Poem: Snow Day

My current home lies where the robins migrate for winter, so we don’t get a lot of snow. For a while, I was afraid that I wouldn’t get to see any in person before the season ended.

Then it came.

Of course, I was delighted, and enjoyed several walks throughout the day between reading and feeding my new bearded dragon, Xephyr “Peaches.” He can’t replace Thorin, but Xeph is adorable in his own way. He’s a little acrobat who wants to climb up everything.

I also got a chance to reflect in solitude on my first walk. Which was quite the contrast from my time living in England, when my family was a channel and half a continent away. During my one snow day in Nottingham, I went outside and watched with longing as families walked together. Now, five years later, with family closer by not always present, I don’t mind walking by myself. In fact, I quite enjoy it.

 

Snow Day

hollow
the way sound reverberates
in canyon

falling
between patches
of blue and gray

glass
covering a thousand
stretching branches

drifting
crystals beneath
a dozen robins

crunch
past the deer prints
on the road

biting
wind until I pull
my scarf back up

slip
back into the
numbing warmth inside

aching
back from hunching
over a book

drip
icicles hang
and shatter on the ground

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? Did you get snow this winter? Do you prefer walking with people or by yourself?

 

Similar poems: Ode to Winter, The First Snow, and Weird Winter Weather

Poem: Open Water

Last year, my dad gave me the Christmas gift of a SCUBA certification. That’s right! I am officially Open Water certified, meaning I can go diving down to 60 feet deep and am familiar with many of the different ways the water and diving can kill you. Honestly, though, it’s about as dangerous as driving a car (not real statistics) but with fewer people, beautiful and strange fish, and stunning seascapes.

Yes, I’m a little disappointed that I don’t live in Hawai’i anymore, but now, if I ever find myself in the vicinity of Australia, I am qualified to dive the Great Barrier Reef. That and diving is the closest humans can get to experience weightlessness on planet Earth.

My next goal is to get my Advanced Open Water certificate. I’d also love to get involved with Project AWARE, a nonprofit organization that helps remove debris from the ocean.

The following poem is based on my last check out dive for my certification.

 

Open Water

I’m descending toward the sandy floor
like a leaf gradually twirling without wind
or a dust particle drifting past my window,
and I ask myself why I didn’t do this before.

When I first plunged my face beneath the surface in the pool,
I felt my breath catch—
people aren’t meant to breathe underwater.
But still, I remind myself to take a deep breath—
in and out—
like the way I prevent a panic attack.
All I have to do now is breathe, always breathe.

Now I reach the end of the line,
the minute anchor bobbing up and down with the waves—
I’m not even holding on, not this time,
which is good because I already have a rash
from where I tried to steady myself with my legs.

Another pound of pressure reminds me to exhale
through my nose,¹ and a plethora of bubbles roars in my ears,
I’d almost forgotten what they sounded like—
if I stay here long enough, I’ve already begun to tune them out.

Before I quite reach the sand, I add air to my BCD²
and hang
                        suspended
like a satellite that doesn’t quite belong.
Yet I am here for a time, as an observer
to swim like the barracuda, glide like the ray,
relax like the puffer fish, and when I’m done,
I’ll hide between the pages of my book,
like the octopus and their shell-shaped door.³

 

***

 

¹ Equalization. Removing air pressure on one’s ears to prevent their eardrums from bursting. Fun fact: it’s easier for women to equalize than it is for men.

² BCD: Buoyancy Compensator Device. Basically, a really fancy name for an inflatable vest that divers strap their air cylinder to. When fully inflated, it also helps you float on the surface and can be partially inflated underwater to achieve a sense of weightlessness (neutral buoyancy).

³ I almost didn’t see the octopus until my dive instructor pointed it out because it was hiding in a cave-like structure and using a large shell as a sort of door. My theory is that the octopus was using it as a form of protection. See the Netflix documentary: My Teacher the Octopus.

 

Let’s chat! What is one of the most amazing things you’ve done? Do you prefer freshwater or saltwater? Any other SCUBA divers?

 

Similar poems: Sandcastles, Waking Up, and Riptide

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: Fog

We’ve had some particularly sunny days lately. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of rain—a thunderstorm even hit. We got tornado warnings, and the river flooded. But overall, the weather has been nice. Still, I was inspired to write this poem by two things: one foggy afternoon where I found myself transplanting my pansies as soon as I could and all the craziness in the world right now.

I don’t think I mentioned it here, but the COVID-19 has shut down my workplace for at least a month. I’m fortunate enough to be financially stable and have family at home, but I have plenty of friends who are struggling financially or socially. I think we’re all struggling mentally. I’m going stir crazy. I read. I write. I try to get out of the house and work in the garden, but some days, it just isn’t enough.

The world is an uncertain place these days, even more so than usual. So, as writers do, I wrote about it.

Fog

It’s hard to think

that yesterday

I stepped out in a world

bathed in sunshine

and today

the white expanse

bares all my work

like words sketched

in a thought bubble.

remember how I

uncovered the dead wood

and exposed the black salamander,

how the rain washed

away the topsoil

I carefully laid

to prevent floods

that came anyway.

I hang the ferns

and walk from the porch

to the mailbox,

unable to see one

from the other,

my hand near translucent

in front of my face,

yet I take another step

and wonder

what I’ll find

around the hundred trees.

I stare into the white abyss

and listen

for the birdsong

but none comes.

maybe tomorrow—

but not today.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are some activities you do to cope with being cooped up at home?

Similar poems: Waking Up, Lost as a Leaf, and Silent Words

Poem: Seeking the Song of Time

I don’t talk about them enough, but I really enjoy writing prompts!

These past couple of months, I have been learning how to make new friends. And it’s coming along quite nicely I should say, a lot faster than it has in previous years, which is a good change. One friend in particular has expressed her desire to write children’s stories and poems, so we’ve been meeting up lately and writing.

A couple weeks ago, we did a prompt where we each chose a picture for each other and had to write a poem based on that picture. Now I haven’t necessarily posted the exact same photo on here because of copyright laws, but I found a close approximation.

Also, I know I said I was taking a step back from blogging to focus on my novel. While I have made a lot of progress—I’m almost done with my rough draft!—I also started a new project to sidetrack me. I know, I know. But it’s exciting! I’m thinking of self-publishing a poetry collection, and I need your feedback. I already have many of the poems selected, including a few I haven’t shared yet, but I’d like to hear your thoughts. When you finish reading the following poem, if you would take three minutes to answer my survey, I would be very appreciative!

Seeking the Song of Time

Close your eyes and listen

to the constant drip

                        drip

                        drip

of the forest pewter

melting on the bows.

Stand still—

            and discern

the whispered hush

of the metallic

stream cutting through

the moss.

—until you hear it

            —can you hear it?—

hiding beneath

            the scent of pine

and the cool

dust of liquid moonlight.

listen

            slow your breath

                        don’t run,

take a step

            atop the moss

            that sighs a squish

beneath your feet

listen

            —it’s louder now—

 the triumphant,

            melodious call.

open your eyes and

see

            the mist swirl

the iron-steady trunks

like pillars in a hall

as the call rings

            unseen

like a bell tower in this natural noon—

cue       –          kcoo

            cue      –          kcoo

                        cue      –          ckoo

***

Let’s chat! Did you enjoy the poem? How often do you use writing prompts as inspiration? When’s the last time you had a writing sprint with a writing buddy?

Similar poems: Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; At My Own Pace; and Ode to Winter

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Poem: Copper Coated Autumn Leaves

As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve recently moved into our new house. Recent as in November, but that’s still pretty close to now. Before all the leaves blew off the trees and buried our yard, I sat down before work one day, contemplating my surroundings, and came up with another poem.

Copper Coated Autumn Leaves

The deer come around here,

up where the trees shed

their copper coated autumn leaves

waiting for the oxidation of spring.

Here on the mountainside,

I can hear the wind whisper

to me

while the sirens below

struggle to break

the silence.

Listen.

Can you hear it?

The twit of the red-breasted

Eastern Bluebird as it perches on a post

—the maw of the doe as it calls to the herd

—the tock-tocking of the chipmunk

that I once mistook for a dripping gutter

—the indecipherable hum of the stars.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What’s your favorite element about where you live?

Similar poems: At Night, Autumn, and Lost as a Leaf

Haiku Collection: Down South (Audio)

I’m not used to living in a place where it’s still 95 degrees Fahrenheit in October. I’m ready for fall weather, especially the crisp sweater-worthy mornings. Though at the same time, I’m still hoping it doesn’t come just yet because I’m still living out of my suitcase. All I have are the same seven summer shirts I’ve been wearing since June. (Somebody save me.)

Some days, I still enjoy living in the American South. Other days I hate it. I enjoy my jobs, which is a wonderful change, but the bug population here is nuts. That and the buildings here are hideous, and recycling is basically nonexistent.

Moving back to the States after living in Europe for the past four years has been an adjustment for sure. As my mom put it, my family may be American by birth, but we’re European at heart. It may take some time to settle in. But I’m not quite there. Not yet.

Incandescent

the way the light shines

on the water at sunrise

birds herald the day

Stick Bug

she dance, the way she

steps—back—forward—back with those

green legs she sways, here

Wasp Nest

don’t. move. when she lands

on your collar, take her out

of doors, say goodbye

Culture Shock

hits me like a wave—

would that only the salt is

making me cough hard

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poems? What’s one unique trait you like about where you live?

Similar poems: Fireflies; Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; and Haiku Collection: Sibling Trio

Poem: Origins (Audio)

I’ve been having a hard time writing poetry lately, but I’ve managed to dig up one I wrote in England that fits my experiences lately. New places. New people. New questions. As I’m making the transition from a military community back to civilian culture, it can be hard to find people who understand what it means to move all the time.

At least I am finally out of a tiny hotel room and into a rental cabin while my family is house hunting. With a little bit of breathing room, I’m back to making audio poems! Let me know if you’d like audio for the previous two poems as well.

Origins

Is there anything particularly Canadian about a goose

who lives in Maine or the Carolinas, Mexico or England?

Honk a little, girls. Don’t be afraid to let them

hear your voice or see your black-striped faces.

You’re only as brave as your feathers.

Canadian Goose, Canada Goose, where are you from?

Not this dumb question again.

Currently: Mexico.

***

Let’s chat! How long have you lived where you’re currently living? What’s the farthest you’ve ever traveled?

Interested in an audio version of Fireflies and Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows? Let me know!

Similar poems: Fireflies, Magpie, and The Crow and the Heron

Poem: Fireflies

I find aspects I enjoy in every place I live. In England, I enjoyed biking along the canals and the river. From my last house, I enjoyed hiking up to nearby German castles, and in Spain, I liked listening to the always-distant mockingbirds. 

In the American Midwest, I have enjoyed re-discovering fireflies. As a kid, I used to catch them while visiting my grandparents’ house and when we lived in Kansas. While people here may just consider them another bug, I see them as a novelty, a beauty, a passing moment that I wish I could hold on to, but may one day have to let go. 

Fireflies 

Sometimes I wish I could disappear— 

one moment bright and glowing, 

like a buoy bobbing in the night, 

then—

                    vanished. 

I still exist

                    in the dark 

but here, I don’t have to shine 

—just be. 

*** 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are some aspects you enjoy about where you live? 

Similar poems: Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; Lost as a Leaf; and Starlight

Poem: Ode to Winter (Video)

I know winter is technically over, but I’m not much of one for following “rules” such as “you must write about a season only when you’re in it.” (Is that technically a rule? *shrugs*) Have you gone outside on spring-like days in the middle of January and gotten sunburned? Or heard about the way it snowed on Easter?

Besides, last month, I went on a trip and took a brief blogging break. This month, I thought I’d tell you about it! My siblings and I went to the Ice Hotel in Jukkasjärvi, Sweden. There, we got to see the Northern Lights;* we got to go dog sledding and reindeer driving; and we got to groom, tack, and ride Icelandic horses!

The trip had been a dream of mine for well over a year, and now I can cross the Northern Lights off my bucket list. Next on the (ant)arctic subsection of my list: see the Southern Lights and wild penguins!

*Not featured, sorry! I managed one semi-decent photo that won’t be making National Geographic anytime soon.

Ode to Winter

How my fingers froze when we first shook hands,

a gasp escaped my lips from frigid air

as I left the plane, finding foreign lands.

We hurt each other in attempts to embrace—

I scarred your skin once fair, leaving indents—

how my lips froze when I kissed your pale face.

Forty-eight paws across the river’s spans,

and frost formed on my own fur, my own face

‘till I left the sled, escaping foreign hands.

Twenty hooves bore us after dark, this start,

over hills and under skeleton boughs

how my body froze when I touched your heart.

A green ribbon sliced through the Milky Way,

joining stars and folding up horizons.

How my fingers froze when we last shook hands

as I boarded the plane, leaving known lands.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of my latest travel poem? Want to see more like it in the future? What’s on your bucket list?

Similar poems: The First Snow, Snowfell, and Weird Winter Weather

Poem: Biking to Work

I didn’t used to like biking. Before I found a decent bicycle that fit me right. Before I had to rely on biking as my only means of transportation. Before I became accustomed to the sheen of sweat that coated my arms afterwards.

Now, I don’t mind it so much. I enjoy it actually. Back when I was living in England, I had to bike everywhere. It was either that or walk (sloooooooow) or take the bus (muggy and wasting money better spent on books). Now, I don’t need to bike. Even though I’m still living in Europe, I have my international license and can drive wherever I want.

But I still like to bike. I used to bike to the library once a week because it was less stressful than driving. Recently, I started a new job that requires me to leave the house, and I still like to bike there. Sure, there are hills. But it’s mostly downhill on the way home. Sure, I’ll take the car on days when it’s 94 degrees Fahrenheit. I don’t want to pass out. But I enjoy the feel of biking overall.

Biking to Work

on a week that’s not “official”

            is what I do regularly,

even if it’s not typical.

            I like the feel of wind-blown hair,

the smell of wooded, damp bike paths,

            the flutter of a butterfly,

the blue-tinged wings of a dragon,

            the way my heart pounds as I race

down the hillside or climb another.

           

“Don’t you want to take the car?” —or—

“I admire your tenacity.”—

these words I hear as I snatch up

my helmet, secure my sunglasses.

Why would I want to take the car?—

gas emitter, rusted machine,

air-conditioned environment

where I have to remember not

to lose my calm, to breath normal,

not to talk to other drivers

who cannot hear me anyway.

Why would I want to feel the stress?—

                        peak

and ebb

like sea waves, ruled by mistress moon—

stop and go and stop—STOP.

Why not weave along the bike path

            with the occasional walker?

Why not wait at a crosswalk,

            heart beating away today’s stress?

Maybe for an audio book,

I might drive.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? How do you get to work, or do you work from home? Do you enjoy riding a bike?

Similar poems: Still Life in Spring, Ether, and The Crow and the Heron

Poem: The To-Be-Read List

Reading and gardening are two of my favorite things. I like the way that books make me feel emotions, but I also enjoy the texture of dirt beneath my bare hands, the smell of recently watered tomato plants, the feel of the noonday sun on my face.

But I don’t get to garden very often because my family moves so much. It’s hard to plant something knowing you’re going to be leaving in a couple months, and the next tenants might just kill it. Or maybe I lived in an apartment, and I was limited to house plants. Either way, I try to make the most of my garden while I have it. I enjoy quiet afternoons where I can sit on the porch and just read a good book surrounded by my potted plants.

Should it be any surprise that when I wrote a poem about reading, plants sprung up in between the lines? Probably not.

The To-Be-Read List

Picking up my next book

is more random than I would

have planned.

Flowers bloom in their own time—

daffodils at the start of spring,

tulips near the middle,

and chrysanthemums signal the end

of the final growing season.

Yet the leaves of a book

spring up

of their own accord—

a snow-filled novel pops up in spring,

collections of summer poems warm me in winter,

and autumn stories mimic the trees outside.

When I plan to read a novel—

hooked by the blurb

or drawn by the cover—

I can never tell if or when it will happen

upon me

whether in the library or at the bookstore or online.

Maybe I cannot find it.

Maybe I cannot stop finding it,

and I forget I wanted it at all.

But when they come,

the flighting books—the annuals—

are here,

then gone.

And the perennials last like dandelions—

no matter how many times

somebody tries to dig them up,

they always come back.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? Is your To-Be-Read List random or planned? What is something you might compare your reading habit to?

Similar poems: Silent Words, Dandelion Seeds, and Pile of Words