder of her gardens of yesteryear.

The thieves stole more than flowers from my mother,
they stole her desire to grow them.  She never had flowers again.
They had been all that was left for her to nurture.
Nothing more to care for is a very sad thing.

Sherry: How sad that someone took that pleasure from her, Mary. I so love this poem, full of memories of those tender years. I can see her, watering her garden, enjoying those brief peaceful moments. I love the photo, too.

Mary: When I remember things about my (long-deceased) mother, I realize that many of my memories involve flowers.  She loved them!  As a child sometimes, I would wake up and wonder where my mother was.  I would find her outside early, standing with a hose watering her flowers.  In addition to taking care of flowers, she took care of the very, very small garden we planted each year.  She loved planting things and taking care of them as they grew. This gave her so much joy.

It was sad for my mother when she was losing her sight.  She could no longer go outside and take care of plantings in the yard, but she could care for planters (with varied plants) which she kept on our front porch.  Not as extensive as a garden, but living things for her to nurture, and watch grow. It was so very sad when she woke up one morning and discovered someone had stolen these planters with flowers overnight.  We could hardly believe this, as these planters and plants were really not very valuable — except to my mother.  Who would do this?  I still wonder.  And it still makes me sad to remember how devastated my mother was after this thievery.

I often think of my mother when I stand outside with either a sprinkling can or a hose watering flowers.  I think if my mother could see me at these times she would smile to see me, following her example, being a caretaker of plants.  And THAT gives me a good feeling!

Sherry: So lovely, Mary. Every morning in summer, in my childhood, I was wakened by the slap of the hose against the side of the cottage, as my grandma watered everything down against the heat. When I think of her, it is always with flowers, too.

I, too, am now reduced to flowers in pots on my balcony. But it gives me such pleasure to have something growing. I was such a gardener when I was younger.

I so enjoyed your poem, and your thoughts about it. Thank you so much.

In closing, we leave you with this very sweet poem of remembrance penned by Rosemary. 

Rosemary has always been

passionately alive!

SWEETNESS AND WEATHER

I walk out my door some days
into a feeling of Andrew,
my late-life husband:
things we did together,
places we saw ... the same
exact mix of sunlight and breeze.

Or I go to my little boys,
down the back yard
on a good drying day,
playing under the clothesline.
Me pegging, and watching them.
Their white singlets and nappies.

Not often my own childhood –
here is so much warmer – but
sometimes the way the winter sun
glints on the river, or the rare
pockets of fog in the hills,
a smell of coming rain....

Sherry: This is so lovely: feeling Andrew near, the memory of those little boys, while you hung nappies on the line. Sigh. Lovely memories. Life is so full of them! To keep the heart full to brimming. Rosemary, how I love this photo of you when you were small: you have kept that vibrant life force all your life. It is lovely to behold. Tell us about your poem.

Rosemary: There's really not a lot to say about this. It just happened one day, out of nowhere, expressing what I was feeling at the time I was feeling it.

I suppose I am at a time of life where I tend to do some looking back. Luckily I have also reached a stage where happy memories outweigh the painful. I can remember my husband Andrew now with more pleasure in our time together than pain at his passing, and the good things about my own childhood and my children's rather than the problems.

And of course, it was some particularly pleasant weather which caused me to recall the specific moments in the first two verses, and then led me to reflect that such triggers are rarer with regard to my own childhood. I grew up in Tasmania, which is pretty cold, and now live in the sub-tropics. But, because I live in a town very like the one I grew up in, scenically, our winters here can sometimes flash me back.

It was indeed a very sweet moment or two. Sweet weather, sweet memories.

Sherry: Very sweet, my friend, and thank you for sharing them.

Such a lovely nostalgic bouquet of blooms and memories, my friends, wasn't it? Thank you so much, Wendy, Mary and Rosemary, for sharing these lovely poems, and thank you, our loyal readers for stopping by to read them. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It could be you!  (But, a hint: next week we have a very special feature for you: Robin Kimber will be sharing with us his memories of his boyhood in London during World War II. It is special, and not to be missed.)

Poems of the Week ~ by Mary, Wendy and Kathleen

This week, my friends, we are contemplating poems written by Mary, who blogs at In the Corner of My Eye, Wendy, of Words and Words and Whatnot,  and Kathleen Everett, of The Course of Our Seasons. Each poem seems, to me, to be a wonderful response to the darkness of the news we are taking in these days. Each poet has a unique response and, taken together, I hope they uplift your heart and help you keep your balance as we move through troubled times. Let's take a look.

We are Ready

We are ready to dance
not the slow cheek to cheek dance
not the sensual melodic tango
but the we-will-fight-through-the-night dance
the we-won't-ever-give-up (take that!) waltz
where we clench teeth and raise our arms
we shake fists in the face of injustice.

We are ready to dance
not the sumptuous sexy samba
not the kick the heels kind of jive
but the don't-you-dare-mess-with-me dance
you can't fool us with your lies
we put no stock in your twisted words
we shake fists in the face of injustice.

We are ready to dance
not the hate and-racial-discrimination dance
not the stomp-on-gay-and-immigrant-rights dance
but the fight-for-life-and-do-it-now dance
you can't trample the ones we love
we will rise again before too long
we shake fists in the face of injustice.

We are ready to dance!

Sherry: I love the liveliness, fire and determination in this poem. We will not only Overcome, we will sing and dance while doing so! I loved this, Mary!

Mary: In this poem, I wanted to express, in a unique way, a sense of being empowered to take action. So I thought about different types of dances and how they could be used to express what I wanted to portray. I was actually quite pleased with how it turned out, and each time I read it again I can feel my adrenalin flowing (LOL), so I feel I succeeded in accomplishing my goal.

Sherry: I feel you did, too. Wonderfully!

burden of ancients

I had expected
I would be more at peace
at this place in my life, for ...
I have sought it
these many years,
in my way


instead,
I carry the weighty woes
of this planet,
like a big bass drum,
beating
to the fragile heartbeat
of our earth


to know
what it is, to live …
is to know,
that survival is precarious and hard


perhaps, ancients
are not meant
to find peace
in bearing witness to
humankind's
failure to exist harmoniously
and with diligence

perhaps, it is part of the price we pay,
for the gift of long life –
the burden of owning
the state of the world
we will leave behind, at passing

“We’re in a giant car heading towards a brick wall and everyone’s arguing over where they’re going to sit. … We have to recall the image of the planet from outer space: a single entity in which air, water, and continents are interconnected. That is our home.” – David Suzuki: Canadian environmentalist, scientist, and writer.

Sherry: I so feel the weight of it, Wendy, the burden of the world we are passing along to our children and grandchildren. Worse at this moment than we ever could have foreseen.

Wendy: The theme of ‘burden of ancients’ is climate change – but, more than that, it is about humankind’s utter ineptitude to come to terms with it.  The staggering arrogance and ignorance of the ‘powers that be’ who could and should put in place, a strategy for combatting the truly frightening planetary changes, we are facing, is shocking.  The possibility of world leaders arriving at a consensus of basic, common sense initiatives, that might, at the very least, slow the decline (while innovative scientific and technological solutions are sought) seems – at this point in time – further out of reach, than ever.  For those of us who care about life on this planet – who care about the quality of life we are leaving to our children – it is a constant heartache.   That is probably why, I find my way to this theme again and again – even when I don’t set out in that particular direction.  It is very much on my mind. 

I have mentioned the findings of the 2007, Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change before, but it bears repeating.  That panel (of 2,500 scientists in 130 countries overseen by the United Nations and the World Meteorological Organization) warned that millions of human lives and nearly a third of the planet's wildlife and plant species could be wiped out if global temperatures rise as little as 1.5 to 2.5 degrees Celsius.  The Panel predicted a rise of between 1.8 and 4 degrees Celsius by the end of this century, if measures are not put in place to reverse the current trend.  Needless to say, the earth will be feeling the effects of global warming long before the end of this century.  Indeed, it already is.  Climate change is real.  We see the effects of it, virtually every day, on our nightly news.   

The stunning prediction by The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change was issued 10 years ago.  Since then, very little – in terms of what is required to stem this looming disaster – has been enacted.  In fact, it could be argued, that we are moving backwards.  In a move, many experts deemed: catastrophic, the United States (under the leadership of President Trump) opted to pull out of the Paris Climate Accord in June of 2017, denouncing it as a violation of U.S. sovereignty.  I find that terrifying:  not for myself (I have lived my life); I find it terrifying for the children of this earth and for all life on this planet.  It is a burden, I fear, I will carry with me to my grave … as will my fellow ‘ancients’ of conscience. 

Sherry: As will I, my friend. Thank you for these wise words. 

Kathleen and her mother,

whom she sadly lost last year

an invitation

"Into this world,
this demented inn,
where there is absolutely no room for him at all,
Christ comes, uninvited."
- Thomas Merton

Turning off the news

(Suffering world)

I walk down the path to the waters edge

(Despairing angels weep at every fence post)

The cold wind whips the water into a froth against 
the gray stony bank

(Where is He in all of this?)

Autumn's landscape has changed to winter

(Pray for us now)

The world, hard and cold, in its fallow season

(And at the hour of our death)

I toss pieces of bread to the small wild ducks

(Peace be with you)

As they sail away,

(and also with you)

I turn toward home.

Sherry: So sorrowful, so beautiful, Kathleen.

Kathleen: This poem was written a few years ago at the beginning of the Advent season after another mass shooting in our country. The saddest part of that statement is that I can't tell you which one.

 I had run across the quote and, adding that to the season of the year and the news of another tragedy, the poem came together in a kind of call and response. 

Using religious imagery and scenes of the natural world that I find outside my door, this poem became quieter and more prayerful- an invitation, an invocation.

Sherry: One feels the prayerfulness, reading your beautiful words, Kathleen. Thank you for sharing the beauty and peace of this poem with us. You give us a place to go for comfort when the news is just too dark – out into the beauty of the world, waiting so patiently for humankind to awaken.

[My friends, Kathleen wanted me to tell you she has had a computer crash and may not be able to come in and respond to comments, as she only has her tiny phone. But she will read and be most appreciative of your words, nevertheless.]

Thank you, Mary, Wendy and Kathleen, for your beautiful, uplifting and inspiring words.  We hope these poems helped add something positive to your day, my friends. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My friends, to usher out old, gloomy, discouraging 2017 and welcome a year which we hope will bring better times, our staff decided to gather together a posey of New Year's poems for you, to wish you health, happiness and a brand new year of poetry. We hope your holidays were wonderful, filled with family joy, and we look forward to another year of sharing poems with you.

Optimism

I am thankful and filled with joy

one year ends another begins.

Thus has it been since time began

so will it be until time's end.

I ring out the old and in the new

celebrate rebirth of my soul

along with beginning of new year.

I set aside my past mistakes

January brings a fresh slate.

New year, I will welcome you.

Sherry: Thank you, Mary, for starting us off on such a positive note. And for your years of dedicated service to the poets of Poets United. 

Another January First: a sestina

Another January first, keep them coming:

I awoke early from my spiritual retreat

walking slowly toward breakfast after the bell,

past crumpled dark luminaries and frost ready

to melt, and I was in step with other seniors

some speaking, some silent with worshipful intent.

We woke early at our religious retreat

after a feast night with music, ringing the bells—

senior citizens waiting to hear God, ready

for earth's midnight.  We've gathered together, senior

moments on hold, radios turned off, so intent

on this December thirty first. Keep them coming.

We walked slowly toward breakfast after the bell

hoping to find even breakfast changed and ready

for anything but the same cereals seniors

eat daily.  But, I asked comrades, what if—intent

as we are on change—we miss the joy of coming

to familiar comforts with no need to retreat?

We look around, we dark luminaries, ready

to glow as suns in training, stars of the senior

class, ready to graduate, to commence, intent

on lighting the wicks of insight!  Keep them coming.

Today is not just a day—today ends retreat.

Finally this morning we know, so, ring the bell.

Let no one say we are over-the-hill seniors

depressed by cereal and eggs.  We are intent

on being heard in congress and we are coming

in droves to plant ourselves on the paths.  Since retreat,

we grow strong, bold again with a liberty bell

in our voices, soul riding on backbones, ready.

New Year’s Eve and day worship renew our intent

to move as God leads us and so we are coming

to walk on the wild side after this brief retreat.

We're full of enthusiasm this morning. Bells,

we eat granola and go to meeting ready

to leave retirement, graduating seniors.

January first's coming again.  No retreat.

Listen to the bells peal and send us out, ready

to love as only seniors can, with great intent. 

Sherry: This poem inspires me to do just that, "to love as only seniors can, with great intent." I can feel the strength and resolve, the activism, in "we are coming to walk on the wild side." I love this poem, Susan.

January Moments

In my dark garden
wind chimes clang faintly, I breathe
the smell of the sea.

Steamy nights
on this tree-thick hill;
my grey cat
sits silent
on the top step, keeping guard
while we toss in heat.

Like my cats
the plants are very still
this hot morning.

The heat revs up
as the morning brightens.
What time today
will humid rains kick in?
Summer at full throttle.

Downpour.
At last a bud
on the rosebush.

Quiet –
the rain pauses
waiting.

Trying to come up with a poem for the new year, and uninspired, I looked through several years of micropoetry written in January, selected one from each year (with a bit of tweaking to some, on seeing them anew) and found that they could be read as a sequence. 

Sherry: And they made a beautiful poem, Rosemary. Thank you.

A New Year Candy Song

I’ll candy crush my heart

to sweeten you all

in this gloomy world-

I’ll chocolate bomb the hearts

of the bitter monsters

of this nightly world-

I’ll blossom blast those tongue

that lives on harangue

brewing out of this shadowy world-

with my striped-candy dream

and wrapped-candy breath

I’ll sugar crush-

soda crush-

jelly crush-

flower crush-

this fiendish world…..

                    

My note: I do not wish to grieve to death in the first month of the year as it’s a hell of a month for me. January will always be an abyss of sorrow to me. And I couldn’t also avoid the darkness that this world is passing through at present, courtesy of our politicos. So I decided to make a sweet explosion with my words. 

This poem might be the result of my being a candy crush saga game addict :) Hope this new year finds you in much happiness and lots of amazing words.  

Sherry: We will walk with you through January, Sumana. Every step of the way. Thank you for the sweet wishes in this poem.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As the old bedraggled,

disappointing year skulks away,

may you approach the new,

shining with possibility,

your eyes wide with wonder

like a Christmas child.

May you open the package 
of each day,

gift-wrapped in sunrise colours,

to find something in it

of beauty, of laughter, of affection,

of gratitude, of Hope.

May the old year sing out the tears,

the   disillusion, the events

that broke our hearts,

and show us a new day,

tinged golden with the promise

of better times ahead.
May 2018 unravel its weeks and months
full of community, of working together
in the cause of social justice, 
and of healing and restoring
this suffering planet.

We wish you hearts filled

with possibility and promise.

We wish you times at home

with loved ones close by,

faces shining in the firelight.

We wish you flights of poetry

to make your heart soar,

and dogs with thumping tails

inside your front door

to greet you as you enter.

Most of all,

as the new year dawns

and we bid farewell

to the darkness of 2017,

we wish you happy hearts.

We wish you Love.

source

Thank you, Mary, Rosemary, Susan and Sumana for starting us off on a happy note. We hope all of you enjoyed this posey of poems. Do come back and see who we talk to next. A hint: it is a long-time member of Poets United, and you will enjoy catching up with her.