The Advent Tree

advent_tree

 

Stripped
more bare
than late-shorn
fields, twisted
branches beckon birds
to decorate their lines.
 Long emptied of pretension,
  they await the birds with patience ~
 bending to the will of frost-sharp winds,
shimmering in the season’s fading light.

 

Comments always are welcome.
For more information on the Etheree, a syllabic poem that, in its basic form, contains ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, please click here.

Attentiveness

(Click to enlarge)

 

One flower at a time, please,
however small the face.
Two flowers are one flower
too many, a distraction.
Three flowers in a vase begin
to be a little noisy.
Like cocktail conversation,
everybody talking.
A crowd of flowers is a crowd
of flatterers (forgive me).
One flower at a time.  I want
to hear what it is saying.
                                                      “Bouquet” ~ Robert Francis

(more…)

Published in: on August 6, 2016 at 6:59 am  Comments (101)  
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The Poets’ Birds: Pelicans

Whether Eleanor Johnson met a pelican during the course of her lifetime, I can’t say. What is certain is that, had a pelican plummeted into our 5th grade classroom to perch atop her desk, Miss Johnson’s first words would have been, “Children! Quick! Take your pencils! Let’s write a poem about our unexpected visitor!”

Miss Johnson guided us capably enough through arithmetic and social studies lessons, but her first love was poetry. Obsessed with verse, she clearly intended that we should be equally obsessed. No doubt she would have preferred pouring poetry into our heads with a funnel but, lacking direct physical access to distracted childhood brains, she did the next best thing: nagging, cajoling, insisting, and assigning until we nearly collapsed under the weight of her enthusiasm. (more…)

Published in: on July 16, 2016 at 8:50 pm  Comments (152)  
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The Poets’ Birds: Songbirds

Eastern Kingbird (Click for greater clarity)
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
                      ~ Emily Dickinson

Around 1813, Emily Dickinson’s grandparents, Samuel Fowler Dickinson and Lucretia Gunn Dickinson, built what may have been the first brick home in Amherst, Massachusetts. Fowler Dickinson, an attorney who participated in the founding of Amherst College, soon had company in the house other than his wife. In 1830, the Dickinsons’ son Edward, also an attorney, moved with his wife and young son into the western half of the Homestead. It was there, on December 20 of the same year, that Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was born. In 1833, her sister Lavinia was born: also at the Homestead. (more…)

Published in: on June 19, 2016 at 3:06 pm  Comments (83)  
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Los Brazos de Dios

The Lower Brazos, unbanked (Photo: Doug Whipple)

In 1951, flooding rains filled the Missouri and Kansas rivers. One by one, bridges throughout Kansas City were closed, and our vacationing family was trapped. When engineers judged one bridge passable and opened it temporarily, my father, grim and determined, said, “We’re going home.” Only five years old, I was horrified, fascinated, and strangely numb as we crossed over the bridge, watching dead cattle and box cars pass only feet below our own car as we headed for Iowa, and higher ground. (more…)