We trace power lines with our own bodies, bend our curves to crooked straightness, every connection volatile or precarious as a ladder. Do we lack the wings to change this—or the will? If it’s feathers we need, let’s parade in boas and lift our murmurs skyward, every voice taking flight. It is time for fluid shapes. It is time for thrumming wings. It is time for power lines to be buried deep underground.
I love how you pulled me into this encounter with an ant, Tamsin! There’s such gentleness in how you consider her perspective and choices. Just lovely!
This was a compelling unfoldment of scene. I felt a pang at the end as I imagined her mistaking you for a threat (recognizing that of course biology required her to, but still).
Oh wow, this feels like a beautiful punch to the gut. I love the language in "we, too sprang from the dirt, wild and raw," and " inhales the fumes of our perceived progress like second-hand smoke." And the notion that Mother Earth is speaking to us passionately through "tempests and temperature," but we refuse to hear a language that doesn't sound like our own feels so true and insightful. I love this, Keith, and am so glad I dipped back into past comments sections to find it!
This is lovely, Keith, and a true prophetic witness. Your protestations and lament for our Mother Earth are so powerful, and written with empathy, sadness and care. And a foundation of hope, too. This is a gem of a poem!
This was delightful, A. (and I love the rhyming scheme in your opening lines, so fun :)). It also has me thinking, as does Lisa's prompt in general, about how, if at all, synthetic structures have altered the sociological patterns of birds and other wildlife.
I live this A.! What a creative use of rhyming and so adroit and insightful bringing your unique lens to the everyday work of these amazing woodpeckers!
This came on the ferry this afternoon, crossing Long Island Sound. It started a few days ago sitting by the edge of Great Bay near our home IN New Hampshire. A work in progress.
Sitting on the edge of the bay,
expansive gateway to the great sea beyond,
I wonder of those who came before.
Ancestors, named and unnamed
some with good hearts, some with bad,
many in the malevolent middle.
Those who enslaved others,
stole the land from a people
who did not see the earth as real estate,
rather a geography without lines of exclusion
creating divisions, barriers and gardens of the elite.
This was such a timely read for me today, Larry...I've been mulling ancestral legacy and the legacy of this country and I really felt your process of taking stock of your ancestral legacy, your compassion for their side of it, and your letting go into the saving grace of water. I took comfort in the idea that some white folks may have had the courage to witness the light, no matter the depth of the shadows. Beautiful.
The notion of a "malevolent middle" really spoke to me, Larry! I'm so glad I returned to this older post and found your poem today! I love these lines as well - "Quiet lines of heritage,
stories and secrets / that scream at me over the centuries." I hope we can each pass something better on to the next generation . . . and that feels surprisingly difficult to do!
Lisa, safe travels and have a beautiful time. You deserve a break from prompting, and all good teachers and leaders need renewal and replenishment. I am so grateful for you and your life altering poetry!
And your poem is so strong. I believe all power lines should be underground. They are blights on any landscape, injure and kill way too many winged friends, and have reamifications and consequences we are still coming to understand. Not to mention how much safer and secure it would make us all,
It's taken me a while to get to this one although I started it days ago. I was thinking about the concept of the past of my surroundings and then I started thinking more about my past and how I am going back into the past a bit by re-entering the education profession (I never thought I would.) Anyway, more about that later but for now....
Oh my goodness, this is so lovely, Karri! I love how you play with time in this poem, picturing the past of the land you're driving through, then taking us back to the present with this brilliant line - "I reach my destination in the present." And I feel that lines "still surprised to find myself starting over / I thought by now I'd have it figured out" to my bones. I'm wishing you all the best in your new beginnings! I'm so glad my present moment includes dipping back to this past post to find your lovely poem.
Enjoy your vacation, may it bring rest, renewal and enjoyment.
.
The Invasion that Never Happened. (Working title)
.
There is a solitary small ant
standing on the matchbox
that lives tucked into the side
of the kitchen window ledge.
.
Just standing there, a scout,
her pheromone dispensing antenna
sending messages to the other ants
that are waiting close by.
.
She - all worker ants are she -
is black and just a little bit shiny
where sunlight splashes onto
her thorax through the grimy glass.
.
There was a storm last night
and it splashed the ground
so hard dust flew high,
struck and stuck to the panes.
.
She is stood on the front of the box
where the pattern is colourful,
bright yellows, red and greens
decorating the clean white cardboard .
.
It is a good choice - the matchbox -
in the shade of the herbs growing there,
plants pots a secure defence behind her,
she can safely survey the area beyond.
.
She sees me, hands covered in bubbles,
both frozen now, contemplating.
I am barely breathing. Her head tilts,
the antenna wave of danger. And she is gone.
.
A different safer route will need to be found.
I love how you pulled me into this encounter with an ant, Tamsin! There’s such gentleness in how you consider her perspective and choices. Just lovely!
Thank you, I was working on a different poem when the first line just popped into my head from somewhere.
I love those seemingly out of the blue strokes of inspiration!
This was a compelling unfoldment of scene. I felt a pang at the end as I imagined her mistaking you for a threat (recognizing that of course biology required her to, but still).
Thank you. I felt sorry for her too, but she did her job well.
I love this zoomed-in vignette of the ant's scouting mission
Thank you 😘
This is brilliant, Tamsin! Surely one of the best ant poems ever! I am looking at the /
Ant work outside much differently now!
Are there many on the subject? But thank you muchly indeed.
Hah! Now that is a question worth some research!
It IS time for power lines to be buried deep underground. Literally *and* poetically.
*
I suspect that when it all started,
it was quite unintentional,
the way in which
it became conventional
to favor the synthetic over the natural.
The way in which we unwittingly converted
the planet into a funhouse fully retrofitted
with mirrors that twist and contort,
deny and distort until
the abnormal landed, fully normalized.
And now we no longer recognize
that we, too sprang from the dirt,
wild and raw.
Speaking of dirt, do you suppose
that Mother Earth feels all that
asphalt and steel as webs of scar tissue
tugging taut over her skin?
A constant reminder of the cosmetic surgery
we perform haphazardly, time and again
without her consent?
Or that she inhales the fumes of our
perceived progress like second-hand smoke?
It seems we expected her protestations
to come packaged politely, lyrically
in language we could understand.
The very same language that paved
the road to perdition, that one that
promises annihilation.
But her native tongue is not one of words,
but tempests and temperature
and though she communicates passionately,
we do not hear her.
Oh wow, this feels like a beautiful punch to the gut. I love the language in "we, too sprang from the dirt, wild and raw," and " inhales the fumes of our perceived progress like second-hand smoke." And the notion that Mother Earth is speaking to us passionately through "tempests and temperature," but we refuse to hear a language that doesn't sound like our own feels so true and insightful. I love this, Keith, and am so glad I dipped back into past comments sections to find it!
Thanks, friend. I really appreciate you digging back and taking the time to comment! Glad it resonated, but sorry for the gut punch :(
This is stunning, Keith.
Thank you, A. I'm trying to let it be okay that so many of my poems seem drawn to the dark side of the moon.
They can't all be sunshine and roses. I never mind the dark ones. A lot of mine lean sad, I think.
Thanks, friend. I feel the same...and you have purveyed much beauty in your poems here, very much including the sad-leaning ones :)
This is lovely, Keith, and a true prophetic witness. Your protestations and lament for our Mother Earth are so powerful, and written with empathy, sadness and care. And a foundation of hope, too. This is a gem of a poem!
Thanks so much, Larry. So glad to know it struck you in those ways. Your mirroring is always so helpful (and generous).
(couldn"t get out of my own head on this one)
.
.
.
EVERY FREAKIN' THOUGHT
clinched alcohol in its heart.
Glad I quit drinkin'.
Chuck, if I had a nickel for every time my head got in the way…
Me too! If only!
I don't think I'm quite done with this one, but I wanted to share before I forget.
Three little woodpeckers in a row,
the first on the feeder
and the other two below,
almost identical,
lined up on the pole
as they might on a tree, waiting
their turn, taking their place
in the pecking order.
The first drops down to transfer
seeds to the second, beak to beak,
sharing the bounty.
I'm not sure this is how it would be,
if the pole were a tree
but I'm grateful to be a witness
to whatever is happening
between them.
And I'm grateful to be a witness to your witnessing! This is so lovely.
This was delightful, A. (and I love the rhyming scheme in your opening lines, so fun :)). It also has me thinking, as does Lisa's prompt in general, about how, if at all, synthetic structures have altered the sociological patterns of birds and other wildlife.
It's so odd, isn't it? Our human structures are so young, comparatively, but we can't imagine what nature would be like without them.
Yes! I wish we could teleport back to a time before all our artifice, just briefly, to experience it.
I live this A.! What a creative use of rhyming and so adroit and insightful bringing your unique lens to the everyday work of these amazing woodpeckers!
This came on the ferry this afternoon, crossing Long Island Sound. It started a few days ago sitting by the edge of Great Bay near our home IN New Hampshire. A work in progress.
Sitting on the edge of the bay,
expansive gateway to the great sea beyond,
I wonder of those who came before.
Ancestors, named and unnamed
some with good hearts, some with bad,
many in the malevolent middle.
Those who enslaved others,
stole the land from a people
who did not see the earth as real estate,
rather a geography without lines of exclusion
creating divisions, barriers and gardens of the elite.
^
These are my fathers,
exploiters and adherents of
the oppressions of the times.
Quiet lines of heritage,
stories and secrets
that scream at me over the centuries.
I pray some of you were noble,
With courage to witness to the light,
no matter the depth of the shadows.
Alas, I will never know your names.
^
Sacred earth, spirits of soul,
saving grace
the silver sheen of water
below my rock perch
beckons a new dream.
May my steps from here be blessed,
lightly and gently touching
the divine in each of us
lovingly letting go
of the ties that bind.
Cosmic energy of all
peaceful spirits,
surging from truth and wisdom
buried long ago,
finally released into freedom.
This was such a timely read for me today, Larry...I've been mulling ancestral legacy and the legacy of this country and I really felt your process of taking stock of your ancestral legacy, your compassion for their side of it, and your letting go into the saving grace of water. I took comfort in the idea that some white folks may have had the courage to witness the light, no matter the depth of the shadows. Beautiful.
Thank you so much Keith. It is a lifelong journey of discovery, reflection and opening.
That last stanza reads like a prayer.
A vocational hazard!
The notion of a "malevolent middle" really spoke to me, Larry! I'm so glad I returned to this older post and found your poem today! I love these lines as well - "Quiet lines of heritage,
stories and secrets / that scream at me over the centuries." I hope we can each pass something better on to the next generation . . . and that feels surprisingly difficult to do!
I love the formatting of the poem at the end ; it adds urgency and feels like a call to action. And "thrumming" is a delightful word!
Lisa, safe travels and have a beautiful time. You deserve a break from prompting, and all good teachers and leaders need renewal and replenishment. I am so grateful for you and your life altering poetry!
And your poem is so strong. I believe all power lines should be underground. They are blights on any landscape, injure and kill way too many winged friends, and have reamifications and consequences we are still coming to understand. Not to mention how much safer and secure it would make us all,
Oh, and have safe travels!!
I love this one too, Lisa!! This short poem holds sky, the below-ground, wings, and so much power!
Thank you so much, Claire! 🧡🧡🧡
Love the shape of that last stanza!
Thank you so much, Tamsin! Writing about birds always makes me want to play with the shape.
I’m a sucker for a shaped poem, and birds too.
It's taken me a while to get to this one although I started it days ago. I was thinking about the concept of the past of my surroundings and then I started thinking more about my past and how I am going back into the past a bit by re-entering the education profession (I never thought I would.) Anyway, more about that later but for now....
I drove back roads to Plumerville this morning.
(Why, yes, it’s just as rural as it sounds.)
The two lane highway affords better views.
Than speeding down I-40 between towns.
It’s not hard to picture this land years ago
Wooded forests that give way to fertile fields.
Farmhouses now worn gray that once shone white
And barns before the tin roofs rusted red.
I reach my destination in the present
Take a deep breath, my stomach all in knots.
Still surprised to find myself starting over
I thought by now I’d have it figured out.
I step back into the past that’s now my future.
And things that never worked out now I see
Maybe time is not a line but more a circle
As I find myself back where I ought to be.
Oh my goodness, this is so lovely, Karri! I love how you play with time in this poem, picturing the past of the land you're driving through, then taking us back to the present with this brilliant line - "I reach my destination in the present." And I feel that lines "still surprised to find myself starting over / I thought by now I'd have it figured out" to my bones. I'm wishing you all the best in your new beginnings! I'm so glad my present moment includes dipping back to this past post to find your lovely poem.
Lisa, your ability to create poetic brilliance out of virtually anything is remarkable. And I say it is time to put them all underground!
Hah, now that’s a question worth some research!
Amen and Ashe ( AShay) to this, Billy!
How cool - Break a leg, Billy!
I hope it went well, Billy! I’ll check it out on You Tube!
Awww your heart hands just made my morning!