Cedars on the Hill

For Sherry’s prompt at Real Toads, the art of Emily Carr, an artist from British Columbia, Canada.  A very interesting artist.

Cedars on the Hill
Cedars are terribly sensitive to change of time and light – sometimes they are bluish cold-green, then they turn yellow warm-green – sometimes their boughs flop heavy and sometimes float, then they are fairy as ferns and then they droop, heavy as heartaches. – Emily Carr

I watch the cedars on the hill across the way
like I watch the changing of the seasons.
the deep blue green,
the paler green,
the red of the dying branches.
I walk among them
and brush my hands against them
taking their scent unto myself.
small creatures live beneath them
and birds build their nests in them.
I love them most when it snows
and creatures hunker for warmth
in them and beneath them.
beneath the heavy sky
they stand in groups
and are their own community.


Cedar – Emily Carr 1942

 

 

 

 

Snowing in my mind

A haibun of 107 words in the manner of Basho for Izy’s pillow fort prompt on Day 11 of NAPOWRIMO

Snowing in my mind
I don’t have a bed or pillow fort. But I do have a set of cool satin sheets I love to roll on after my husband has gone to work. I love the cool feeling against my skin; especially during the hot spring and summer when I get so hot, even in the air conditioning. I lay in the silence of the morning and look at the grey light coming in between the blinds. I pretend it is snowing. I love snow. I love the coolness of the satin sheets.
hot summer mornings –
it is cool in thoughts
of snow rather than sun

 

Haibun: Winter Ocean

For De’s prompt at Quadrille Monday. The prompted word is kiss.  A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words and uses a prompted word.

Haibun: Winter Ocean

Walking along the shore, snow begins. The sky is grey overhead and golden sand becomes white. Broken shells roll in the surf. I hold my face up to the sky to be kissed.
lazy snowflakes kiss
the shore – ocean kisses back –
winter romance blooms

 

 

 

Hectic Snow

For Sunday Muse #38

Hectic Snow
The wrong time –
The wrong tune –
Stars swirl around like hectic snow.
Their songs lure you
And you float up and follow.
The music follows you
Until they freeze and fall
Like hectic snow.

Sunday Muse #38

 

 

More

Waiting for Snow

For Real Toads Weekend Challenge

Waiting for Snow
“There is no Final Resting Place of the Mind.” – Anthony Bourdain

the cold air feels still –
total silence – the air feels hollow –
an empty ring – like the single bonnnngggg
from a distant temple bell –
a sweet smell in the air –
the snow is holding off
waiting for 3:00 p.m.
the timeline announced by the
blatheringyammeringnattering
weather folk for the snow to begin.
The feral cats are hunkered down,
Hidden.
They know. The birds know. The squirrels know.
We humans don’t know shit.
European model. U.S. model.
Snow will begin when snow begins.
The first flake slowly circles downward.
Let the games begin.

Haibun: January

For Kim’s prompt for Haibun Monday. Although she asks for a limit of three tight paragraphs, I have revered to the original form created by Basho – one brief and to the point paragraph along with a seasonal haiku to close instead of the long haibun with much despcription.

January
The Christmas tree is put away for another year. Darkness covers the earth in early afternoon. Cold settles about the house like a snowy shawl. It seems dull without the lit Christmas tree. We sip slow simmered bean soup for dinner.
feral cats gather –
they mass together for warmth –
feeding them is joy

snowy yard

The Atlantic in January

For Sanaa’s prompt on Real Toads – Get listed.  I have chosen these words for my poem: January. snow, wind, clouds, poems.  the optional words of my choice are mysterious, Atlantic, and lover.

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The Atlantic in January
“There’s something wonderful about drinking in the afternoon. A not-too-cold pint, absolutely alone at the bar — even in this fake-ass Irish pub.” Anthony Bourdain

The winds blew the clouds about in the
January sky – like poems written on tissue paper.
Bits of sea foam snagged on the sand
and then were swept back into the ocean.
Snow fell slow and steady.
The grey Atlantic heaved to the shore and back again –
breathing like a sleeping lover –
chest up and chest down,
chest up and chest down.
The Atlantic in January is a mysterious thing.
Fifty shades of grey –
In the sky,
The sand,
The water,
The partial whelk shell holding firm in the sand
as the water washed over it.
The Atlantic in January is a mysterious thing.
It is the kiss of lovers,
The words written by a poet in her mind,
A glass of beer drunk in an empty bar
on a Tuesday afternoon.
I walk along its edge and wonder
at its quiet beauty –
the things hidden in its depths.
The Atlantic in January is a mysterious thing.

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