Poetry Friday: "It Was All My Fault" (September Poetry Challenge)

Tanita Davis shared the Poetry Pals' Challenge for September: 

We deal with some ADHD here in Edmisten World. Knowing and accepting that ADHD is a genuine cognitive difference is really helpful. (Correction: it's vital.) And consider this, from ADDitudemag.com: 

Attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder is a confusing, contradictory, inconsistent, and frustrating condition. It is overwhelming to people who live with it every day.

Part of the overwhelm comes from blaming yourself for things that may not fully be in your control. ("I feel like a failure" is a common refrain.) 

So my poem this week is an affectionate nod to everyone who has ADHD, and to all who live with ADHDers. And to everyone who has ever thought that everything is their fault ... I'm willing to bet it's not. 

It Was All My Fault 

Karen Edmisten

I lost my phone,

it was all my fault. 

Sigh. Now I’m gonna eat. 

I’ll get the salt. 

I forgot the salt. 

That was all my fault. 

My meal was bland. 

Now I want a malt. 

Can I DoorDash the malt?

No, again I’m at fault. 

Cuz my phone is lost. 

ADHD assault. 

Did I order this brain? 

Indeed I did not. 

I’d have ordered a vault. 

So who’s really at fault? 

My preference would be

for some brain gestalt, 

hold it all in my mind. 

It’s not really my fault. (Is it?)

Stop, said my family, 

my friends, my beloved. 

The self-assault must 

come to a halt. 

It’s not your fault. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

I look forward to seeing who played along with the September challenge, 

and if they're taking the blame or lobbing it. 😊

Poetry Friday: "Advice to Writers" by Billy Collins

Recently, when I should have been writing, I did some cleaning instead. (Oh, you know this tired tale, don't you, Other Writers? I know you do.)

In this episode of "Writers Love to Procrastinate and Claim it's a Valid Step in the Process," I ditched mops, feather dusters, and closet organization for some intense digital clean-up. I tidied my blog and my website.

(They needed it. Really. This wasn't entirely procrastination. Ahem.) I created a new banner, spiffed up the sidebar info, changed my profile picture. (If I look particularly happy in the new one, it's because I was seeing Wicked with one of my daughters—again—on this past 4th of July. We had a fabulous day. And what an apt day it was for Wicked, that tale of injustice, discrimination, the power of friendship, and the necessity of fighting an oppressive, authoritarian regime. Happy 4th! But I digress.) I started thinking about Billy Collins's poem, "Advice to Writers." I always laugh at, "Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way./Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration." 

Would that it were so, O Poetry Gods! 

Advice to Writers

by Billy Collins 

Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides

....

(Read the rest here, at The Marginalian.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted by the lovely Linda Baie at TeacherDance. 

Photo courtesy of Michal Jarmoluk at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry, Rest in Peace

                                                           

first published in the May, 1970 issue of Poetry magazine

"Having worked/I would sleep..." 

Having worked — so hard, for so long, for so many — may he sleep with and in the deepest peace, knowing that he brought so much beauty to the world. 

Wendell Berry (August 5, 1934 – August 31, 2026), in addition to his many poems and powerful essays, wrote some of the most beautiful novels I've ever encountered. Here's what I said, ten years back, about Hannah Coulter: 

I finished Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter last week and discovered for myself why my friends, when the title comes up, gasp and seem to rise from the planet for a moment as they relive their own experiences of reading it. When they circle back down to earth and are able to speak again, they always mention underlining, highlighting, and the lyrical beauty of the writing. 

They are right. And I have joined their ranks. 

Title character Hannah Coulter, now in her 70s, is looking back over the years of her life. Hannah shares her history with us in prose that is both simple and reflective. I don't think it's a spoiler to share this passage, which comes very early in the book:  

When you are old you can look back and see yourself when you were young. It is almost like looking down from Heaven. And you see yourself as a young woman, just a big girl really, half awake to the world. You see yourself happy, holding in your arms a good, decent, gentle, beloved young man with the blood keen in his veins, who before long is going to disappear, just disappear, into a storm of hate and flying metal and fire. And you don't know it.

My copy, with its creased but lovely cover, is full of such underlinings. I read with pencil in hand, marking passage after passage, ripe plums that I wanted to preserve and remember forever. I read Hannah quickly and slowly: flying through the pages, but savoring the words of a world that has passed into memory.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being 

hosted by the incomparable Patricia Franz at Reverie. 

Poetry Friday: We're doing haiku sonnets!

 Last month, Tanita Davis shared the details: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to join our August poetry challenge!

Here’s the scoop: this month, we’re doing haiku…sonnets. If your response is a baffled “What?” no worries. Basically four 3-line haiku plus a couplet of either 5 or 7 syllables equals the traditional 14 lines you’ll find in a sonnet. If you haven’t written a sonnet, or “little song” in a minute, Folger has a Shakespearean guide, while the Poetry Foundation has the deets on other forms. Are you in? Good! Start today so you can be ready to share August 28th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then!

__________________________________________________________________________

So, as usual, I got to work right away. 

Oh, wait, no. 

I didn't. 

I checked my planner yesterday and found the note I'd made: "Tanita's August Poetry Challenge — post on Aug. 28th." 

Ummm ... okay. So, this morning I got to work. 

I don't know if this is haiku, or if it's a haiku sonnet, or if I should've tried to nail down some iambic pentameter (I guess not? Because ... haiku?) Anyway, I just started in on something I've been thinking about a lot lately — the way that, when your kids grow up, they begin drifting in and out of your house in varying patterns. (College, staying with friends, traveling to see the long-distance boyfriend, moving to a new town after getting married, coming home and sleeping under your roof again for a holiday gathering...) As a mom, I have never stopped waking up and asking myself, "Where are my daughters today?" 

Here's the haiku sonnet I came up with. 

Counting heads

Karen Edmisten 

Being a mother, 

someone said, is counting heads.

Where is everyone? 

Easy when they’re five.

They are all at home, of course.

Yard, kitchen, their room. 

Adult kids, new phase. 

I wake up, reorient 

to each day’s difference. 

Who’s under my roof?

Is anyone traveling?

Is everyone safe? 

Counting their heads never ends. 

I count each head in my heart. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marvelous Mona Voelkel has the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Poetry Friday: "End of Summer"

Do you mind a rerun? (It's been that kind of week, and this little poem is appropriate for the moment.) 

While out walking yesterday, I was positively pelted by small, leaping demons. Some might call them "grasshoppers" but this week — when they're in the middle of their annual August hysteria — I'm calling them "the things that torture me on my walk and make me startle a greater number of times than I did when I watched The Shining." 

I don't like flicking them off my face. 

(Thankfully, they only hit the face target once.) 

Happy August! 

Summer's End
by Karen Edmisten

August, morning walk.
The grasshoppers' pole vaulting, 
a season shifting.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the charming and wonderful Denise Krebs at Dare to Care. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Trying to Write a Dog Poem in a House with Two Cats" by Billy Collins

Four years ago this week, we adopted Maisy from the animal shelter. 

She was basically a pre-schooler: 

Tiny Maisy

Now, of course, she has matured and become a responsible adult: 

The work is never done

In honor of four years with this near-perfect tabby (and with a tip of the hat to her admirable work ethic), I'm dedicating this week's Poetry Friday post to her. 

To Maisy! {clink!} 

To Billy Collins! {clink!} 

To cat poetry! {clink, clink!} 

Trying to Write a Dog Poem in a House with Two Cats
by Billy Collins

From a couch
littered with throw pillows

they are staring at me
and my open notebook,

and even though their tails
are not twitching

and their secret inboard
motors are not audible,

I know they are assuming
in unison

that I am writing
yet another dog poem

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by marvelous Molly at Nix the comfort zone. 

Poetry Friday: "Days" by Philip Larkin

I've taken some days off from the blog (not that I spend that many days on the blog...) but I'm back. I've been busy with some writing — a couple of stories for little kiddos are out on submission, and I'm working on a picture book manuscript. (In some ways, writing my 30,000+ word non-fiction books for grown-ups was so much easier than writing a picture book. Not that I would have said so at the time, when I wrote them under deadlines, right?) 

The intricate maneuvering required for any kind of writing — placing precisely the right words into carefully allotted spaces — is a mad skill. One day you feel like you've mastered it. Two days later, you wonder why anyone ever trusted you with a pen or a keyboard. 

Philip Larkin nailed the skill when he wrote this ten-line poem. I wonder if two days later he thought it was all a dumpster fire? 

Days
by Philip Larkin

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The rare and wonderful Ruth is hosting Poetry Friday at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "On Days Like This" by Rudy Francisco

from Button Poetry 

My youngest daughter introduced me to Rudy Francisco.
And I ask you: What would we do without daughters? 
Without poets?
Without the beauty of the spoken word? 

"Being human is difficult. 

Being a good human is even harder. 

But it's still something I would like to accomplish." 

~ Rudy Francisco 

Here's Rudy Francisco, sharing "On Days Like This":   

~~~~~~~~~~

Jill Dailey has the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Poetry Friday: "I love you. I'm glad I exist." (Wendy Cope's "The Orange")

The Orange
by Wendy Cope 

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange –
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave –
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do

....

(Read the last few lines and/or hear the poem read aloud here.) 

Wendy Cope talks (only a wee bit) about the origins of the poem here. 

and now I want the pin.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Michelle Kogan. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "A Dangerous Adventure" by James Tate

I was cleaning out files yesterday and found a typed copy of James Tate's poem, "A Dangerous Adventure." I had forgotten about this poem, and that's astonishing because who could forget a poem that begins:

The woman I love is typing in a nearby room.

Clippity clippity clippity clippity, then silence.

Today I went hunting for it online because now it had to be my Poetry Friday pick. (He had me at clippity.) It was a bit of a scavenger hunt, with my first search result landing on a page that told me this: 

Wait. Full Poem Text Available at ...  Jama's blog?! Perfect. I headed over there. 

The post from Jama, written in 2009, began like this: 

Ummm, if it hadn't already been obvious that I needed to share the Tate poem, this coincidence clinched it. I mean, really, friends. Marvel with me. I randomly stumble on a poem in my files, follow a bread crumb trail, am led to a Poetry Friday friend's post — FROM 2009  — that specifically refers back to a post of mine ... and to TODAY'S POETRY FRIDAY HOST, TRICIA (yes, I'm screaming) and I'm NOT gonna share about it? 

Well, of course I am. 

And at the same time, please marvel with me at the beauty and endurance of this Poetry Friday community. I've been on this ride with you all for nearly twenty years. We post, we read, we share, we comment, we forget who-posted-what-or-when and it's all good because it's all about poetry and friends. The people of Poetry Friday are typing in nearby rooms — clippity, clippity, clippity, clippity — and I love every single one of you. 

A Dangerous Adventure 

by James Tate 

The woman I love is typing in a nearby room.

Clippity clippity clippity clippity, then silence.

She’s thinking, like a jaguar, or a dagger.

Words but more than words. Currents, hairpin

turns. It’s scary but exciting. It’s like dancing

on a precipice or sleeping under a waterfall.

She doesn’t know the way home but she’s running

and leaping over chasms in the earth, and she’s singing too,

in a foreign language she’s never heard spoken.

But the melody is one I’ve known all my life.

....

(Read the rest here, at Jama's blog, and kindly applaud 

her husband Len for his forever-support of a wife 

who types in a nearby room.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted (of course) by Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: A.E. Stallings

This poem struck me because it touches on two things I've thought about high school: 

1. Those days so far removed from the person I am now that they may as well have occurred in the Mesozoic Era. 

2. There are white-hot memories I can call up in a matter of seconds. 

Life, it seems, is a series of eras, periods, and ages that are constantly shifting, rearranging, being integrated, and viewed anew. 

This is such a good poem, and the final line is a killer.  

Written on the eve of my 20th high school reunion, 

which I was not able to attend

by A.E. Stallings 

    For the Briarcliff High School class of 1986


Just what I needed,
Just when the dreams had almost totally receded,

The dreams of roles for which I learned no lines and knew no cues,
Dreams of pop quizzes with no pants on and no shoes,

Just when I understood I was no longer among
Those ephemeral immortals, the gauche and pitiable young,

Suddenly come phone calls, messages sift out of the air
To ask who will be there:

Names I haven't given a thought to in a score
(A score!) of years, and names I used to think about but don't much anymore,

And those I think of all the time and yet
Have lost somehow like keys to doors I've closed, and some I have tried to forget—

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is hosted this week by Buffy Silverman.

Photo courtesy of elizabethaferry at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Get a word in Edgewise with Linda Mitchell

 I didn't get a poetry post done this week, so how about a few words on writing? 

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ― William Wordsworth

“Tears are words that need to be written.” ― Paulo Coelho

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” 

― Toni Morrison

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” 

― Madeleine L'Engle

“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” ― Picasso

“Write what should not be forgotten.” ― Isabel Allende

~~~~~~~~~~

Visit Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise for the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Photo courtesy of Tama66 at Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Dharma" by Billy Collins

 

Photo courtesy of Tati Hilabi, Pixabay. 

Monday morning, while walking and listening to Sad Boy Noah Kahan, I met the handsomest boy, who wasn't sad at all. I asked his person what his name was. Jake! It was Jake. A perfect name for a lumbering, retriever-y, labradorian-kinda guy with a thick, coppery coat and sprays of gray on his aging, distinguished cheeks. Jake and I immediately became best friends. I'd invite Jake over to spend some time together, but I didn't catch his last name, and it would be awkward to invite him and ignore his person (which I would totally do.) 

Who was walking Jake anyway? A man, a woman? A robot? Who knows, who cares? My relationship is solely with Jake, who made me think of "Dharma" by Billy Collins. I think Jake would like this poem, good, handsome, not-sad boy that he is. 

{Postscript: Do I need to get another dog?} 

{{Post-postscript: Maisy would say no, no. Most definitely, decidedly not. Do not mess around with her current lifestyle.}} 

Dharma 

by Billy Collins 

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her dog house

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart

with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance—

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Mona Voelkel. 

Poetry Friday: “Spring is like a perhaps hand” by e.e. cummings

It’s been a busy week and although I did write a handful of new poems (thanks, April Halprin Wayland, for a delightfully productive class on Wednesday!), they aren’t ready to see the light of day. So, instead, I give you … 

… Another spring poem! 

This one is from the incomparably weird and sometimes wonderful e.e. cummings: 

Spring is like a perhaps hand

by e.e. cummings 

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

…. (Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and talented Cathy Stenquist. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: “A Light Exists in Spring” by Emily Dickinson

Nothing new to report here, other than this: I love springtime. 

So, I think, did dear Emily, in her beautiful, melancholy way: 

A Light exists in Spring

by Emily Dickinson

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rose Cappelli is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today. Thank you, Rose! 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “Impressions” — An Ekphrastic

Last month, Tanita Davis shared the latest challenge from the Poetry Pals: 

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing ekphrastic poems, which might pair beautifully with your plans for National Poetry Month (I’m attempting poetry comics). Ekphrasis is a Greek word which means “description,” and you’re invited to choose your own image from anywhere – personal pictures or otherwise. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it April 24th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll play along!

Oooh, I love an ekphrastic. Even so, I put this assignment off until this week because … well, because that’s how I roll. Image choice was WIDE open, so I had trouble narrowing it down. Then yesterday, out of the blue, this one — A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat — came to mind. 

I realized I’ve never thought much about the people depicted in this painting. I’ve assumed they're an ordinary assortment of urbanites enjoying a day by the water. It turns out there's other speculation about them too. I found several commentaries that remarked on this idea: 

There has been scholarly debate as to why Seurat included certain motifs in the painting, possibly alluding to prostitution that took place on the island, where clients would meet. Two notable motifs include the woman to the left with the fishing rod and the woman to the right with the monkey.

The fishing rod could be suggestive of the idea of “fishing” for a possible desirable woman or that the prostitutes fished for prospective clients. The female monkey’s name in French was singesse, which was also a term utilized for prostitutes. The woman on the right could be with a client.

                                                     — from Art in Context

Who knew? 

On the other hand, given that women are routinely misjudged, unfairly labeled, frequently stereotyped, presumed upon, lied about, and otherwise wronged and maligned, the idea/poem/twist that came to me was this:   

Impressions  

(after A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte) 

People always have their opinions. 

Some of you eye us and think,
“Ah, another Sunday in the park 

with George.” 

But also? 

Many look askance. 

They assign a seedy motive

to my sister’s fishing expedition. 

Presume my pet monkey 

means I am a woman 

of questionable character. 

But perhaps I just love animals? 

Why has no one asserted 

or assumed that 

my predominant thoughts are these: 
"This fabric does not breathe. 

I’m ready to go. 

I hate this stupid bustle. 

It's hitting the floor the minute 

my monkey and I get home.” 

    — Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Queen of Ekphrastics — visit her entire “ArtSpeak” series here —

 Irene Latham, has the Poetry Friday round up this week. 

Progressive Poem is here! (Day 22)

"The Land of Poetry" — created by Tabatha Yeatts (place names added by Donna and Heidi)

It's my first year participating in the Progressive Poem, and I'm happy to add Line 22 to this delightful work in progress. 

What's the Progressive Poem? Thanks to Linda Baie at TeacherDance, we have this succinct summary:

It began with Irene Latham, who hosted it from 2012-2019. Those archives of the poem can be found HERE! Margaret Simon took over in 2020, and those archives are HERE!

Here are the rules:

The poem passes from blog to blog.

Each poet/blogger adds a line.

The poem is for children.

Each blogger copies the previous line exactly as written, unless permission from that poet has been given. They then add their own line, offering an introduction if they wish.

So today I’m following Irene’s lead. She said, "It seems time to bring it back around to the speaker of our poem...how is she feeling now, after listening to the birds? What will she DO?” 

Let’s find out! Here's the poem so far, with my line added in bold: 

The Land of Poetry

On my first trip to the Land of Poetry,
I saw anthologies of every color, tall as buildings.
A world of words, wonder on wings, waiting just for me!
Birding for words shimmering, flecked in golden gilding.

Binoculars ready, I toured boulevards and side streets,
exploring vibrant verses, verses so honest and tender.
feathery lyrics, bright flitting avian athletes
soaring ‘cross pages in rhythmic splendor.

In the Land of Poetry, I am the conductor,
seeking oodles of poems that tug at my heart,
a musical medley of sound and structure,
An open mic in Frost Forest! Wonder who’ll take part?

There’s a pause in the program; no one takes the stage
the trees quiver, the audience looks up. Raven lands,
singing Earth’s message of the sage.
“Poetry in motion will be forevermore, from forests to sands.”

“Scatter,” she croaked. “Beyond Wilde Pond, to each and every beach.”
Meek Dove mustered courage and sang, “Instill humanity with compassion and peace.
Let Thackeray’s middle name, from this thicket, hearts reach!”
Her gentle coo-ooo-ooos reverberate, soft as fleece.

Words dart, dimple—Do I dare warble what's in my soul?

I’ve inhaled inspiration…yes, I’ll risk my refrain. 

~~~~~

The fabulous Heidi Mordhorst is up next with Day 23! 

And here’s a full list of this year’s contributors. Tabatha launched us into the Land of Poetry with Line 1, and she’ll bring us full circle on April 28:

April 1 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
April 2 Cathy Stenquist at A Little Bit of This and That
April 3 Patricia Franz at Reverie
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 6 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
April 7 Ruth Hersey at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town
April 8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities 
April 9 Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
April 10 Janet Clare Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
April 11 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry 
April 12 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 13 Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise
April 14 Jone MacCulloch at 
April 15 Joyce Uglow at Storied Ink
April 16 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
April 17 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 18 Michele Kogan at More Art for All
April 19 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 20 Buffy Silverman
April 21 Irene Latham at Live Your Poem
April 22 Karen Edmisten
April 23 Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe 
April 24 Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 25 Tanita Davis at Fiction, instead of Lies
April 26 Sharon Roy at Pedaling Poet
April 27 Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles and Tails
April 28 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference 

Poetry Friday: "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn" by Kim Stafford

We're halfway through National Poetry Month, and all I've managed to do so far is rant about the news. 

I know, I know — I'm allowed, given the state of things, but let's take a break from all that, shall we? 

First of all, be sure to visit the inimitable Jama Rattigan for a comprehensive round-up of the Kidlitosphere's NPM poetry projects. So many luscious plans! Thank you, Jama, for all the work that went into that post! It's brimming with places to go, people to visit, and poems to read. 

Secondly, birds. I wrote about birds last month and this morning, just after a walk during which I heard meadowlarks, killdeer, mourning doves, robins, and red-winged blackbirds, I was telling my sister about how much she'll love the Merlin app. 

Birdsong. Is there anything better? When you hear birds — a symphony of birds — tweeting their joyful, ridiculous, miraculous little heads off, it's as if you're part of something both immense and beyond your grasp, but also innate, somehow within you. 

I love them so much. 

Birds = Hope. 

Therefore, I bring you "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn." Of his poem, Kim Stafford said: 

“Many times in my life I’ve been told by serious people that I must be very naïve to be happy, to have hope, to celebrate this little life I’ve been given when, actually, they say, everything is pretty dire. There’s war, poverty, crushing injustice all over—what right do I have to talk back to all that with flimsy little poems about the good? What can I say? The birds are my teachers, my elders, my guides. Every day before dawn, in silence and darkness, I’m at my desk making poems on the page. And then, before light, I hear the first bird outside begin to sing.”

Oh, little plover, I want to hug you. 

 For the Bird Singing Before Dawn

by Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,

a song—and in a little while, behold:

....

(Read the last two stanzas here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Wishing you morsels — nay, a feast! — of joy as well as the company of birds, who are their own kind of poetry, during this National Poetry Month. 

Heidi Mordhorst has this week's Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Photo of killdeer courtesy of roamingowlsdotcom at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Of History and Hope" by Miller Williams

"How do we fashion the future?" 

Oh, what a week. 

My week has shone with the joy and hope of Easter, but it has also held despair and anger over a madman at the helm of what, at least for now, we still call our country. This poem by Miller Williams seemed fitting today. We hold so much responsibility in our hands. I vented on FB a couple of days ago: 

Nothing says “America in 2026” like calling my reps today, being put on hold, and hearing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blare in my ear while waiting to register my objections to war crimes.  

Call your reps. Even when you want to scream.

It seems useless, futile, maddening. Especially when I later hear my rep double down and defend threats to wipe out an entire civilization. How do you address that? I don't know. I guess we keep turning to both history and hope? 

Of History and Hope
by Miller Williams 

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

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 Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

And be sure to check out the 2026 Progressive Poem. Nine poets have contributed thus far. Margaret Simon has today's line, as well as the rest of the work-in-progess. I'll be contributing a line on April 22, and Margaret has the whole schedule at this link. 

Photo courtesy of Eliens at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Unraveling the Ovillejo

Poetry maven and Writer Extraordinaire Tanita Davis shared the Poetry Peeps’ March challenge here. The mission? Knit together an Ovillejo: 

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing tight little bundles of poetry called Ovillejos! That’s exactly what the word means – a bundle of yarn. This Spanish form bundles together ten lines, made up of 3 rhyming couplets interspersed with three verrrry short lines, and a quatrain. The last line is a “redondilla,” a “little round” that collects all three of the short lines and casts off the poem, as it were. 

I wrote my ovillejo about a concert we — Atticus, me, Ramona, her boyfriend — went to last weekend. My Christmas gift to Atticus was tickets for Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways tour. We'd never seen him live before, but know this: the man is determined not to be photographed or recorded. (A few years ago he blew up at an audience over their phone use and asked if they wanted him to play or to pose. The subject of phones in public spaces is a big one and I have so many thoughts but that’s a post for another time.) Phones were locked up in Yondr pouches as soon as we entered the venue. Low lighting, a permanent perch behind his keyboard, and a hoodie pulled far down over his head (practically over his face) helped Bob keep his distance from us. 

The night before the concert I had the funniest dream: we arrived at the theater and almost no one was there. Bob looked over all the empty seats, sighed, sat down a couple of rows ahead of us, and pouted. I woke up wondering what had prompted that, but maybe it was a premonition? Because, while in real life the theater was full, Bob did seem a tad pouty. Microphone malfunctions didn’t help. Dylan kept picking the mic up and plopping it down in different positions, prompting reverberative booms every time. (Is the mic person still employed? I have my doubts.) Despite Bob’s aloof performance, we had a good time, and I think Ramona and her boyfriend did too. As we talked about him the next day, I said, “Dylan’s such a … character? Distinct ... personality?” and Ramona said, “Weirdo?” He is, indeed, all the things, daughter. 

Yes, it’s all true. I have a love/hate relationship with that weirdo-genius-pouty-bratty-talented-rebellious-creative-Nobel-prize-winner who likes his hoodies more than he likes us. 

But hey, now that I ponder it, I think the best Dylan concert I’ve ever been to was a couple of years ago in our living room. Ramona taught herself three songs (“It Ain’t Me, Babe,” “The Times They Are a-Changing,” and “Don’t Think Twice”) on the guitar she inherited from my father, then she played and sang them for Atticus on his birthday. And she didn’t even wear a hoodie or turn off the lights! What an un-aloof performer! 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, leads us to my Ovillejo, which actually came to me surprisingly quickly. 

Ovillejo for a Temperamental Legend 

Karen Edmisten 

Who is a legend named Dylan?
Bob. Thrillin’!
Who saw him sing on Saturday?
Us. Yay!
He is known for a stunning show?
(Well, um, no.)

He doesn’t like his face to show.
Sloppy hoodie hides his features.
(Fans are such annoying creatures.)
Bob! Thrillin’ us? (Well, um, both “yea" and no.)

Final take: Don’t think twice, Bob, it’s all right (not that you’re worried.) We rolled with what was blowin’ in the wind, and now we can say we’ve seen Dylan. Also, brunch the next day was excellent and I really like Ramona’s boyfriend. All in all, a great weekend and I got a new poem out of it. 

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Marcie Flinchum Atkins, who is celebrating the beauty of twilight and her newest, soon-to-be-released book, When Twilight Comes. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.