So it is an educating process on the cycles of nature and the facts of each animal or cycle you are exploring. I found the whole process very meaningful - and restful and exciting at the same time. If that makes sense. I think I will take it up again. Here is the webpage of a naturalist and poet who lives in N Minnesota who gave me the idea. He was always a part time poet, had a stroke and came out of it with a strong desire to just be a poet. He wanted to spend the rest of his life observing more, being outside more and writing more.
http://www.morning-earth.org/Teacher.html
A poem I wrote in spring after sitting on a creek bank. The distractors were: joggers behind me, planes overhead and faint car noises. The gift was just noticing how everything moved dependent on the wind and current but the ducks. It was amazing to watch so many things moving dependent on the same force, every grass, every leaf - a huge white almost too much making you blink- rain of white stuff from the trees. And then the wind stops, and the white stuff is already showing how the current races as it goes away. and the light sparkles on every little ripple, again dependent on the current, making only one side of each ripple sparkle.
At the creek
seeds in boats.
they race away
2 ducks bunched close,
make gleaming wake.
the only things
moving upstream.
they race away
2 ducks bunched close,
make gleaming wake.
the only things
moving upstream.
May poem
After the rain came
Today the rain dropped
drop by drop,
made a dot, on every bit of windshield it hit
until when the rain had stopped
every big or long dot was surrounded by a whirl of smalls
the whole patterned like a leopard's hide,
as inside the car I hid,
waiting to wake my flopped
daughter sprawled
inside her carseat but dangling from every edge,
eyes and face so sweet, all strings slack
and low murmuring pieces of her life
jerking her hands, fluttering her eyes
as the rain sat there, surprised
by wind, into being placed like the marks on a leopard's hide.
I thought of snails, cabbages, pine cones
and all things that curl
inside the world's ear
another whorl,
Today the rain dropped
drop by drop,
made a dot, on every bit of windshield it hit
until when the rain had stopped
every big or long dot was surrounded by a whirl of smalls
the whole patterned like a leopard's hide,
as inside the car I hid,
waiting to wake my flopped
daughter sprawled
inside her carseat but dangling from every edge,
eyes and face so sweet, all strings slack
and low murmuring pieces of her life
jerking her hands, fluttering her eyes
as the rain sat there, surprised
by wind, into being placed like the marks on a leopard's hide.
I thought of snails, cabbages, pine cones
and all things that curl
inside the world's ear
another whorl,
and wondered if rain always looked that way,
and wanted to drive 7 miles again and stop
with the same rain storm pelting down as
10 minutes ago, and peer.
and wanted to drive 7 miles again and stop
with the same rain storm pelting down as
10 minutes ago, and peer.
April Poem
the calm trees at Powderhorn park
I sit at the bottom of a small hill.
trees frame the top
a few more grow on the slope
trees frame the top
a few more grow on the slope
and go down the hill to the bowl
of grass where I sit.
There is a clear space between the trees.
a crow flies low between them
changing something that was there:
the calm feeling of living
in the space between them.
spring time
the trees
keep time in their leaves.
last week they looked like flowers.
the spring creek racing under our feet
we stand on the bridge.
time in our pocket.
my child tests her balance
looking drunk
on the little hill
up and down
never cut hair
touches her chin.
in the space between them.
My favorite... written way in early spring, April . kind of the pre-spring season to spring. Everything poised to grow.
spring time
the trees
keep time in their leaves.
last week they looked like flowers.
the spring creek racing under our feet
we stand on the bridge.
time in our pocket.
my child tests her balance
looking drunk
on the little hill
up and down
never cut hair
touches her chin.
Spring is a good time to write poems. one more old one ! (flowering plum trees and crab apple trees on minnehaha parkway).
trees
the trees are gently burning,
the fire is bloom.
pink, white, and rosy red.
calling me, again and again towards them.
the fire is bloom.
pink, white, and rosy red.
calling me, again and again towards them.
