I guess we call it “Fall” because leaves trickle down, And I suppose that makes a lot of sense. But, somehow, I think “Autumn” has a better sound — More positive — when lovely things commence.
For me, it is the crowning season of the year, And supersedes even winter holidays. I get a happy feeling as it’s drawing near, And yearn for it to make a longer stay.
The brilliant golds and reds and oranges bursting free Against a sky pellucid, yet true blue. Carpets made of crunchy leaves beneath the trees: A happy crunch — but extra work it’s true.
Bonfires’ unique scents that drifts along the air; Families roasting hot dogs, smashing smores; Digging out the sweatshirts we can’t wait to wear; Shopping at the farmer’s market stores.
Squash, tomatoes, apples, pumpkins, corn on cob, Chrysanthemums so big they seem unreal. The work of harvest overtakes all other jobs, And nature’s blessing our good effort seals.
I just can’t get enough of that crisp Autumn air, Or the quiet that seems to rest on everything. Even Autumn rains fall with quiet care, And something in my heart can’t help but sing.
If I could have my way, Autumn would rule the year. I’d keep one month for Winter’s cleansing touch. I’d give one month to Spring and Summer with good cheer. But all the rest to the Autumn I love so much!
I share more personal stories about drinking coffee, from half a cup, thick with milk and sugar, allowed in childhood, to large cups, hot and black, once old enough to make my own choices. This episode includes the story of my father’s tornado experience and his insistence on building a storm cellar as a result. And, naturally, after a night in a storm cellar, nothing but coffee can get things back to normal. I round out the episode with one of my coffee poems.
April is National Poetry Writing Month, and although several years I’ve celebrated it by trying to write a poem every day — and almost succeeding some of those years — I knew I couldn’t work at that pace this time around. In fact, I accidentally let April slip in without one rhyme. But today I decided I need to at least make the effort to contribute to the world’s collection of poetry by writing a few new poems during April. So I’m making a start right now.
WHERE IS SPRING?
Spring is trying hard to get a start this year. March did come in with lion winds on cue. But other elements just cannot get in gear, The weather’s gray and cold, and that won’t do.
Daffodils did bloom and lift their yellow heads, Only to be beaten down by storms and rain. They lay forlorn and helpless, flat upon their beds, And now its wet and gray and cold again.
I just don’t know what’s happened to our happy spring. When scents of flowers and grasses fill the air. When golden sun and bluest skies cause birds to sing. And folks can catch ‘spring fever’ everywhere.
Maybe it will change and warm up in no time. I surely hope that’s true, ’cause here’s the thing: To end this poem I need to have a word that rhymes, And I can’t think of anything but Spring!
I am subscribed to “Keep It Alive,” and Sadje (the owner of that channel) keeps us abreast of a number of writing challenges. I don’t always have time to take part in them, but I manage to do so once in a while. This week, she shared a challenge from “Selma,” who told us how she was prompted to take the last line from the poem of a friend and begin a new poem of her own with that line. She then challenged us to do the same. I have done something similar in the past for another poetry challenge, but it has been many years, so I thought it would be fun.
Selma’s last line was “In perfect accord.” So I set out to write a poem beginning with that line. I did not intend for my last line to repeat the first, but it just worked out that way so perfectly that I couldn’t help myself.
Anyway, I hope you will all hop over to visit Sadjeand Selmaboth and maybe write your own poem beginning with the last line of mine — or theirs.
Here’s my poem:
I REST WITH GOD
In perfect accord with God, I rest; Forgiven for sin and healed and blessed. I have no need to struggle or strain, Or fight for what I want to gain. He meets my needs on every hand, And, washed clean by His blood, I stand Acquitted, accepted, anointed, adored; I rest with Him, in perfect accord.
Beautiful flowers are food for my soul: Bright colors, soft petals, verdant leaves. When I feel fragmented, they help make me whole And saturate me with their peace.
For flowers have a nature of positive vibes, In the sunshine, the wind, or the rain. Even when storms thrash them from side to side, They lift up their heads once again.
When I’m in a funk about life overall, I stop and I contemplate blooms. For I know my soul needs to answer their call To let beauty dissolve away gloom.
WAIT A MINUTE. Roses come in scores of colors. And violets are … well … violet — not blue. In fact, both flowers come in a variety of colors. So what’s my point?
I’m not really complaining about the color of any one flower. I just got to thinking about that particularly well-known bit of verse, and about how we as poets really do feel we have our own kind of literary license. What is it about poets that makes them think they can write just anything they want to write as long as it rhymes and keeps the meter smooth and uninterrupted? Well, I’ll tell you what it is about us:
We love words — the sounds of words — the rhythm of words — the music of words. And we love playing around with lots of different numbers of syllables. We love to hear consonants repeated, vowels repeated, digraphs repeated. And if we need to turn a sentence around backwards to get the right rhythm — or leave out a couple letters replaced by an apostrophe — or go beyond the norm with hyperbole — well, it’s all part of what we see as our job —— and to be honest —— it’s part of the FUN of writing poetry.
True poets follow rules of meter and rhyme and correct use of figurative language. But we also follow rules of emotion, yearning, and imagination. So, yes, we do believe that it’s okay if we altar reality a bit here and there or say things backwards. If it helps make the poem touch a heart, grab the imagination, take the reader to another realm, or tickle his funny-bone, we figure we’ve done our job well.
And, personally, I think that’s why a poem can speak to readers in such unique ways. People don’t always realize it when they are reading a poem, but it’s those quirky kinds of things — those little excursions away from what is generally the “accepted” pattern — that has caused many a poem to grab a place in the reader’s mind and heart and stay there.
So okay. I decided to have a little fun with this subject and can now offer you a choice of poems that get to the real truth. I’ll post both of there here, and you can take your pick:
UNTRUSTWORTHY POETS
Roses are red? Violets are blue? I beg to differ; It just isn’t true:
Roses are found in any color we choose. I’ve seen them in yellows and oranges and blues. Why, I’ve even seen them in ugly chartreuse! And violets, I’ve learned, also vary in hue: Yellow and pink, even white; it’s quite true. So never trust a poet to tell you the truth. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PURPOSE IN POEMS
Roses are red; Violets are blue; We don’t always stick With only what’s true. We’re looking for words With meter and rhyme, And if we can’t find them, We might tend to whine. So cut us some slack; We’re doing our best. If a poem gives you pleasure, It passes the test.
Almost all of my friends and family are sane people who wear their shoes inside their houses as well as outside. Unless, of course, their feet hurt; then that’s a different story. But there are those humans out there who have this absurd notion that people should remove their shoes as soon as they enter a building and go barefoot — or possibly sock-footed — while inside. A few switch to special shoes that are reserved only for “in-house” wear, and several even offer said shoes to visitors. (Although it’s beyond me why they think visitors would want to wear shoes worn by any number of other people they don’t even know.)
I really don’t know if these weird people are worried about getting their floors dirty or if they have some religious scruples — like being afraid of offending the god of flooring or something. But doesn’t it ever bother them when they use the bathroom (especially in homes with boys or men who often are not careful where they aim)? I mean, when they feel something wet on their socks or bare feet, do they not even wonder what that is???
Well, either way, suffice it to say that those people never have to worry about a visit from me. I just happened to be sitting quietly and thinking about this subject recently and decided to express myself poetically.
VISITING FEET
Remove my shoes? I don’t think so. I go no place unshod. When entering homes, I wipe my soles Of dirt through which I’ve trod.
But if my host requires that I Remove my own footwear, I must reply, being stern but kind, I won’t be visiting there.
Some will supply soft slippers worn For walking through their home, But why would I desire shoes worn By others, some unknown?
So overall, it’s best to say, When invitations come, If I’m required to bare my toes, I’ll choose to stay at home.
This post is mainly for those of you who have also been following me on my poetry site “Poetry by Ahyoka.” I recently lost access to that site, due to a stupid glitch in the email that I used to create it. WordPress tried to help me get back into it, but all the ways they had available required me to have some kind of information or connections that I don’t have. (Technology: you gotta love it.) Anyway, after a couple days of trying my best, I finally decided to just let it be. The site is still in existence, since I can’t even delete it without being able to get into it. But, of course, I can’t post anything on it going forward either. Nor can I respond to any comments or communication.
I considered just forgetting about a separate site for poems. I have several other sites for various purposes — ministry, art, my college writing classes, etc. — but, somehow, it didn’t seem right to shut down the poetry site for good, especially since I had some followers on there who don’t connect with me anywhere else online. So I took a deep breath and plunged back into this technological jungle. I now have a brand new poetry site called “Poems by Ahyoka.” Generally, the poems I post here eventually end up there, but I also sometimes write poetry there that never gets to this space. So if you’ve been one of my followers on the old site — or you’re just a poetry lover — please come on over to “Poems by Ahyoka,” and join me there as well.
As most of my followers know, I love, love, love fall! And last week I was in a poetic mood so decided to whip up a few bits of verse in the form of haiku and cinquain. Hope you all enjoy them.
OCTOBER HAIKU
October is here. My favorite month at last! Delight to my soul.
OCTOBER CINQUAIN
At last — October’s here! Wind-driven, burnished leaves– Jewels against crystal blue skies. Gorgeous!
AUTUMN HAIKU
Autumn has glory That outshines other seasons. My soul’s fav’rite time.
Well, friends, once more I was wide awake between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00 this morning. So I figured, why not write some more haiku and share it with all of you. Hope it adds a lift to your day.
# 1 – DAYDREAMING
I am daydreaming: Longing for blue-hazed mountains; My heart begs to go.
#2 – SHIFTING SEASONS
September rain bathes Fallen leaves of gold and brown. Autumn’s slipping in.
#3 – FAITH’S CHALLENGE
My soul is distressed; My body then follows suit. My faith must take charge!
I found myself wide awake in the wee hours of this morning, and couldn’t seem to settle enough to get back to sleep. So I started thinking about how much fun it is to write haiku. From that thought I moved on to pick up a pen and notebook and let the words flow. Now it seems like a good idea to share with all of you the two poems I wrote in those wee hours. Hope you enjoy them.
MY SUMMER GARDEN
My summer garden: Birthplace of life’s sweetest scents; My soul’s resting place.
PEACE, BE STILL!
Troubled waters roil. I need the Waterwalker To quiet this storm.
For Day 2 of my new coffee series, I had intended to post something in prose, but I found myself reading through another coffee poem that I wrote several years ago. As I read it, I was tempted to add some more thoughts to it, so I did. And since it is now a new poem — sort of — I decided to go with verse again today.
NO NEED FOR FALDEROL
I joined the queue outside the door, Just after 6:00 a.m. The morning sun had chased the fog, But warmth was pretty thin.
My breath formed steam each time I spoke, And pockets warmed my hands. I yearned for coffee, hot and strong, A large cup was my plan.
We inched along with moderate speed, And soon I stood inside. The fresh aroma brought a smile; It’s tantalizing tide Mingled with the cozy sounds Of orders glorified:
I got to thinking this week that it has been a very long time since I published a post about coffee. Now, for a dyed-in-the-wool coffee lover like me, that should be considered a sin. So I have decided it’s time to do a new little coffee series. I think I’ll call it “DON’T FORGET THE COFFEE.” And I decided to begin this new series with a brand new poem by the same title.
DON’T FORGET THE COFFEE!
Whether rushing off to church on Sunday morning, Or heading out to work from day to day, I have one specific task that’s mandatory, I must make a pot of coffee, come what may.
Now, it’s not that I can’t function without java, I have jumped from bed and tackled urgent tasks Without the soothing and uplifting beverage, But why should I? That’s the thing to ask.
I require so very little to appease me, And I gladly do my work and extra too. I don’t ask for extra pay or laud and honor. All I ask is to enjoy my daily brew.
It’s about the only thing that I indulge in — Well, there’s chocolate — I admit I love that too. But if I forgot to make my pot of coffee, Why, I just don’t think I’d know quite what to do.
For no matter what the new day has in store, I am quite convinced that all will turn out fine As long as I do not forget my coffee — Nature’s tonic with a touch of the Divine.
Today I got to thinking about the Smoky Mountains and how much I wish I were there. I love being in the Smokies, and if I had my way, I would live there for the rest of my days on this earth. Unfortunately, I can’t make that work, so I have to settle for visiting there and only very occasionally at that. A few years ago I wrote a poem — a cinquain — about my love for those mountains, and I thought I’d repost it today just because I felt like it. Some of you may remember it, and some of you have never seen it previously. Either way, I hope you enjoy it today.
STEPPING STONES TO HEAVEN
Heaven Is a little Closer in the mountains. My heart’s at rest there, and I can See God.
The Happy Wordcrafter 