The Wheelbarrow

--has faded blue paint
    chipped, scratched,
    caked with clods of dried dirt.
--wobbles on one wheel
    heavy with burgundy-brown bricks;
    plastic packs of perky pansies.
--holds memories of bright blue days
    spilling laughing children
    on the ground.

Prompt: Joseph Harker’s Recursion prompt from yesterday.  In a nutshell, take a familiar object and think about its form, function, origin and symbolism.

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Muddy Hymns in August

The sycamore sheds its skin
in peeling strips of curling bark,
offering pale patches of pewter.
A heaping platter of leaf and limb.

Cottonwood trees twinkle tall.
When the wind plays hard
and limbs fall,
the goats have a feast-for-all.

The monsoon wind smells
of damp sycamore leaves
and wet dust
as it rumbles past.

 

A Reverie of Wordled Haiku

The rose sits ruffled
against the fence; hungry goats
rip and tear at leaves.

Pomegranate dusk
hangs heavy; pencils replace
swimsuits, sand and sun.

Honey crisp apples
sliced in a pie; recipe
for fault forgiven.

Picnic essentials
of blanket and wine; empty
bottles sleep content.

Icy water flows;
the drawbridge operator
gone without a trace.

Thick tree limbs fell hard
during the storm; the chain link
bent beyond repair.

Prompts: I used the Wordle words for this week to complete Joseph Harker’s Reverie prompt to write at least five haiku, correctly in the traditional way; no playing with form, syllable count or seasonal nature images.  He gives a great tutorial on how to accomplish that and I enjoyed the exercise.

Places

Joseph Harker threw out an ambitious prompt in his Reverie Thirty-Two.  Well, they are always ambitious.  I count on Joseph for that.  I’ve been mulling this prompt around for a week or so and finally committed myself to the process.  He asked that we write notes about five (or more) places: first impressions, last impressions, and unique features.  Then we were to draw a map — and post a picture of said map (mine is pretty sad, I am not an artist) — so readers can see the process.

I spent hot smoggy afternoons
in the sand box,
running up the porch steps
to get a dripping ice cream cone;
bouncy beagle puppies played
at my feet.
Sometimes, still,
I drive by the house
and cringe
at the cutesy country paint
and fake flower boxes,
at my father’s perfectly pruned pine tree
hacked to the ground.

My university years,
in a drab rented house,
were lived
lying in bed
missing you.
There was a bright yellow
smiley face rug
covering a carpet stain
by the side door.

I reluctantly rose from bed,
graduated,
and found myself married,
back in L.A.
living on a busy street;
chipped paint and bolted doors.
We sat at the kitchen table
and divided up the dishes.
He took his black cat
and I took mine,  milky white.

That white whiskered cat
followed me
until we landed
in a quiet cul-de-sac suburb.
I built a playhouse
for my children
and planted daffodils,
iris, roses and grapes,
trying to ignore my hollow heart.

Flower seeds followed me
up the mountain.
I planted gardens
and you built a barn.
A paradise place
where hawks soar,
and horses run
raising dust clouds
that blow
across the ridge
and away.

A Garden Begins With

A garden
begins with
compost,
decomposed
energy
from
generous
horses.
It might be
Japanese in theme, with
koi in a pond,
lily pads and
minnows meandering.
Nasturtiums can
offer a blanket,
popping red and orange.
Quiet,
restful
spaces are the goal.
Trellised, with a table
under wisteria
vines, or perhaps Concord grapes,
winding and climbing overhead.
X-tra points if it’s fragrant.
You want to
zone out there.

 

Prompt: Reverie 25 to write an abecedarian poem from A garden Begins with

Jail Break

In the grey light of almost-dawn
we found the fence break.
I jumped the rail cleanly;
Flash followed, pushing
the rail to the ground.
Jackson studied the situation
before carefully stepping over.

We could hear the howl of coyotes
as Flash led us
down the deserted road.
He flicked his ear at us in warning
when we crowded his broad rump
for security.

At the pond
our hooves sank in the thick muck;
we waded out
belly deep
and drank.
The mallards took flight.
Back on shore we rolled;
mud turning Jackson’s silver to brown.

Spring’s green grass was gone
and a sinister buzz
came from the dried weeds.
I lowered my long nose
to investigate.
Flash pushed me aside
with his stocky shoulders
and something gold and brown
–like a thick lead rope —
slithered past.
I manured.

Jackson’s head was bobbing;
he went lame on us.  Again.
So we took him home.
Flash marched along,
steady and strong,
a glint of laughter
in his blue eyes.
I danced behind
on my lanky legs;
ready to run wild.

This was written from Joseph Harker’s Reverie prompt.