NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Seven

LOL. It snowed! It rained! The delivery guys came! I had online meetings with work! I had a tuna sandwich for lunch! It was, my friends, quite the Monday.


According to my believable source*,
this word was coined by Milton
combining the pan- of everywhere with
the -demon-ium that can only mean trouble
Imagine hearing this new word whiz by
in a crowded market place one morning
your brain perking up to parse it as
‘everywhere demons’ while your eyes
were talking to your feet about
where the closest exit was and your
hands were scooping up some extra garlic,
as you started suddenly for home,
your mouth tasting the pure dryness of ‘oh’
Or maybe it was more a tang of ‘oh oh’.

First: my lunch today, inspired by some wonderful celery:

and even though it had snowed before I got up, it poured during my lunchtime park on Darrow Rd.

I was just admiring some twelve over twelve light windows in the Shaker settlement buildings along Darrow Rd when I saw this:

I always admire this little building along Rte 20 near the school.

The UPS Man came just as I was coming back, with two packages: Watercolor paper, a new wool sweater and a car organizer for the front seat.

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty-Seven

Clouds and More Clouds

Clouds and More Clouds

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty-three

Windy, cold, sunny, cloudy – just another late April Day in the shadow of the Berkshires.

Something about sitting in the car
apple and cheese slices and some
peanut butter crackers on the dash
with a cup of warmed-over coffee,
window open to let the clouds in,
someone else is talking somewhere
else about everything else
about all this stuff while
the sky is blue streaked
and grey in turns with birds
that fit the curvatures above
while I am perched here below
mere mortal, lunch arrayed before me
I should be working but I forgot.

The best way out is always through. — Robert Frost

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty-three

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty One

A big front went through which made it rain and snow and hail and wind and then – Sun. A nice end to the day.

Before the trees leaf out in April,
hills are another shade of stubble.
Gold in the sun, violet below.
Pink in first blush of warm
the light slashes through them,
shivering each straight trunk
yearly urge to push upward.
Listen to those twigs whistle,
soon these low woods will be
chattering, all dark green
maple and poplar’s sap yellow.

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty One

Also seen in my travels

Nature’s first green is gold…

No – you take the Corona!

Funky tiny house that mirrors the old shed behind it. Looks very cool.

Also seen in my travels

NaPoWriMo – Day Eighteen

A quiet snowy day. We didn’t get the four to seven inches but there was slushing and there higher hills that were still white this afternoon. NaPoWriMo challenged us to “write an ode to life’s small pleasures” but there are so many right now, I’m going with a bigger one. Time.

Thirty days and thirty-one days to pause
Who knew in a lifetime you’d have this chance
From first awakening, to sliding grateful
back into a bed that holds you safely
Day after day of being. Looking and
seeing. Painting or writing or something
you haven’t named yet. Making breakfast. Lunch.
Wondering if it’s too early – guess what –
the answer to that is no. Do it now.
Do something else or more of that – later.
Go out on the porch with a cat in arms –
take a good whiff of the morning waiting.
However many more days and every –
Pick up the daily. Heft it. Wield it.

NaPoWriMo – Day Eighteen

NaPoWriMo – Day Sixteen

A weird Thursday, woke to snow (and an open window since I totally missed that forecast). Bright and sunny and cold but with wild wind and changing sky. Worms are settling in. Internet finally returns after twenty-four plus hours… it’s been real -real something.

But hey, we’re here for the poems. Sometimes you get a line and just have to go with it, just like days without internet. This seems to be a weird two-parter joined by the idea of “worn”.


Evening comes holding a handful of tears
something about four thirty or seven
The hill across the way is yellow-lit
in the day’s last slant, somewhere birds’ last song
Night comes by and sits in the eastern sky
we watch the light change down to grey and blue
This morning there was snow, which, just to say
that this world is a wonder of beauty
and yet tears come cold and without warning,
well, each day. If not four-thirty, seven
and not even the relief of crying
So much it seems I cannot understand
How will the world be, reentering
and seen with eyes so worn by tears?

This old sweater, I see the wrist is worn
away from use – I wear it every day
almost year round, so no complaints I guess
but what will I do? become one who wears
a sweater missing parts? And what of warmth?
I’ll be sorry to see it unravelled so.
I try to be pragmatic and think of what
I’d like to wear instead. Maybe two
rather than one so I’ll be less that sweater
and more me coming up the steps,
more what I do rather than what I wear?
Perhaps a nice black wool or charcoal grey
I feel like I’m cheating on an old friend.
I’ll pretend it moved away, and may return
with newly knit cuffs and glad elbows.

NaPoWriMo – Day Sixteen

NaPoWriMo – Day Fourteen

Busy day doing not much of anything and I’m trying to work with the NaPoWriMo prompt and now I’ve forgotten what it was really all about…

You’ve taken that quiz: what x number of
people living or dead would you dine with,
if you could choose? Classic conundrum.
The answers are wide-ranging, the reasons
personal and predictable, but for
me — give me a table full of folks who
call New England home. Set a place for them:
Emily, Robert, Norman, HDT,
Mary O, Winslow, and John Sargent too.
Billy Collins, (New York, but close enough)
We’d gladly pass potatoes and the night.
What would we talk about? Weather, of course
and love, death and happiness and all things
under that changeable New England sky.

Why these people, you and others may ask?
I like them for their New England natures
They speak their truth and let it surprise you
without too much fanciness. No big fuss.
I like things conversational, and so
like our dinner, simple and to the point.
Twist optional but appreciated.
I tire of the endless highfaluting.
Speak to me simply – what you saw and why
Show me what it did to you that morning
or how the light passed while you watched it go
how birds flew rising and falling like waves
Tell me in plain language how it changed you
all that light, all that living, all those days.

And I’m pretty sure I could tell these folks all about my re-entry into the world of vermiculture and how today I prepared for that.

We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give. — Winston Churchill

NaPoWriMo – Day Fourteen

NaPoWriMo – Day 11

The mail brought a postcard and the NaPoWriMo prompt brought a link to a lovely archived version of Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers. Lovely indeed and a welcome diversion on this cold April morning.

I looked up the meaning of forsythia
hoping to write a poem for you.
The only things in bloom here
right now are maple, forsythia and
of course daffodils.
But, according to my book,
the bright and bobbing flowers
in the front garden mean “regard”
and the hills of maple now a-blush
stands in for “reserve”
which seem like such a
Brontë-ish bouquet –
much room for misunderstanding
and resulting hilarity or tears.
Forsythia though, didn’t make the list.
Looking up other names
brought me to flowering olive
also not in the translations, and
Easter tree, while fitting in the
calendar, didn’t earn a second look.
So I gave up the old resource and
did what I had to do and googled it
and was told by several sources that
forsythia, being an early flower,
means “anticipation”
Since we are all guilty of looking
every time we pass, hoping for
that tell-tale yellow budding
I’ll accept this. And hope you
will accept my child’s fistful of
sunshiny anticipation and regard
on this chilly April morning.

Daffodils and Mailbox

From the quote box:

He who enjoys doing and enjoys what he has done is happy. — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

NaPoWriMo – Day 11

NaPoWriMo – Day Eight

Rainy and sunny. Another spring in New England Day. Daffodils and cold. Like many, I’m having to work at the big question: what day is it?

Outside, it’s raining
and so I go, so
my whole face is wet.
My shoulders ache
they pull me over, down
and I am just —
I am the rain
bent over a cold ground.
Later when it clears
an hour or two to wonder,
why is this so hard,
why is this so beautiful?
Standing in the sky’s
presence with clouds,
In this gentle courtyard,
I ask my questions,
the ones at my feet.
The horizon whispers
what of tomorrow?

From the Quote Box:

I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor. — Henry David Thoreau

NaPoWriMo – Day Eight