Week of 3.28.17 Ekphratic poem

Around the Round Table ***
From Hannah Banks: "For the Beauty of the Earth" pottery

A feast of broiled chicken
legs with parmesan and deviled
eggs. I'd pocketed some parsley
for the buttery asparagus.

And twisted the table with fondue.
Chocolate strawberries, delicacies.
Hot cider steeped and cranberry
juice -But-each mug oneself brings.

Poppyseed dressing perfectly poured.
Carmel scones and lime pudding,
melons, mangoes, mouthwatering.
Finally, the doorbell rings.

The bronze, embedded mug of fall
October's ease of embrace
and a whiff of that earthy parlor
his fiery eyes delighted at the sight.

My darling April knocks it next
The luscious green of her mug
is filled with May's new daffodils.
A pearly, tender hearted soul.

The blue beauty July, my sister month
Then September with her
glowing auburn hair
August slightly cranky, March a tad late.

And November sweeps in at last
Twirling her smoothed and golden mug
February, January and December never show
We blame it on their ever frightful snow

And down we sit to eat
The year of tabled treats
Chipped, smoothed, dripping and colored
Are the mugs around our seasoned table

Week of 3.21.17 Villanelle

From John at Gethsemane***

When weeping willows have just come in bloom
In heavy heart, the low garden agrees
My maker rests before this broken doom

He says we are the bride and he the groom
An odd way to portray him on his knees
When weeping willows have just come in bloom

Hush'd words of solace will turn glee to gloom
Before a dank and dreary, poignant seize
My maker rests before this broken doom

The others do not know this fate that looms
The only hint- a tear caught in the breeze
When weeping willows have just come in bloom

These eyes have slipped, that I did not presume
Sleeping souls under languid hanging trees
My maker rests before this broken doom

I know he is preparing for the tomb
Yet careless guards have taken him at ease
Weeping willows have just come in bloom
To watch my maker take this broken doom

Week of 3.14.17 American Sonnet

Weather of a Wind Storm***

A lovely mess this raises in the heart.

My splintered trees among roads soon depart.

In orange helmets and valiant suits of gray,

are men that mend heaven’s cool disarray.

Storm travelers watch in wonder at this start

All other bodies play the worried part

They’re bumbling in anguish of the day

Our pansies nearly stripped and washed away

But large lights that flickered and broke apart

Cause wayward people to be rather smart

And countless busy-bodies to me say

“How’d you survive the weather yesterday?”

To which I grin and gratefully reply

“I sat outside and watched the lovely sky.”

Week of 2.23.17 Assignment B

Rice Pudding***

I see that hot sun shining through them pearly clouds.

Squintin to the acres I see the dark men comin in.

Their boots breathin heavy, like that heavy fog from the near mornin’.

The warm wind stingin’ my workin hands, but not as bad as they.

And the cry of the billy goat preachin from the top of hills.

Let me take a look at em’ before I gotta kill’un.

Real close, I see the hair all curl and bleet is goin’.

My little goat as whole as a fresh pitchah of lemonade.

They think him sweet and tangy, served for dinnuh.

Since I was a lil’ un’ the goat’s been good to me.

Singin me songs of whole rice pudding on a half eatin’ day.

Oh his days are numbered this I know.

And so does he, so does he.

Swingin down near my ankles are those tears I cry.

Price paid for makin these words

Known to one kind.

Now chillun’ crying, innocents dyin.

Can we take it slow?

Can we     take   it   slow?

And eat rice pudding till the days come cold.

Rice Pudding (Narrow and long) ***
I see that hot sun.
Squintin, I see the dark men
comin in.

Their boots breathin heavy
The warm wind
stingin my workin hands.

But not as bad as they
The cry of the billy goat
on the top of them hills

singin me songs
Of whole rice pudding
on a half-eaten day.

Oh I knows his days
are numbered.
And so does he.

Can we take it slow?
Can we    take   it    slow?
And eat rice pudding till the days come cold.



Rice Pudding (without intro and ending)
I see the dark men
comin in.

The cry of the billy goat.
Callin out bleets

On them warm windy
hilltops.

It's stingin my working hands
but not as bad as they.

Comin to eat rice pudding
till the days come cold.

Narrative 

     “Dailiah, come an’ roast this pig!” scowled my mistress from the house. ‘Oh Lord, them poor animals are goin to the grave,’ I thought as I rolled up my burlap sleeves. But we all gotta eat. Miss Nancy thought we needed to eat in the next half an hour or else her household would go to Hades. She tapped her clean feet, standing at the door with her long fingers on her hips. Those frilly curls danglin beside that pretty green brooch was swayin in this wild wind. 

      The ocean was bringin in the high tides about now, which hovered over our rice fields. The smell met my nose ‘fore the sound of the squished mud did. Swamp. That putrid grassy mush, mixed with the blood of mosquitahs. A smell that penetrates yo’ thoughts before you eyes even see it. The dry whip whistlin along with that bitter salty wind. Not bustin anyone’s back today, but a threat that it coulda have been. 

     Miss Nancy cringed at it too. I saw her, and she thought hard. And spoke to me again, sayin, “I don’t want the pig anymore, I want that goat instead. Yes, that’ll make a fine supper.” My baby goat! “Oh no, Mz. Nancy, you don’t want that goat, he’s got a bad bleet, and he’s a gettin old, not fresh meat no more,” I said tryin to stop her. “Uh, uh,” she said shakin her head. “I want him, even better, he’s not good for anything else.” Now movin’ down the steps she set off to stand in the little bit of sunshine left, right next to the barn. 

    “But Mz. Nancy…” I pleaded. “You questioning my orders? You are to listen to what I say!" she yelled. She grabbed a lil’ whip from the side and started to me. I turned, ready for my back to be stingin. It would match my hands done from the wind. But she sliced it across my ankles. Still bringin tears to my sorry eyes. “Now you go get that goat,” she mustered, droppin the whip and movin back to the house.