Poem: The Smell of Earth

When you think of the word “Earth,” what do you think of? If you’re a sci-fi fan or into astronomy like me, you might think of the planet, with its big blue oceans and smattering of continents buried under white clouds. Or if you’re into gardening, you might think of the green plants that go into the brown soil—or sometimes reddish-brown depending on where you live.

For this poem, I decided to flip my own expectations, and focus on a color I don’t necessarily associate with Earth—the color white. That’s the fun thing about poetry, I suppose, turning expectations on their heads.

 

The Smell of Earth

white, the way the worm 

writhes beneath my fingertips 

submersing young roots

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? Any fellow gardeners out there? What’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of the Earth?

Similar poems: Cathedral Caverns, Copper Coated Autumn Leaves, and Down South 

Poem: At my own Pace (Video)

Hey, guys!

I’m back from my hiatus! More specifically, I’m back from a thirteen-day pilgrimage across Spain, seventeen days if you count all the traveling it took to get to and from our starting and finishing points. My mom, dad, and walked el Camino de Santiago, aka the Way of Saint James.

Everybody has their reasons for walking the Camino. I’ll delve more into the trip itself in a later post. For now, I’ll just say that for me, it was a spiritual and philosophical journey. After reading The Philosophy of Walking last year, I was curious. I’ve always enjoyed nature and hiking, and I’d been camping before, but I’d never gone on a trip longer than a week let alone a pilgrimage.

So I went.

Here’s a brief poem that had been forming in my head throughout the trip.

At My Own Pace

What does it mean to walk at my own pace?

To set one foot in front of the other

rather than slowing down—joining a race?

To find my own heartbeat not my brother.

The woods spread out a canopy of leaves

while sweat adorns my face at my bidding.

Set me loose in some field swarming with bees

as the click of my staff saves me from skidding.

Another pilgrim says, “Buen Camino”

as they pass. I’ll see you in an hour

when you—or I—stop for a coffee break

or maybe some fresh zumo de naranja.

Walking westward, I set a new horizon

with each day. Yesterday I climbed the mountain.

Today I descend, and tomorrow will find me

passing windmills again.

I can breathe freely in the crisp, sunrise air

my nose catching the scents of spruce and

cow manure, gravel and eucalyptus

like the first time.

I stretch my legs when we stop,

doing lunges when we start.

I don’t want it to end—but I do.

Here is what it means to walk at my own pace,

to carry my own pack—

to finally feel

Free

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are your thoughts on walking? Have you ever been on a long hike or pilgrimage before?

Similar poems: Ode to Winter (Video), Thoughts of Place (Audio), and Bury Me

Poem: Rocking Chair (Audio)

It’s always an experiment—sharing form poetry via Blogger. I sure hope this one turns out. I realize it may be different for each device, so I apologize in advance if the form doesn’t make any sense. For clarity’s sake, the first stanza is supposed to resemble a rocking chair, the second an hourglass, and the third a scattered mess.

This particular piece is inspired off a piece of furniture from my living room. Doesn’t sound very inspiring? Maybe not. But take into consideration the things in your life that hold meaning and that bring up old memories.

The other night, I was sitting in our antique rocking chair by the fireplace, listening to the popping of sap bubbles and feeling warm for a few moments in this dreadful winter. I just so happened to be reading another book (surprise, surprise), and when I got up, the rocking chair groaned, as it always does whichever way it moves. It irritates my sister to all degrees when we’re reading the Bible aloud, and I so much as lean forward or, I don’t know, rock. Heaven forbid I should rock in a rocking chair. How dare I!

That being said, this poor piece of furniture has seen a lot. It’s been with my family from Washington State to Germany to Hawaii to Kansas and more. It’s felt packing tape on the wood where it shouldn’t have been, and it’s been recovered and cleaned at least once.

To you, it may be just a chair. But to me, it’s a piece that’s shared my memories.

Rocking Chair

In memoriam of the siblings I never knew

She   creaks

like   an

old woman,

pressure

shifting on

her antique bones

as she stoops forward

                        sits back

and rises on her legs,

joints      popping.

Would that I may be so loved

        should age settle in

           like a silk layer

                of dust,

           like the sand

  sinking in an hourglass.

She first changed her dress

when I was but a child, still

playing hide and seek behind her bosom—

later my mother lost

            my sibling—

                        who

            would she or he

have been?

Now I sit and turn the pages

o’er and o’er while the fireplace

                        sweeps up

the forgotten summer days.