Sparrows and Specular Poems–Just for Fun

Image result for sparrow images creative commons Attempts at specular poems, and yes, I probably need to leave the sparrows alone. They appear too often in my poetry; however, I do love sparrows since they STAY ALL WINTER and provide some color, sound, movement even during the dull dreariness of November, December, January, and February.

Specular poems are a form where halfway through the lines repeat themselves in a mirrored order.

Image of the American Tree Sparrow from the Creative Commons.

Thanks for reading!

 

 

 

Rough Draft

 

cropped-be-creative-creative-creativity-256514

 

Rough Draft from a few years ago.. dozen dull.  I really react to the lack of sunshine! Perhaps if we had lovely weather all the time I’d grow complacent to the beauty.

 

 

Nah…

 

Anyway, here we go, and thanks for reading.

November gray came
early into late September
baby baboon sounds  (what??? I need to reconsider this wording!)
from the old sycamore
small wolverine shaped scamperers

crashing down
the squirrel twitched, looked
left, right
while the red tabby cat
lay sick in the bushes,
its one good eye on
the swollen blue berries.

………


look up–study the gray
it lasts
into November, December, January
when sun on green does not

before then the changing colors
briefly blaze, lull, trick

as if other than gray could remain
during those dozen dull weeks.

Rough Draft/ The Nine Month Sentence/Newish Poem

img_1235-1                ROUGH DRAFT. To revise.  Sometimes things come out and I am not sure what they mean, but for this one, I know it’s an autumn facing winter poem.  To work on and revise. Thanks for reading!

Laura

The Nine Month Sentence–(Must work on this title. Sounds weird.)

Stunned. Nine months of
little sun, closed streaked
windows to follow.

We had not
used our summer well.

We had not slept
under a June blue sky,
toes curled in fresh green.

We had not wrapped nights
in tender sighs under stars;
our nights
were wasted in worries.

Midnight.

If we slip outside now,
we might walk unnoticed.
We might find the source
of the crescent, the crickets,
the scamperers.
We might
flee with them.

 

?????

************* Let’s slip outside

find sources of

crescents

crickets

scamperers.

maybe we’ll leave

with them.

 

*****Addendum:

Worked a lot on editing this one, and it’s ready to submit…but where? It’s no longer..Nine Month Sentence…because winter is not that long. Other good revisions… now to look for a home for this revised and edited (for the better, I hope!) poem. #poetrycommunity #poetry

From a PIP (poem in progress)

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8Line breaks, wording, so much work needed. A much longer poem, but I don’t want to post complete poems here. And they are MISSING GIRLS, which is important. And missing small ones… hmm.. Lots to consider.

Middle of the night
moon casts
umbrella shaped shadows.

Soft light of night
I’d hoped would help
find the lost (missing?)
(??find the missing
small ones?)

 

**  Word Press doesn’t like to format poetry, it seems.

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8I’m playing with language, tone, line breaks, meaning.  (I don’t want to post a complete poem here, since I will submit for publication.)

FACE STORM —very rough draft

Oh how I hated to close the window!

FACE STORM

The Smell of rain

Through an opened window

The sound of thunder

Awakened her

at the beginning

week five

Of recovery.

The excitement of a

late summer storm

The sky turning gray green

the raindrops falling

down, straight down

Towels around the window

soaking something splendid

summer storm, found a small way

blessing way

fresh onto her face

On a Sunday morning

On the first Sunday

dreamed for week 5

Of recovery

Rain, the smell of rain

Awakened.

Rush Hot Now (rough draft)

Found from an old site, part of a 30 poems in 30 days challenge.  This is from ten years ago.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

#13 /List poemSummer Things I Forgot

i did not rush, hot, now.
i forgot how.

i forgot poetry would end
coffee at midnight, phone calls
in the middle of the night
would all end

i did not rush, hot, now.
i forgot how.

Nine Month Sentence ROUGH DRAFT. To edit. Revise.

ROUGH DRAFT. to edit. Revise.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

The Nine Month Sentence

Stunned. Nine months of

little sun, closed streaked windows to follow.

We had not

used our summer well.

We had not slept

under the June blue sky,

toes curled in fresh green.

 

…We might

flee with them.

What do You Call Your Father?

42694360_10155800587148499_7360350429420453888_n FROM THE WRITINGS SNIPPETS RANDOM AS I THINK OF THEM FOLDER

 CNF STARTER:

I Never Called for Him

Being older, I sometimes find myself in the “remember when” conversations with family, friends, colleagues.  And sometimes those conversations turned to our childhoods and what did we do, or watch, or dress like, or listen to, or call…

Or call. Yes.  Lolo what did you call your father?

Indeed. What did I call my father? I could not remember calling him anything to his face.

‘What did you call yours?” I might ask, trying to avoid the question.

Daddy, if I wanted something.

Sir, Yes, Sir.

And then she laughed, the kind of laughter that meant love, trust, fond memories.

Mitter, another friend said.

Da, another said.

Papa.

Pop.

Dad.

DAD!

HEY!

Old man.

OG.

Pops.

Lots of laughter, lots of smiles.

Me, oh I don’t remember.

Me?  I don’t remember calling my father anything.  I don’t remember calling him at all.

I never called him on the telephone if I could help it.  I never called him anything to his face.

But writing was different. In writing in those spiral angst filled journals, I called him my father.

With my siblings it was He or Him.  What kind of mood is He in?  Shhh… Him one of us might whisper, pointing with our chin to another room where He was. Or sometimes just among ourselves we would call him by his initials, LW, and later The Weird One. If we said That Bastard, we knew we meant our father.   Or if we said that mother fucking cocksucker son of a bitch we knew we meant our father.

Perhaps it was our way of identifying our father while keeping him at a distance.

I did not share these family secret of what we called my father at any party or any gathering ever.

But if I were honest, I believe this–I never called for him.

 

Little Sister-Rough Draft

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Just something I found on an old flash drive.  Will edit, revise, see where it goes.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

Little sister
you are not alone
sometimes I am
in your dreams
purring
a pink cat who speaks.

And sometimes
I am at the top of the stairs
thrusting
limbs forward
as a shield.


Little sister, sometimes
I am in between the lines of
words from decades ago
straight to your mirror.

 

 

 

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