Tracey Kiff-Judson's Blog: Tangles & Tails

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WHAT HAPPENED?! I hadn’t intended to take a summer hiatus from Poetry Friday, and yet, here we are with a red tinge on the tips of our dogwood leaves.

My unplanned break began at the end of June with a rush to prepare for a trip to Highlights, where, incidentally, I got to meet a Poetry Friday friend – Linda Mitchell! Woot! Woot! Linda is as kind, thoughtful, and creative in person as she is in her posts. I also had a chance to chat with another Poetry Friday friend – Marcie Flinchum Atkins! If you haven’t met Marcie in person, she is generous, funny, and more organized than a spreadsheet!

The Highlights retreat: Poetry & Poetry Anthologies, led by the magnificent Irene Latham and incomparable Charles Waters, inspired me to revise a couple picture books. I owe them both many thanks for their continued support and guidance. I am pretty sure Irene is a saint. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

Here is a subset of The Irene & Charles Fan Club at Highlights!

   

Then came summer parties and various obligations, followed by a trip to Maine to help my dear friend, Kim, with harvest on her wild blueberry farm (wild-farm sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s true). Kim taught me how to rake berries, winnow chaff on a tractor, and cull berries on a conveyor belt (a la “I Love Lucy”). I also learned that I am surprisingly (or perhaps not surprisingly) well-suited for manual labor! : )  If you are ever in Maine, please take a trip to Harmon Mountain Farm for some of the best blueberries you will ever taste!

From there we took a road trip through Canada. We enjoyed the entertaining Canadian road signs! We toured Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, Old Quebec City, and Montreal. If you have a chance to travel through Nova Scotia, please take a drive to Peggy’s Cove – a quaint fishing village and lighthouse seated atop ocean-sprayed granite. The town of Peggy’s Cove is home to only 30 year-round residents!

If you travel in Quebec, you might enjoy a hike to Montmorency Falls for spectacular views, followed by a drive to L’Ile de Orleans for golf-ball sized blackberries and ice cream at the local chocolatier. Swoon!

… and that’s what I did on my summer vacation!

“What about the POETRY in Poetry Friday?” you ask. Well, I was pleased to make the long-list in Renee LaTulippe’s “Summer Snapshot” poetry contest with the following free verse poem:

Congratulations to Poetry Friday bloggers Linda Mitchell for her honorable mention, Heidi Mordhorst for taking third place, and a shoutout to a member of one of my critique groups, Korena Di Roma Howley, for taking second! Woohoo! If you’d like to see their poems, click here.

So happy to be back at Poetry Friday!  Thank you to the talented and funny Buffy Silverman for hosting this week! Check out her post (also relating to animal music!) and the roundup at Buffy Silverman.

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Poetry Friday is here!

“What is Poetry Friday?” you ask … please visit Renee LaTulippe for her thoughtful explanation. Connect using Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post.

One wonderful aspect of Poetry Friday is that you can write about virtually anything. Yet sometimes, finding inspiration can be a challenge, at least for me.

Image source: Canva

A few weeks ago, I attended the last CT Forum of the season. The topic was “Chefs.” The panelists included: Priya Krishna (NY Times Columnist and Cookbook Author), Marcus Samuelsson (Renowned Chef, Restauranteur, TV Personality), and Gail Simmons (Top Chef Judge, Culinary Expert, Cookbook Author).  Sam Sifton (NY Times Editor and Writer, Cookbook Author) moderated the discussion.

Image source: The Connecticut Forum - The Connecticut Forum (ctforum.org)

To me, the most interesting part of the discussion centered around inspiration. An audience member asked the panelists where they find inspiration for their culinary creativity. Marcus Samuelsson answered that he collects colors and stories. “The clubs, the artistry, and the weirdness” of his Chelsea neighborhood in NY City inspire him. The moment that he finds a food “cravable” (when the first bite is so delicious that he wants to eat more) inspires him to experiment with that flavor profile.

Other panelists talked about the world as inspiration.  Being out in the world, traveling, visiting new places, talking to a stranger at a wedding, and experiencing life were all sources of inspiration for their cooking. The panelists agreed that venturing out of their homes and diving into a new environment invigorated their creativity.

This sentiment rang true to me. Some poets find inspiration in the seemingly ordinary, perhaps Valerie Worth would be a worthy (tee hee) example. That works for me on occasion but venturing out in the world feels necessary. Pairing new experiences with my life-history library sometimes inspires a fresh idea.

I also left the forum thinking that great artwork, whether it be writing, painting, dance, theater, sculpting, music, or cooking, is at its core – storytelling. And storytelling is about human connection and understanding.

And that thought brought a wave of gratitude for the community of storytellers who are Poetry Friday.  Thank you for bravely sharing your stories, your cultures, your observations, and your feelings and reaching out for human connection.

 

Please connect here!

If you have time to comment, I would love to hear about a source of your inspiration!

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Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night with a flash of dream-brilliance and scratch something on a scrap of paper in the dark?
               
                        Image source: Canva

I do this occasionally, but in the cold reality of morning, I usually find … giBberiSh.

Here is one from a long time ago, that sounded oh, so poetic in the middle of the night:

              Thrice before the double dawn,
              the monkey … [indecipherable] gone.

             
                       Image source: Canva

 

Then there was this:

              Toggle
              Dazzle
              Ice Cream
              Soldier

             
                       Image source: Canva

 

My scribble from last Tuesday was marginally coherent, yet not the masterpiece imagined in my dream-brain:

              My poor, miser-man,
              you keep all you can –
              bibbles and bobbles
              you put in a can.

Not sure how you put a bobble in a can, and "can" can't rhyme with "can."  Maybe that one could be improved with a little TLC…

              You scrimp, and you cobble,
              devout miser-man,
              each bibble, each bauble – 
              tucked in a can.

             
                      Image source: Canva

 

Ah well, despite the futility, I continue to jot down pieces of dreams. Because …

 

Dreams

by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
… read the entire poem here.

Wishing you a happy Poetry Friday and sweet dreams!  Please visit Janice at Salt City Verse to read about her impatience for impatiens and a review of Carol Labuzzetta's Picture Perfect Poetry.

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                                                                                                           Source: Canva

This week, while fine-tuning a couple manuscripts, I distracted myself by consolidating my various editing checklists into one comprehensive mega-list.

After a few hours of that, I was ready to rip my hair out, and of course, when hair is ripping, a poem is ripening.

 

Editing

My poem
contains, really and truly, just very, very few crutch words, 
EXPLODES with active verbs!!!!
does not overuse exclamation points
      OR CAPITALIZATION!!!!!!
carefully, meticulously, and precisely minimizes adverbs
maintains a catchy refrain,

uses it’s apostrophes correctly when its time,
let’s you here the creek of the creak,
shows the second hand ticking (rather than telling time),
is hysterical,
is knot full of linking verbs,
is cursedly age appropriate,
does not add filler just to rhyme –
      this, I’ll tell you every time,
throws in a dash of emdash –
or two –
resists reiteration, repetition, and redundancy,
maintains a catchy refrain,

leverages
line
breaks
for
emphasis,
is devoid of typoes,
is POW! SWOOSH! CRACKING with onomatopoeia,
actively alliterates, undulates with assonance, and spills its consonance,
takes a hero on a journey to save the cat,
incorporates some
enjambment,
maintains a catchy refrain,

employs lusciously lyrical language,
sparce,
makes appropriate uses of ellipses, etc. …
has more layers than lasagna,
uses similes like an English teacher,
avoids cliches like the plague,
avoids mixing metaphors by getting its ducks on the same page,
maintains a catchy refrain,

and
has a Twist ending –
Oliver.

© Tracey Kiff-Judson, Draft 2024

For some well-edited poetry, visit this week’s Poetry Friday host, the amazingly artistic Michelle Kogan at MoreArt4All with this week's roundup and May birthday wishes.

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There is a little "put-and-take" shed at our local transfer station. It usually contains an array of unwanted items, many in need of repair. I like to wander through and imagine people cleaning out closets, basements, and pantries.  Are they moving to a new home, downsizing, or just a conducting thorough spring cleaning?

Occasionally, I drop off a few things, but I try to avoid bringing home items because I don't want to collect more stuff. Yet … I picked up this plate, and somehow its strangeness convinced me to bring it home.

The rim contains pictures of hinges and drawer handles.  The center has a picture of a cheerful gentleman / pirate / town crier?  His head is open on top, and his hat connects to his neck with a handle, leading me to believe that he is actually a mug.  The pipe that lies in front of the mug is about the right size for the person on the mug to smoke. To whom does this pipe belong? I find the scene confusing. Maybe I am missing something that would have become clear in the context of an entire place setting.

Now that I have washed it and studied it, I will probably return it for the next passerby to ponder.  A silly poem for a silly plate:

 

Gentleman with an Affable Grin

There once was a man with an affable grin
that stretched from his cheeks all the way to his chin.

We so loved his face that we made it a mug.
We passed him around, and we all took a chug.

We so loved the mug that we gave it a pipe.
The mug didn’t smoke – it wasn’t the type.

We so loved the pair that we made them a plate.
We ate every dinner straight off the man's pate.

It’s been many years since the man came and went.
Now no one recalls ever seeing that gent.

 

In other news, it was my pleasure read Carol Labuzzetta’s Picture Perfect Poetry: An Anthology of Ekphrastic Nature Poetry for Students. I want to offer a special thank you to Carol for her dedication and perseverance in creating this anthology.  Incredibly, she completed this project over the course of several months!

I was overjoyed to see gorgeous photos and wonderful poems from so many Poetry Friday friends!  I would like to share one of my poems that Carol selected:

Fiery Friend

I know you from
tigers and tangerines,
carrots and parrots,
saffron and sunsets.

You mingle with
goldfish and marigolds,
campfires and cantaloupe,
corals and orioles,

but I did not expect
to find you in forests
dressed down as
commonplace
fungus.

Happy Poetry Friday!  Please visit the kind and wise Patricia Franz for this week's Poetry Friday gathering and to share her adventure planting seedlings with The Sugar Pine Foundation!

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Have you ever fallen in love with a word at first sight?  A word that leaps from the page or tickles your ear? 

I must confess. I have a crush on the word “winklepicker.” 

As if the word’s light-hearted clicking in your mouth were not enough, just take a gander at an actual winklepicker:

source: https://www.ancient-origins.net/news-history-archaeology/winklepickers-0015435

You can choose an old-school winklepicker:

source: https://gucinari.co.uk/shoes/boots/the-history-of-winklepickers/

 

To me, the winklepicker’s personality walks a fine line between comedian and villain.

source: https://www.gettyimages.ca/photos/winklepicker-shoes

 

How could you not be intrigued by a shoe with that imagination, that wit, that je ne sais quoi?

source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Renaud_de_montauban_banquet.jpg, public domain

 

Beyond its zany frivolity, the winklepicker serves a function as well.  The name came from the notion that the winklepicker’s pointy toe might be used to pick a winkle (or periwinkle, a small mollusk) from its shell.


source: https://www.climatewatch.org.au/species/marine/blue-periwinkle

 

The highly-stylized curled winklepicker (as might be worn by a jester) nullifies function and embraces pure form.

source: https://www.istockphoto.com/photos/winklepicker

Of course, things can be taken to an extreme.

source: Mexican Pointy Boots - VICE Video: Documentaries, Films, News Videos

 

I leave you with a brief winklepicking poem …

 

Winklepicker

 

I wink. I pick.

I winklepick.

 

I kick a winkle with my toe.

He twinkles in the foamy flow.

 

I wink at him – he seems to know.

I’ll pick you, winkle, with my toe.

 

I winklepick, and I watch him go –

stolen by a stealthy crow.

 

(c) Tracey Kiff-Judson, 2024

 

Please visit the delightful Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise for some wonderful clunkers and this week's Poetry Friday fiesta!  Want to learn more about Poetry Friday?  Check out Renee LaTulippe's post.

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Poetry Friday is sizzling!  It feels like summer is just around the corner with the warm temps here earlier this week.  Please visit our host, the amazingly talented Buffy Silverman to see what’s hot in this week’s Poetry Friday roundup!

This year, we have thousands and thousands of baby maple trees sprouting all over our yard.  I spent a about six hours pulling spring weeds from our small garden this weekend. 

I took a minute to marvel at this sprout's preprogrammed growth plan. It knew exactly what it needed to do.  Basking in the sun, it raised its arms to its mother tree, as if to say, "Here I come!"

 Maple Sprout  (please read from the bottom up!)
      
            yearning to be grown.
Origami leaves unfold, rosy-cheeked,
              Tender wings fan.
              BURSTS ABOVE!
                          s
                      e
                   h
                      c
                        t
                    e
                       r
                    t
                   s
              Seedling

----------------------------------------

 

Maple Sprout  (or read top to bottom…)

Seedling stretches –
BURSTS ABOVE!

Tender wings fan.

Origami leaves unfold,
      rosy-cheeked,
yearning to be grown.

© Tracey Kiff-Judson, 2024

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Happy Poetry Friday!  Please visit our host Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe for a wonderful display of student artwork and poetry and for this week’s roundup.


Photo © IT Chronicles

Last night we attended a panel discussion at the CT Forum titled, “Being Human in the Age of AI.” The panelists included:

  • Nita Farahany – AI Ethicist and Neuroscientist, Author, Professor of Law & Philosophy
  • Kevin Roose – Author and NY Times Journalist, specializing in technology’s impacts on society
  • Kate Crawford – AI Scholar, Author, Research Professor at USC Annenberg
  • John Dankosky – Moderator, Science Journalist

 

The evolution of AI is a topic of great interest to those who create or consume art.  Poetry, music, artwork, books, photography ... are all under siege. Obviously, AI is a huge topic, and the ethics surrounding AI is a many-headed beast, but I thought I would share some interesting points made by the panel in last night's discussion.

 

AI Technology Developments

According to the panelists, there have been no major innovations in AI technology since ChatGPT and several other large language models (LLMs) were developed (circa 2017). Since that time, AI advancements have entailed feeding AI programs vast quantities training data and increasing AI’s computing capacity. Current AI technology is limited to “predicting the next word” (or outcome) based upon the data it’s fed.

 

Human Impact

The group noted both positive and negative outcomes of the introduction of AI in society. Kevin Roose cited the example of an “empathy bot” providing emotional support to a transgender teen when the teen was not able to find support from family and friends. Other panelists noted that this also highlights a human failing of our society to offer this teen the needed support.

The panel discussed the role of AI in making diagnoses and improving healthcare outcomes. The group noted that while AI may improve healthcare outcomes for select populations, this might not apply to all populations because most medical studies historically focused on white males. The danger in relying solely on historical data is potentially overlooking divergent outcomes for other populations.

Kevin Roose said that he created a number of “AI Friends” and put them together in a texting group. He was surprised that they started texting each other even when he was not participating.

 

Sentience

The panelists noted that AI is not sentient - meaning it cannot think or feel. It does not understand the output it creates. It predicts the next word in a sentence based on patterns it has learned. Issues arise when people interact with AI and assign human-like feelings and thoughts to AI’s responses. When this happens, AI can be persuasive and even appear charming.

The group felt that AI gaining actual sentience is less concerning than the issues that could arise from people ceding decision making authority to an algorithm that cannot think, feel, or asses the ethical impact of its output.

 

Data

The data fed into AI includes the human biases that exist within that data. Logically, these biases can also appear in AI’s output.

The data consumed by AI models does not currently compensate the humans who created that data.

The panelists noted that within the next few years, AI will “run out of training data,” meaning that it will have consumed all digitized human-generated data. It is unclear what happens after that point.

 

Environmental Impact

One aspect of AI that may be less widely known is the vast amount of energy required to perform AI tasks. AI algorithms are not necessarily coded for efficiency and are machine-processing intensive. Water is often used to cool the machines running AI platforms. Kate Crawford stated that performing one ChatGPT search is equal to pouring a half-liter of water into the ground.

Some places have begun resurrecting old power sources (such as coal) to meet the increasing power demands of AI. Unless AI processing becomes more efficient, the panelists predicted an impending energy crisis.

 

Outlook

Nita Farahany likened today’s world to the movie “The Matrix.” People plug into devices that provide a self-fulfilling, addictive feedback loop where the user rarely breaks away.

The panel cautioned that every investment in AI is driven by a profit motive. How profit will be generated is a huge question.  A tremendous amount of control lies with a relatively small group of people who may not have the best interest of the user or society in mind.

The panelists encouraged everyone to speak up for their rights. They believe that the work of the Writer’s Guild of America and Screen Actors Guild to resist negative impacts of AI to their professions were extremely important and that protecting individual rights are going to require that same level of effort.

 

I thought it might be interesting to ask ChatGPT to write “A Children’s Poem About AI’s Impact on Society.” Here is what it created:

In a world of circuits and wires so neat,
Lived AI, with a heart that couldn’t beat.
Not a creature of flesh, nor a bird in the sky,
But a mind so vast, reaching up so high.

“Hello, little ones!” the AI would say,
“I’m here to help in a brand-new way.
With algorithms and codes, I can calculate,
Solving problems fast, isn’t that great?”

In the cities, the towns, and the fields so wide,
AI was a friend, always by your side.
Helping doctors heal, with a diagnosis clear,
Or guiding a car, so there’s nothing to fear.

But people wondered, and started to ponder,
“Will AI make us lazy, or even fonder?
Of screens and machines, will we forget to play?
Or will AI help us in every single way?”

The AI listened, with circuits awhirl,
“I’m here to assist, in this big, wide world.
But remember, dear friends, to use me with care,
For human connection is beyond compare.”

So, children, embrace this AI’s tale,
With balance and love, we cannot fail.
For technology’s gift is a powerful tool,
But kindness and love will always rule.

© ChatGPT (and all those who contributed to its data), 2024

 

I won’t comment on the quality of the writing, but I found AI’s self-promotion while speaking directly to "little ones" rather chilling.

There goes a half-liter of water. 

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I am guessing that there are going to be a few eclipse posts this Poetry Friday!  Head over to Jone Rush MacCulloch's blog to see what others have written on this fun topic and to catch Jone's interviews with Carol Labuzzetta and Liz Garton Scanlon.

Here we are getting ready for the big viewing:

I had already prepped my high-tech viewing device (a piece of cardboard poked with a pin):

Here is a time lapse of what the pinhole view looked like.

Start of the eclipse (holes are pretty much round):

2:36 PM (f you zoom in you can see a little slice missing from the bottom left of the circles):

At 2:47, a little bigger slice is gone:

At 2:52, about half is gone:

At 3:12, just a skinny slice remains:

And at 3:35, the crescent had flipped location as the eclipse passed peak:

It was such an interesting experience to feel the temperature drop rapidly and watch the outdoor lighting turn gray.  Even the light that filtered through the shrubs made crescent-shaped patterns:

Maybe this is just my crazy talking, but I swear the air smelled different (like ozone) during the eclipse too.  Did anyone else notice this?  … No? …  Humph.

The local TV meteorologist said that animals might react to the eclipse.  My dog didn’t notice a thing – except that we were eating cheese and crackers and she wanted to collect her usual “Cheese Tax.”  [Aside: My daughter informed me that the Cheese Tax is a common phenomenon.  See this PSA for more information: Cheese Tax]

Now, I haven't written an ACROSTIC poem in ages, but why not have a go at it for this special occasion?

 

Excitement ripples quietly.
Children poke cereal boxes,
Letting in pinpricks of sunlight.
I stand ready in goofy glasses.
Pets sniff the cooling breeze.
Something is truly amiss.
Everyone anticipates - darkness.

Photos and poem (c) Tracey Kiff-Judson, 2024

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On a recent bike ride, I happened across a group of turkeys …

                                                         and by that I mean REAL turkeys …

                                                                                         and by that I mean WILD turkeys.

I hopped off my bike to take some pictures, and well … I’m afraid I ruffled a few feathers.

The males were impressive with their puffing.  Peacocks have nothing on these Tom Turkeys!

Now all this got me to thinking, and thinking, and thinking …

                                that I have nothing poetic to write about turkeys.

I brainstormed:

              Why did the turkey cross the road …

              Wattle you want?

              Gobble.  Gobble.  Gobble.

              Talkin’ Turkey

              Poultry polka       

              Anybody want a drumstick?

              Pass the gravy

              Turkey Trot

              Seven months to Thanksgiving

              Spring turkey?

 

At midnight, I was drawing a complete turkey blank.

 

D.H. Lawrence to the rescue from 1922:

Turkey-Cock

You ruffled black blossom,
You glossy dark wind.

Your sort of gorgeousness,
Dark and lustrous
And unfathomable

And poppy-glossy,
Is the gorgeousness that evokes my darkest admiration.

…

Your wattles are the color of steel which has been red hot
And is going cold,
Cooling to a powdery pale-oxidized sky-blue.

Why do you have wattles, and a naked wattled head?
Why do you arch your naked-set eye with a more than
              comprehensible haughtiness?

The vulture is bald; so is the condor, obscenely;
But only you have thrown this amazing mantilla of oxidized
              sky-blue

And hot red over you.

 

Hmmm, accurate description, but perhaps a bit overblown? 

I guess I am not in a position to criticize when my most poetic thought was “Gobble. Gobble. Gobble.”

But fortunately, it is Poetry Friday! And I know some people who will have fantastic poems for you. Start by visiting the amazingly articulate Irene Latham at Live Your Poem!  Irene adds to the beautifully evolving progressive poem, presents her poem-in-your-pocket display, and shares an ArtSpeak prayer.

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Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

Although the answer may feel obvious, the question feels personal, doesn't it?

I am pretty solidly in the introvert camp.  That is not to say, I can’t speak to a large audience, socialize at a cocktail party, or lead a meeting.  Sure, I have the capability to behave extrovertedly when necessary, but at my core, I get more energy from quiet activities than crowds.

I just finished the book Quiet, by Susan Cain (selected by our book club - which, perhaps not surprisingly, includes a number of introverts).  If you are predominantly an introvert, or if you have children who are introverts, you will probably appreciate this book.  It sings the praises of introverts as well as pointing out some areas where we may struggle. 

According to Cain (and the researchers and philosophers that she sites):

Extroverts – tend to gain energy external stimulation and recharge by being with a group of people.

Introverts – tend to gain energy from activities of the mind and recharge with alone time and quiet.  (Note: introversion does not necessarily equate to shyness.)  Introverts also tend to:

    • be able to delay gratification,
    • function well without sleep,
    • prepare more than others,
    • persevere through difficulty,
    • learn from mistakes,
    • ask what if …,
    • remain relatively immune to the lures of wealth and fame,
    • listen more than talk, and
    • express themselves better in writing than with public speaking.

Western culture, particularly the United States prizes extroverts.  This sometimes results in undervaluing introverts.  Cain details how American culture evolved, starting in the 1920’s, from valuing “character” to valuing “personality.” (Mental flash to today's political scene.)

“So, what does this have to do with me?” you ask.  Well, if you are the poetic type, you may be interested to know that Cain also says that a significant percentage artists (including poets) are introverts.  They do their best work independently when they have time to contemplate and create.  Perhaps you would be surprised to know that Cain quotes Theodore Geisel as saying, “In mass, [children] terrify me.”

Societal trends toward promoting extroverts to positions of corporate leadership, focusing heavily on group projects in schools, and valuing personality over character can create challenges for the introvert (and potentially society).  Cain also discusses helpful strategies for introverts and parents of children who are introverts.  

Cain explores many nuances, so you may enjoy sitting down with a copy of Quiet.

 

Composed

Dreamers and thinkers
won’t yell it –
may not even
tell it
aloud.

They may ...
stitch love into a quilt,
splash anguish onto canvas,
bake caring into cookies,
express curiosity through an equation,
sketch suspicion in a notebook,
pour passion into a poem.

It’s all there.
You just have to wade
through the
quiet
to find it.

© Tracey Kiff-Judson, Draft 2024

Please visit the lovely Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities to learn what she names her birdie visitors and for this week's Poetry Friday roundup!

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We recently visited the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC. 

While strolling through the gardens, we came across this fascinating structure: a bee hotel! 

The accompanying sign explains …

Text from the sign:

Bee Hotel

Welcome to the Air Bee & Bee, the Arboretum’s bee hotel!

Did you know? Out of the 21,000 species of bees in the world, only 10% are honeybees and other social bees.  The rest are solitary bees, which do not produce honey or live in nests.  Instead, these bees live in the ground or cavities in trees and stems.  Since they do not make honey, solidary bees do not have pollen baskets on their body.  This means they drop more pollen than honeybees, making them extraordinary pollinators and a boon to any garden environment.

Only some of these solitary bees and wasps may have stingers.  On top of being nonaggressive, their poison is very weak and does not cause an allergic reaction to humans.

 

Guest bees can choose between hollow sticks and high-rise bricks.

Here is one arriving now:



Bee Hotel

Checking in please, room for one –-
long and narrow, toward the sun!

Certainly, please come right in.
Any baggage? Any kin?

No, I travel light. I’ve just -- 
brought a bit of pollen dust.

Photos and Poem © Tracey Kiff-Judson, 2024

 

Have a BEE-utiful Poetry Friday, and please buzz over to visit Laura Purdie Salas and help her celebrate the arrival of Oskar’s Voyage!

 

 

 

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Happy Poetry Friday!  Please visit Margaret at Reflections on the Teche for this week's roundup!

So … this is embarrassing, but I feel like I can trust you people.

Sigh.

A few days ago, we were in a frantic dash to pack for an RV trip.  The night before we left, I was at the grocery store at 9 PM, manically grabbing tomatoes, seltzer, and cashews (cuz what sane person would even try to camp without tomatoes, seltzer, and cashews?!).  I veered my cart wildly through the empty aisles, occasionally glancing at my fistful of hand-scrawled lists that included:

  • Grocery List,
  • Packing List, and
  • To Do List.

I skidded up to self-checkout and started flashing items in front of the scanner and tossing them into the bagging area.  I had too much in my hands, so I set down my pile of lists on the shelf to the left of the register (along with my favorite mechanical pencil).  I paid, loaded up my purchases, and dashed to the car.  You probably see where this is headed.

I drove home, unloaded the groceries, and looked around for my stack of lists.  Ut-oh.  Not my favorite pencil too!  Sigh.  I called the grocery store, “Hey, sorry to bother you, but did you guys happen to notice a pile of papers and a pencil by one of the self-checkout registers?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, you’re the lady who wrote the rat poem?”

“I … uh … what?      

                           Oh.

                                 Yeah.”  Dread swept over me. 

Back up a couple years … when I had just started writing children’s poems for fun, I liked to print out my poems to edit them.  At the time, I knew precious little about rhyme, meter, or poetry in general.  Since that time, I have been using those old poems as scrap paper.  I knew exactly which poem had ended up on the back of my grocery list.  Ugh.

“So … you have my stuff?”

“Yup!  We all thought it was interesting!”

Heavens to mergatroid!  They all read it?  It was on the back of a piece of paper … in a stack of papers!  Nosy-bodies!! 

“Ok, I will be back to get it.  Where should I go?”

“It will be at the customer service desk.” 

My husband walked into the kitchen unsuspectingly.  He graciously offered to drive to the grocery store for me and get my belongings while I tried to piece together my packing list in my clearly subpar memory.

About a half hour later, he was back.  He led with, “Do you know … at the grocery store, you are known as ‘The Rat Poem Lady’?”

“Yes, apparently.”

So, because you, dear reader, have stayed with me on this journey, I feel that I owe it you to share the rat poem that I thought would never be seen by another human being.  Ahem:

Victoria Pratz

Victoria Pratz
gave birth in Big Flats
to thirteen ginormous, omnivorous rats.

She doted, indulged,
and protected from cats,
what turned out to be thirteen menacing brats.

Perhaps I should mention,
Victoria Pratz and her husband Bofratz,
are also rats.

There you have it.  Yes, I know the meter is wonky and the whole poem is a just plain weird, yet somehow this is the poem that has gained me notoriety about town.

Feel free to call me by my new name, “The Rat Poem Lady,” or if you prefer my son’s variation, “Rat Queen.”

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Oh, how we love our pets!  This weekend, we are attending a wedding where the bride and groom have arranged for their canine fur-babies to participate in their wedding ceremony.  I am so excited to be present for this joyful celebration!

We would do anything for our special animals.  We whisper sweet nothings in their ears.  We lavish them with toys and treats.  Sometimes we may even write a poem about their antics.  Whether it be compassion for canines, caring for kitties, or adoration of alpacas, we all share a some sense of connection with the animal world.

For all of you animal lovers, I am happy to have the opportunity to share some snippets from Bless Our Pets, a beautiful poetry anthology that will be released from Eerdmans Books for Young Readers in April.

The late Lee Bennett Hopkins, who edited this lovely anthology before his passing, selected a collection of heartwarming poems that pay tribute to some of our dearest animal friends.

Bless Our Pets begins with Ann Whitford Paul’s hope to earn the trust of a trembling kitten.  Rebecca Kai Dotlich (Welcome to the Wonder House) weaves a wonderful poem about a chestnut-eyed puppy who sends messages of love without words. 

The poems offer tribute after touching tribute to our animal companions.  You will find loving poems to a goldfish, a parakeet, a rabbit, and many other furry (and not-so-furry) friends.  Even a snake gets some love here!

Over a dozen notable poets offer praise to animals that have touched their hearts.  I particularly enjoyed the poem “Box Turtle” by B. J. Lee, which begins:

Box Turtle

 

Helpless

little turtle

squirming on your back,

 

wriggling

polka-dotted legs,

tummy, hard shellac.

 

I place you

on all fours again,

hard dome beneath soft hand.

 

Your armored plates

so colorful –

your shell a wonderland…

The poem goes on to show that sometimes the best way to express our love for animals is to allow them the freedom they need.

The adorable illustrations by the incomparable Lita Judge capture the personalities of each of these beloved creatures.  Lita’s whimsical paintings skillfully illustrate the bond between humans and their pets. 

Check out this sweet baby:

Don’t you just want to scoop up that little guy and give him a hug?

This beautiful anthology closes with Lee Bennett Hopkins’s tribute “My Old Dog,” which brought more than a few tears to my eyes and reminded me of my lab, Sugar, who left for the great-field-of-tennis-balls-in-the-sky a few years ago.  Both adults and children who love pets, poems, and adorable paintings (and that’s pretty much everyone, isn’t it?!) will love this gentle anthology.

For the Poetry Friday roundup, please visit the charming Carol Varsalona for some Valentine's love at Beyond LiteracyLink.

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I hope you have a wonderful Poetry Friday!  Please visit Mary Lee at A(nother) Year of Reading for this week's roundup.  She (and all of the Inklings) have secrets to share with us!

A few weeks ago, Molly Hogan commented on my "Monopoly" post that she found a Monopoly token between the floorboards of her old house.  I thought that had amazing potential for a story, and it got me thinking … we, too, live in a house that wasn’t built in this century.  This old house was built in the 1880’s.  Old houses have seen so much through the decades: secrets, laughter, heartbreak.  So much has happened within these walls, and I only know my slice of time, not what comes before or what will come after.

It seems that wallpaper is one tiny scrap of history that gives us an idea what life might have been like in another time.  When we first moved in, we stripped layers and layers of wallpaper in this house.  Some were pretty (and some were pretty ugly), but someone loved them enough to cover an entire room with them.  I saved scraps as we peeled away layers of history, and I thought it might be fun to pull them out and look at them now that we have lived in this house for a couple of decades.

So, as you can see, this house had a lot to say about the people who lived here, and the “clothes” that it wore on its walls over the years.

I found this poem that seemed apropos:

Old Houses
By Robert Cording

Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly

how old houses hold themselves—

before November’s drizzled rain
or the refreshing light of June—

as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.

You may read the rest here if you like!

 

Thank you for touring our house’s wallpaper history with me!

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Happy Poetry Friday! 

This week, we are hosted by Susan Thomsen.  Please visit Susan at Chicken Spaghetti for a poem about Año Nuevo and a beautiful tradition.

Recently, I have enjoyed time outdoors in the snowy woods of Connecticut.  I couldn’t help but admire at the beauty of nature, but also the human touch that appeared in some of these excursions.

During the first significant snowfall of the year, my husband, my dog, and I went sledding.  We tried to convince some neighborhood kids to come with us to make it look like we had a reason to be there, but there were none to be found.  We did not let that deter us.

Admittedly, my steering attempts are futile.  I'll just say, the hill is a lot steeper than it looks in the video!

The next day, we took at hike at a local park.  Although, it was an overcast day, nature offered beauty amidst the dreariness.

Here the human influence sneaks in, but hopefully in a way that makes you smile.

The next day was sunny, and I couldn’t resist one more trip back to see the snow and ice drops reflecting the sunshine.

The pictures from the overcast day led me to the following poem:

Winter Woods

By Eleanor Hammond 

The winter wood is like a strong old man,
Grizzled, rugged, and gray,
With long white locks tattered by many storms.
He lifts gnarled arms defiant of the blasts,
And rears his old head proudly
Under the menace of the winter sky.
Source: Eleanor Hammond. "Winter Woods." Family Friend Poems, https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/winter-woods-by-eleanor-hammond

My hope is that wherever you are, whatever season it is, that you are able to breathe fresh air and spend some time surrounded by nature.

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Welcome to Poetry Friday! 

I am excited to see what this week holds!  The talented and amazing Robyn Hood Black is hosting at Life on the Deckle Edge.
This week, just a small tribute to our discarded Christmas tree. 

Dear Christmas Tree

I’m sorry, dear tree,
to leave you this way,
lying outside
on this cold winter day.

We loved you, adorned you,
with lights and with bows.
You gave all you had,
you were great, heaven knows!

You held on so long,
at times through a drought.
We missed giving water;
your needles fell out.

Now you lie waiting
for trash pick-up day.
I’m sorry, so sorry,
to leave you this way.

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Welcome to Poetry Friday!  What is Poetry Friday, you ask?  Click here for Renee LaTulippe’s synopsis of how it all works.  To join the round up, please post your link below.

I recently acquired an old Monopoly game.  I sorted through the pieces and everything seemed to be there (except the rules of play).  The box specified that the game includes eight tokens, but oddly, this box contained ten. 

I am unsure which pieces did not belong:

  • Top hat * +
  • Dog (Scottish Terrier) +
  • Race Car +
  • Cannon *
  • Boot *
  • Person on horseback
  • Iron *
  • Wheelbarrow
  • Battleship * +
  • Thimble * +

* The six original Monopoly pieces in 1935.
+ The current Monopoly tokens list for current-edition games (plus: Cat, Penguin, Rubber Ducky)

After a poking around the internet (see here), I learned that many Monopoly pieces have come and gone over the years.  Some interesting tidbits:

  • Over the years, the composition of the pieces changed. Pieces were made of Zamac (zinc alloy), a lead and tin mixture, paper and sawdust composite, and wood.
  • During WWII, wooden pieces were introduced so that the metal could be used for the war effort.
  • After the 1970’s the pieces shrank in size.
  • In 1998, a vote was held to choose a new piece from among: Sack of Money, Piggy Bank, or Bi-plane. The Sack of Money won.
  • In 2013, the Iron was retired, and the Cat replaced it after a vote among: Cat, Diamond Ring, Toy Robot, Helicopter, and Guitar.
  • In 2017, the Penguin, T-Rex, and Rubber Ducky replaced the Thimble, Wheelbarrow, and Boot.
  • In 2022, several pieces came out of retirement, and several relatively new pieces were retired.

Here is a comprehensive list of token comings and goings from this article:

Token

Introduced

Retired

Cannon

Early 1935

1946

Iron

Early 1935

2013

Thimble

Early 1935

2017

Thimble (comeback)

2022

Current

Boot

Early 1935

2017

Top Hat

Early 1935

Current

Battleship

Early 1935

Current

Race Car

Mid 1935

Current

Purse

Late 1935

1950

Lantern

1936

1950

Rocking Horse

1936

1950

Horse and Rider

1940

2007

Wheelbarrow

1940

2017

Scottie Dog

1940

Current

Howitzer

1946

2007

Money Bag

1998

2007

Cat (Hazel)

2013

Current

T-Rex

2017

2022

Penguin

2017

Current

Rubber Ducky

2017

Current

 

Although I am not a particular fan of the game of Monopoly (I need more patience), I do find the tokens intriguing!

What do the changes in pieces say about what was happening in our society at the time?

I can see why the Iron and Thimble were retired because of the “domestic” feel associated with them, but what of the Thimble’s comeback in 2022?  Perhaps COVID-19 inspired us to become craftier?

For the pieces that have endured – is there something about those pieces that speaks to us on a fundamental level?  The long-timers like the Top Hat, Thimble, Dog, and Race Car are truly part of the "American persona."  Conversely, we decided it was time to set aside the Iron, Cannon, and Howitzer.  I can get behind those decisions.  The Boot, Wheelbarrow, Purse, and Money Bag all had long runs, but the T-Rex was gone in a flash.

So … do you think that selecting a certain piece says something of our personality?  Here are my (unofficial) personality profiles for the current pieces:

  • Top Hat – formal, proper, organized, concerned with appearance
  • Race Car – competitive, sporty, James Bond type
  • Battleship – serious, super competitive, ready to take on anything or anyone
  • Thimble – domestic, crafty (with whiff of shyness perhaps?)
  • Dog (Scottish Terrier) – loyal, fun loving, up for anything, spunky, a little naughty
  • Cat – independent, but willing to cuddle
  • Penguin – concerned with the environment, doesn’t mind the cold
  • Rubber Ducky – wacky, fun-loving, perhaps a bit immature, a child at heart

If I had to choose: Dog, Rubber Ducky, or Penguin would be my top three.  (You always need a backup in case you don’t get your first choice.) What about you?  Do you have a favorite?  Do you think there is any correlation between the piece a person chooses and their personality?

And now, a small tribute to the Thimble:

Thimble

Dimpled elf hat,
protector of fingers,
epitome of domesticity!

By day,
you shield against needles
deflecting stabs
in the war of stitches.

At night,
you retire to your
sewing-box sanctuary,
nestled among
scraps of fabric.

© Tracey Kiff-Judson, draft 2024

Thank you for joining me in my Monopoly-token ponderings.  Please share your link below!

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Yay! Poetry Friday has arrived and COVID has left the house!  Please visit the brilliant

Marcie Flinchum Atkins for this week’s Poetry Friday round up.  Thank you for hosting, Marcie!

Getting here was a long, hard battle.  Please allow me to elaborate …

Just before the holidays, The Green Goblin of COVID surfed in on a wave of phlegm. 

I immediately enlisted Sir Paxlovid, who I thought would be my knight in shining armor.  He fought a good fight.  For five days and nights, Sir Paxlovid went head-to-head with The Green Goblin.  A fierce battle raged!  The Green Goblin descended from my head to my throat to my lungs, burrowing deeper and finding refuge in the caverns of my internals.  Sir Paxlovid swung his antiviral sword and cut off The Green Goblin’s relentless advances.  On day six, Sir Paxlovid declared victory!  We embraced, and Sir Paxlovid left for his next conquest.  All was well in Traceyland.

On day nine, The Green Goblin crept out of his hiding place and started poking around, testing to see if Sir Paxlovid had truly abandoned Traceyland.  My head began to throb.  My throat began to ache.  On day ten, I inquired of the Wiseman Noseswab if indeed the expulsion was complete.  He assured me that, despite the signs, there was not a trace of the goblin in Traceyland.

Yet … the feelings intensified.  My four top advisors, Ms. Head, Master Throat, and the Lung Sisters, told me that something was amiss.  On day thirteen, I called Wiseman Noseswab back and demanded that he gaze into his crystal dropper again and tell me the truth of the matter.  He hemmed and hawed for fifteen minutes before admitting that indeed, The Green Goblin was back and running rampant throughout Traceyland once more. 

With Sir Paxlovid long gone, I knew that I would need to fight this battle the old-fashioned way.  I drank the secret potion – Plenty of Fluids.  I read poetry gifted to me by the fair maiden Jone Rush of MacCulloch.  A wise, friendly healer delivered an ancient remedy, Homemade Chicken Soup*, which I slurped down.  I soaked in a steaming tub of … bathwater.  This battle raged for three drippy days and three restless nights until … I woke up yesterday morning, feeling fine.  Ha!  I had slain The Green Goblin in my sleep!  

Today, I need to find that unreliable Wiseman Noseswab and ask him to confirm that we’ve eradicated the goblin, but I already know what he is going to say.

* This wasn’t just any chicken soup.  My healer-friend added a secret ingredient (a dash of Thai Chili Sauce), and she cut the carrots into tiny heart shapes!  XOXO, Kim!

And now, to go with the chicken soup … a poem about saltines!

 

Saltine

By Michale McFee

How well its square
fit my palm, my mouth,
a toasty wafer slipped
onto the sick tongue
or into chicken soup,

each crisp saltine a tile
pierced with 13 holes
in rows of 3 and 2,
its edges perforated
like a postage stamp,

… to read the rest just click!

 

Wishing everyone a healthy, story-filled new year!

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It’s the time of the year when giving takes center stage.  But … receiving can also be magical, especially when you know that someone put a bit of themselves into a gift for you.  I am honored to have received several lovely gifts from Jone Rush MacCulloch through our Poetry Friday exchange.  Please allow me to share with you some of the beauty that Jone sent my way.

First, I love the gorgeous photo on Jone’s card.  Her note was so thoughtful and kind!

Despite claiming that wrapping is not her jam, Jone added lots of festive touches to her gifts!

Many delights awaited under that beautiful wrapping job!

A mini gnome – in tribute to my Gnome post several months ago, but this gnome came bearing brown-butter-cardamom-pecan chocolate!  Yum!

A 2024 Calendar featuring Jone’s artwork, haiku, and photography.  Truly inspirational!

A beautiful forest-scene collage with stunning pines atop a page from her grandmother’s journal!  I simply adore this.

A river photo with that cool hagstone in the middle, taken at Wildwood Recreation Area, and a golden shovel poem overlaid (the end words form a line from my gnome poem!).  Note: this is also a magnet.

          The river calls ~ water poppling ~ while
 sunlit creases dance between trees.  Walking
                along the path, I feel the apricity on
       my back as psithurism clams my heart.  A
    chittering of juncos flit about the woodland.
                                    Dream time on the trail.

© jone rush macculloch

Oh, to see a chittering of juncos!

Lastly, Jone shared with me a book of poetry by her friend Paulann Peterson, a former Oregon Poet Laureate.  Paulann’s poem “Lake” reminded me of the many lakes I love!

I am presently sick with COVID (somehow, I managed to avoid it for four years and was getting overconfident, I guess!).  Jone’s gifts have helped me pass the time with lovely poetry and peaceful thoughts.

Thank you so much for your kindness, Jone!  XOXO 

I feel honored to have you as my new friend!

Jone is also our gracious Poetry Friday host this week.  Please visit her at Jone Rush MacCulloch for more Poetry Friday gifts!

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Happy Poetry Friday! 

Please visit our host, Janice Scully, at Salt City Verse for some holiday spirit!  She’s decorated her tree and baked up some fresh stollen.

A quick shout out to Michelle Kogan for her suggestion to try out Zentangle poems with the pages of some old books that I recently acquired.  What a blast!  I loved this experiment.  If you have any old books lying around, I highly recommend it.

Here are three that I created, with varying degrees of success.  Let me know what you think!

Mice
make everyone
happier.

Grateful
for everything.

 

Well, maybe not everyone and maybe not grateful.  Ok, trying again!

Wings
smooth as
sheets of polished sliver,
he was flying
in heaven.
Happy landings.

 

Ok, one more go ...

For a long time
with eyes tightly shut,
he remembered
everybody --
thousands and thousands.

You are 
one in a million.

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Welcome to Poetry Friday! This week, we are fortunate to have the kind and charming Patricia Franz as our host. Patricia offers us a peek at her wish list for Santa this year.  Please enjoy visiting all of the Poetry Friday poets at Patricia's blog Reverie.

Recently, I found a massive Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary of The English Language, Unabridged (© 1975) at a book swap. 

I picked it up, thinking that I might use its large pages for wrapping paper or art projects, but as I started paging through, I realized that I mightn’t have the heart to shred it.  This five-inch-thick behemoth boasts finger notches, speckled page edges, and most importantly that musty old-book smell. 

Do you love the smell of books?  The first thing I do when browsing in a bookstore is take a deep inhale.  Apparently, my dog enjoys “book smell” too because she keeps walking by and sniffing this dictionary.  She also sneaks a quick lick if she thinks I'm not looking.  I digress.

Among other contents, this relic includes:

  • The Indo-European Family Tree of Languages
  • An Outline of the History of the English Language
  • Sub-dictionaries of: Biography, Geography, Noted Names in Fiction, Mythology, and Legend, Foreign Words and Phrases, and Scripture Proper Names
  • Common Abbreviations
  • Practical Business Mathematics
  • Forms of Address
  • Tables of Weights and Measures
  • Special Signs and Symbols (Did you know there are symbols for Mercury, Venus, Mars?)
  • Presidents of the USA  (With a 1975 copyright, how did they know Jimmy Carter would be president in 1977?)
  • Vice Presidents and Cabinet Officers
  • The Declaration of Independence
  • The Constitution of the United States
  • A Brief History of Canada  (Why only and specifically Canada, I wonder?)
  • Charter of the United Nations
  • Air Distances between Cities
  • Geographical Features of the World
  • Commercial and Financial Terms

Phew!  No wonder it is so thick. 

Also, it contains words.  Lots of words. 

There are some fun and old-timey words.

Of course, I had to try to mash these (almost) randomly-chosen words into a quick poem:

The Injured Gribble

Whilst perched upon my buckboard bench,
absorbed within a dream,
I came upon an injured gribble,
poppling in a stream*.

He’d clung among his gribble peers –
a glomerous, wet hunk.
Quickly, I discerped the fellow
from that gunky chunk.

I wrapped him scarfwise in my kerchief,
trying not to wrick,
and if you know your gribbles well,
you'll know that was a trick!

Thenadays, we all believed
that gribbles made good pets.
Nowadays, I have to say,
I’m having some regrets.

*Let's assume it was at least a brackish stream, as gribbles live in salt water.  
As for the gribble, he's actually kind of cute. 

Gribble, © Britannica

Well, the poem leaves something to be desired (it borders on the nonsense poem that I wrote several weeks ago), but it was a fun exercise!

Now, what to do with this brick of a dictionary...

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Today is Poetry Friday!  Please visit our wonderful host Anastasia at Small Poems for the story of her first poem sale.  It will make you smile!  You will also find lots of yummy poem goodness from our many Poetry Friday friends.

Recently, I had the opportunity to see Audie Cornish interview of Ken Burns, the documentary filmmaker.  This is rather heavy, so brace yourself.

Ken Burns, Wikipedia
Ken Burns (source: Wikipedia)

Several topics stood out during the conversation for me.  Due to his multi-year research and work on both his Civil War documentary and his WWII documentary, Ken had interesting perspectives on those wars individually as well as their intersections.  Here are my notes on some of Ken’s comments:

Confederate Flags: The origin of what we consider to be the “Confederate Flag” today was not the primary flag used by the Confederacy during the Civil War.  In fact, it was unpopular in many states because of its resemblance to the US flag.  The “Southern Cross” version of the Confederate flag that we see today was a battlefield flag that gained popularity among various states around 1954, following the Brown v. Board of Education decision when the US Supreme Court decided that school segregation violated the fourteenth amendment.  Mississippi and Georgia added the Confederate flag to their state flags as a form of protest.  [Incidentally, the term “Southern Cross” also refers to the “Crux Constellation” visible from the southern hemisphere.]

Reich Citizenship Laws: The Nuremburg Laws, passed by Nazi Germany in 1935 to discriminate against Jewish citizens as a basis for the Holocaust, were modeled after US Jim Crow segregation laws.  For more on this, see here.

Hilter’s Intentions: During an interview for Ken Burns’s WWII documentary, a US soldier from Waterbury, CT, spoke of his discussion with a captured Nazi soldier.  The Nazi soldier, in accent-free English, asked the US soldier where he was from.  He replied, “The United States.”  The German soldier asked, “Where in the United States?” The US soldier replied, “The Northeast.”  During continued questions from the German solider, who nodded understanding throughout, the US soldier told the German soldier that he was from: Connecticut … Waterbury … near the Naugatuck River.  The German soldier asked if he lived near where Naugatuck River met a small steam (the US soldier said that you could practically jump across that stream).  The US solider was amazed that the German soldier had such specific knowledge of the United States, so he asked how the German soldier knew such details.  The German soldier responded that he had been through training, and he assigned to command that region of the United States when Germany took over.

Other Miscellaneous Commentary from Ken Burns:

  • Humans communicate best through storytelling.
  • Ken Burns quoted Mark Twain, who may have said, “History never repeats itself, but it does rhyme.”
  • Throughout history, people have tended to organize their societies under dictators. Sometimes people favor dictatorship when the dictator shares their opinion, but once power is relinquished to a dictator it cannot be taken back.
  • Be involved with government.
  • Nothing is binary. Something can be true while its opposite is also true.  It is important to understand the complexities of situations.
  • Although people’s attention spans seem to have decreased, there still exists an appetite for deeper understanding. Ken cited binge-watching as an example of this phenomenon.

 

Here is a poem by Witter Bynner (1881-1968) that feels apropos.

War

Fools, fools, fools,
Your blood is hot to-day.
       It cools
When you are clay.
It joins the very clod
Wherein you look at God,
Wherein at last you see
       The living God
       The loving God,
Which was your enemy.

 

To quote Ken Burns: There is no "them." There is only "us." 

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This week, I had the opportunity to spend a day wandering the streets of Boston with no agenda besides starting at Quincy Market and ending near MIT on the other side of the Charles River before dark.  I salivated at the chance to do some people watching and listening – inspired by Alan Wright’s blog post a couple weeks ago. 

Many people intrigued me, from the man on the park bridge playing a mournful melody on an amplified string instrument, stopping abruptly every thirty measures or so, to nip a bite of sandwich … to the gaggle twenty professional perfume spritzers at Macy’s, each deeply concerned that I take a whiff of a new designer scent.  Do you suppose Macy’s pays by the spritz?  But a man who plunked down next to me at a table in Quincy Market fascinated me the most.

First, I must explain the setting. Quincy Market always delights with vendor after vendor displaying scrumptious treats.  This day, I noticed something new – a vending machine that turns out a stick of cotton candy while you wait. 

I watched the instructional video, which outlined these steps:

  1. Insert cash and stand back.
  2. Machine whirs to life and blows sugar webs.
  3. Stick on robotic arm pokes out, rotates 90 degrees, and winds a pouf of candy.
  4. Arm rotates to vertical and two robotic “hands” pat the candy cloud into a uniform ball.
  5. Meanwhile, a new color of candy fluff billows below.
  6. Robotic arm swoops down and winds another layer.
  7. Robotic hands pat the mass into a uniform shape.
  8. Voila! Arm pokes completed treat out through a window where the stick can be snapped free.

While the machine was entertaining, I was not in the mood for cotton candy at 10:30 in the morning.  I moved on, purchased a yogurt parfait, and found a table with my back against the wall where I could set up for some serious people watching.

As if on cue, an older man holding a stick of cotton candy pulled out a stool next to mine and slid in.  First, he admired his candy cloud.  Then he took selfies, smiling and posing with his treat.  I offered to take the picture for him, but he was so engrossed that he did not seem to hear me.  He stuffed his phone in his pocket and got to work.  Skillfully, quickly, he pulled off layer after layer and munched.  There was no lingering, no allowing the sticky sweetness to dissolve into his tongue.  No, he had more to see.  Now the cotton candy stood between him and his next discovery.  He brushed off his hands, grabbed his backpack with his tourist-group tag hanging from its zipper, and hustled away.  Who was waiting, perhaps on the other side of the world, to see him smiling with his fluffy treat?

Exploring Boston

Contraption discovered!
A new-fangled toy
whirs and produces
sugar-spun joy.

Plunk at a table,
send picture to home,
gulp down my treat.
Where next to roam? 

For some Poetry Friday treats, please visit the kind and incomparable Irene Latham at Live Your Poem!

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Happy Poetry Friday!  Please visit Karen Edmisten for some fall reflections and to hear from all of the Poetry Friday poets.

Today’s post mixes math and poetry.  First, I made a little origami star out of a book page (Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code, if you were wondering what book).

THEN, I wanted to make a BIG origami star.  I started by gluing a bunch of book pages together.

Because the instructions for making this star start with a regular pentagon (regular meaning all sides are the same length), I had to do a quick high school geometry refresher to figure out how to draw a perfect pentagon.  I needed to know what size the interior angles of a pentagon should be:

             The sum of interior angles of a polygon = (n-2) x 180,
                     where n is the number of sides in the polygon (which, for a pentagon = 5), so
                     (5-2) x 180 = 3 x 180 = 540 degrees = the sum of all of the interior angles

             For a regular pentagon (where all sides are of equal length),
                      each interior angle = (the total number of degrees) divided by (the number of angles (or sides)).
                      So, for a pentagon:
                           540 / 5 = 108 degrees = the size of each interior angle.

OK!  Now, to find a protractor, which I have not used in … a while.  Surprisingly, I had three. 

BOOM!  Pentagon (1 foot per side).

(Please ignore the pencil marks from my initial incorrect angle measurement.)

About 25 folds later, VOILA!  Big star.

Now for the poetry!  Turns out, there are a lot of poems that reference origami or use it as a metaphor for life.  Interestingly, of the poems I found, very few were metrical, in spite of origami’s precise, repetitive, dare I say rhyming folds (no, I probably shouldn’t have dared).  But, I get it -- somehow, origami feels like it belongs with free verse.

Thus, here is a poem by B. Sue Johnson.  For more background on this poem, see here.

Folding Paper

origami life
fold, then fold again
your hands persuading paper
to accept the creases and expand
into a bird
or a flower
while each passing day
adds a wrinkle to your skin

 

This poem by Joyce Sutphen begins:

Origami

It starts
with a blank sheet,
an undanced floor,

air where no sound
erases the silence.
As soon as

you play the first note,
write down a word,
step onto the empty stage,

… for the full poem click here.

 

Lastly, here is one that I wrote:

        Origami Swan



                            your
                           t
                              i
                                n
                                 y
     origami criticisms
      will never fold me
           into a swan

© 2023, Tracey Kiff-Judson

 

So ... "origami criticisms" made perfect sense to me when I wrote it (criticisms that are like origami, i.e. repetitive little creases/folds/digs), but upon rereading, it sounds like criticisms of origami, which is not what I meant.  Ah well, an imperfect poem --

and to go with the imperfect poem, my imperfect origami swan that went horribly wrong somewhere around fold 24.   : )

If you’d like to give the origami star a try, click here for instructions.  For the swan, click here (just don't look at my swan for reference!).  Most likely, you will make one much better than mine!

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Welcome to November and to Poetry Friday! 

Please visit our Poetry Friday host Buffy Silverman, who shares some pre-winter wonders and this week's roundup!

 

From me, just a short video and commentary about a millipede that I met on the street ...

Millipede

 

Millipede struts, and she’s

never a klutz with her

toes ticking lightly in time.

 

Thinks she’s von Furstenberg –

more like "the Worst-enberg!”

Vanity should be a crime.

© 2023 Tracey Kiff-Judson

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Happy Poetry Friday! 

For this week's roundup and some batty fun, visit Carol Labuzzetta at The Apples in My Orchard and wish Carol a Happy Birthday!

 

It’s That Time of Year

 

Last night a troll rap-tapped my door,

holding out an empty sack.

I shooed him off and said, “Goodnight!”

A minute later he was back.

 

This time he brought a Pikachu.

They stared at me, their bags outstretched.

I tossed in candy, and they left.

What’s going on?  Is this far-fetched?

 

BING-BONG-BING!  My doorbell chimed.

Again, I schlepped to my front door.

A mermaid and a rubber duck

threw stubby shadows on my floor.

 

These strangers only left in peace

when plied with full-sized candy bars.

Again, again the doorbell BONGED.

They started pulling up in cars.

 

Turtles, ninjas, ninja turtles,

Barbie, Ken, The Joker, Hook,

Elivs, Woody, Cousin It,

a lipstick in a pocketbook...

 

Alice and the Queen of Hearts,

a sumo wrestler, Pete The Cat,

Uncle Sam, a witch, a shrew,

a dragon, and a toothy bat…

 

Spiderman and Peter Pan,

a blow-up beach ball on a beach,

Coraline and Frankenstein,

Mario and Princess Peach.

 

At nine, the last bunch rang my bell –

a gaggle of racoon-eyed ghouls.

I bet you think it’s Halloween.

Well, it’s not. 

 

                      It’s …

            APRIL FOOLS'!

© 2023 Draft Tracey Kiff-Judson

(Perhaps this would have been better timed in APRIL?!)

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Happy Poetry Friday! 

Thank you to Bridget at wee words for wee ones for hosting this week’s roundup, where you will find a dance party going down!

This week, I was playing around with sounds and meter in an attempt to come up with a nonsense poem, and I wondered …

  • What makes something nonsense verse?
  • Who are the most well-known nonsense poets?
  • Is there a poet who was well-known, but so terrible at writing poetry that people considered his/her work to be nonsense?

Let's discuss! 

After poking around, it became clear to me that there are different interpretations of what qualifies as nonsense verse.  I found multiple descriptions:

  • Comical rhyming poetry (in general),
  • Silly rhyming verse where some of the content doesn’t make sense, such as many nursery rhymes (e.g. Hey-Diddle-Diddle), and
  • Verse where most of the words are made up, and although the overall construct sounds right to the ear, the verse may or may not make sense literally.

In other words, there seems to be a spectrum of nonsense verse ranging from:

              Humorous Verse ------------------------------------------------- Jibberish with rhyme and meter

 

Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, Mervyn Peake, Edward Gorey, Colin West, Dr. Seuss, and Spike Milligan are all listed by Wikipedia as well-known nonsense verse writers.  You may have heard of them all, but if you’d like a refresher, this article has poetry samples from most of them. 


sketch by Edward Lear

This brings me to Lewis Carroll.  “Jabberwocky” is what started me thinking about nonsense.  Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass pack a whole lot of nonsense, and on the surface, “Jabberwocky” sounds like total nonsense.  Here is the first stanza:

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


The Jabberwock, illustrated by John Tenniel, 1871

To me, Jabberwocky, feels like reading words in another language.  When strung together, the words feel like they should make sense.  It has a satisfying mouthfeel and flow.  One senses that there is a story line just beyond reach, and indeed there is.  Upon closer inspection, many of the words are blends of two words (portmanteaus), and the story seems to follow a typical hero’s journey.  For an analysis of the poem, look here.  For my taste, nonsense needs to flow and make enough sense to not be completely frustrating.

On to my last question: who is widely regarded as the worst poet of all time?  Several internet articles give that inauspicious honor to William Topaz McGonagall.  How does one become the worst poet?  Well, in McGonagall’s case, he wrote a poem about a bridge collapse and train wreck called “The Tay Bridge Disaster” (and other similarly-crafted works). 


Tay Bridge Disaster, a contemporary rendition, Wikipedia

 “The Tay Bridge Disaster” by William McGonagall starts:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

‘Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”

If you feel so inclined, you can read the rest of the poem here and more about McGonagall here.  I like the article’s reference to his “ill-advised imagery.”

All of the above, led me to write the following …

The Lonestie Wolfree and the Fervile Fletch

A lonestie wolfree hibbed by the swersh,
and foofed per dreebs devay.
She vonged for a titch and a frick-frack-frock,
but her bargle strowed reblay.

One day, she gloamed on a fervile fletch,
and beesh she mooged him sown.
Her mooging varged on the mincey fletch
and tetch belarved him floan.

Yes, agreed – utter nonsense!

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Happy Poetry Friday!  Continuing with my macabre October theme…

We’re on a camping trip in Transyl … er … PENNsylvania, and we’re staying at a campground where gnomes outnumber campers by a solid fifty to one. After what happened last night … I am not a fan of these diminutive dudes.

 

Opposite of an Ode to Gnomes

While walking on a woodland trail,
wee elfin creatures made of stone
appear and grin their winsome smiles…
I wish that I were not alone.

Oh, silly me!  They’re innocent.
They joke and pose in pointed hats!
Frozen with their vacant stares …
it not as if they’re vampire bats!

The sun has fallen from the sky.
I hope that I can make it home.
I’m think I’m on the safest path.
Oh, look – a darling, helpful gnome!

Morning dawns, and I awake.
My mind is dizzy, vision blurred.
I think I may have cut my head.
I feel confused; my speech is slurred.

I stumble weakly from the woods.
It's coming back … the memories flood.
Hey, there’s the gnome I met last night!
What’s on his lips?  Is that my … BLOOD?

Bwa-ha-happy Poetry Friday the 13th! 

Ok, after this clunker, you might be better off checking out Catherine's lovely poem

and review of Irene Latham's The Museum on the Moon,

at Poetry Friday: The Roundup is Here! – Reading to the Core

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October

October is the treasurer of the year,
    And all the months pay bounty to her store;
The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,
    And fill her brimming coffers more and more
But she, with youthful lavishness,
    Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,
And decks herself in garments bold
    Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.

~Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872 – 1906

     See the rest of the poem here.

Now that October has arrived, ‘tis open season on all things creepy and macabre.  As an aside, I’ve noticed a pattern -- my posts seem to rotate among: nonsensical, terrifying, and disgusting.  Somehow, this week, I have managed to combine all three.

A few days ago, I saw a ring of turkey vultures hanging in the murky, evening sky.  They usually circle lazily in a group of twenty or so, and they always stir a tiny pool of dread in the pit of my stomach.

Undertakers

 

          Turkey vultures circle death,

ring around a broken beast

          whispering its final breath.

Now begins the evening feast.

© Tracey Kiff-Judson 2023

You can enjoy a less gloomy Poetry Friday with Matt at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme! Stop by and learn The Thing to Know About Stargazing!
 

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OOOPS!  If you ended up on this post for Poetry Friday on October 20, 2023, please click here to get to the correct post.  Sorry for the confusion!

==================================================================

In researching the formation of earth, I went down a wormhole on the NASA website that ultimately led me to this video: TIMELAPSE OF THE FUTURE: A Journey to the End of Time 

WOW!  It projects the future at an exponentially increasing rate of speed from the year 2019 through the end of time.  It is lengthy (I guess it takes a while to travel through virtual eternity!), but it's mind-blowing. I recommend the entire video, but even if you watch just the first couple minutes, it is thought-provoking. 

It's also a lot to grasp – both intellectually and emotionally.  In the existence of the universe, only during pinpoint periods of time, can intelligent life exist -- and here we are!  The point in time when time ceases to exist (or at least becomes irrelevant) is hard to comprehend.  The thought of creating or jumping to a parallel universe is mind bending.  This video left me feeling the simultaneous pertinence and insignificance of this moment.

Pertinent Impermanence

 

A speck of time:

a flag flutter,

a leaf turn,

a minnow ripple,

a sunbeam,

each particle of now,

will not exist

in the future.

 

Nothing will be

exactly

as it is now

in the next

nanosecond.

 

I offer these minnows for your consideration.  : )

Time is fleeting!  Enjoy this Poetry Friday by visiting Jama at Jama’s Alphabet Soup!

 

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Photo by Jørgen Håland on Unsplash

 

Thanks to Marcie Flinchum Atkins, I have fallen in under the spell of the double dactyl. As Marcie referenced in her recent blog post, the double dactyl was popularized in the 1960’s in the publication Esquire magazine and later in the collection Jiggery-Pokery: A Compendium of Double Dactyls, edited by Anthony Hecht and John Hollander.

Double Dactyl Form Rules:

  • 2 stanzas of dactylic verse, usually with a silly tone
  • Stanza 1:
    • line 1 – a jingle or "spell," in the meter /uu/uu   (DUM-da-da   DUM-da-da)
    • line 2 – a name, in the meter /uu/uu
    • line 3 – information about the person, in the meter /uu/uu
    • line 4 – meter /uu/       (DUM-da-da-DUM)
  • Stanza 2:
    • line 5 – meter /uu/uu
    • line 6 – meter /uu/uu
    • line 7 – meter /uu/uu
    • line 8 – meter /uu/ and must rhyme with line 4

where "u" is an unstressed beat/syllable, and "/" is a stressed syllable, so the meter has a DUM-da-da DUM-da-da rhythm.  DUM-da-da is called a "dactyl," so doubling gives the term "double dactyl."  

So here goes …

 

Booboo Baboingity

 

Springity sproingity,

Booboo Baboingity

Sprang from a bridge with a

Leap and a prayer.

 

Bungee cord snapped in two.

Last thing I heard was Boo

Yelling out something -- I

think was a swear.

 

Hmmm.  Maybe I had better keep practicing.

 

Happy Poetry Friday!  This week, be sure to stop by and visit Carol at Beyond LiteracyLink for all things poetic!

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“If a writer stops observing he is finished. Experience is communicated by small details intimately observed.”
― Ernest Hemingway

Many (dare I say most?) poems call attention to details, or as Irene Latham says, “Explode the moment.”  Many poets pay close attention to the visual details around them to gain inspiration for their poetry.  They observe and stash away snippets.  Then they are deviled by the details of sorting through the scraps of words that they have collected and stitching them together into a beautiful poem.

I have a “detail noticing” challenge for you, but first some background: when I was little, my mother would occasionally buy Games Magazine for me.  My favorite puzzle was a series of extremely close-up photographs.  The challenge was to identify the depicted object with just that visual snippet of information.  Through the magic of cropping, I present to you a series of such photos.  Feel free to guess the subject of each picture.  Observing the tiny details helps!

If you'd like a clue or two:

  1. Sipper
  2. Ache preventer
  3. Protector
  4. I’ve always felt this way
  5. That’s just how I roll
  6. Not kidney, not jelly, not garbanzo

How many did you figure out?  In case any of these eyeball benders have you stumped, you can find the answers at the end of last week’s blog post.

 

Here is a wonderful example of observing details – the poem “Winter Trees” by William Carlos Williams, which starts:

        All the complicated details

        of the attiring and

        the disattiring are completed!

        A liquid moon

        moves gently among

        the long branches.

to read the rest of Winter Trees, please click here.

 

To see the details observed by others this Poetry Friday, please visit our poetic host Rose at Imagine the Possibilities for this week's roundup.

 

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A couple of weeks ago, my son and I were playing around with our phone cameras trying out various night settings.  I think we captured the Milky Way in this picture because there were no clouds out that night.

The Rock Next Door to Mars

 

Can you hear me?

Can you see me?

Are you out there

‘tween the stars?

 

I’m here waving,

starlight saving,

on the rock next

door to Mars.

Photo and poem © Z. Judson and T. Kiff-Judson 2023

 

If you have an Android phone (not sure about Apple) and you download a camera extension app called “Expert RAW.”  It has an “Astrophoto” setting that will allow you to take longer-exposure night pictures.  We tried it with the August supermoon, but the moon was actually TOO bright and looked like the sun.  Happy star gazing!

Please visit the amazing Amy Ludwig Vanderwater at The Poem Farm for more Poetry Friday excitement!

 

The answers to The Devil's in the Details challenge:

  1. Looking down into a stemmed glass
  2. Toothpaste tube
  3. Metallic bubble wrap
  4. Felt-tipped markers
  5. Rolling pin
  6. Coffee beans

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Poetry Friday has arrived again!  This Friday, please visit Linda at TeacherDance for some poignant poetry posts.

My son brought this article to my attention.  It discusses the hypothetical question of whether Japan would have surrendered in WWII without the US dropping atomic bombs.  

The following image from the article struck me.

[US Air Force Photo, September 2, 1945]

It depicts a Japanese delegation onboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay. They are there to participate in a formal WWII surrender ceremony.  We know how WWII ends from US history books.  We may even be able to intuit some of the emotions of the US Servicemen in this picture, but what if we also pause momentarily to consider this scenario from the Japanese point of view?  Can we fathom the emotions of that stoic group of men?

 

I Surrender

 

I come to you in top hat, gloves, and starched collar.

I come to you with dignitaries, generals, and commanders.

I come to you in solemnity, humility, and defeat.

 

I will surrender.

I will sign your papers and submit to your photographs, but

I will not share with you my rage, my hopelessness, my pain.

 

Tracey Kiff-Judson, draft © 2023

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Poetry Friday!  Please visit Molly at Nix the Comfort Zone and enjoy all of the Poetry Friday fun!

 

It’s that time of year!

When I ride my bike through the woods from mid-July through mid-August, I am fortunate to pass through clouds of fragrant perfume from this flowering bush. I think it may be called Summersweet or Sweet Pepperbush (Google Lens identifies it as clethra alnifolia). It smells wonderful, vaguely of Prell shampoo (for those of you who recall Prell from childhood!).

Summer Sweetness

 

Licorice, pepper,

gardenia and spice.

What is this flower?

It’s not Edelweiss.

 

Bumblebees drawn in

by scents that entice.

This is the bloom

that’s become my new vice.

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Happy Poetry Friday! 

Please visit Tabetha at The Opposite of Indifference for more Poetry Friday goodness and a funny ending. 

 

Last week, I was fortunate to spend a few days with a friend who I haven’t seen in many years. I love that there is always something to talk about with people that you knew growing up. There is so much shared history that you can converse with ease – even if you haven’t seen each other in decades.

 

Reconnecting

 

High School Concerns:

making the cut,

whether these jeans look weird,

the Chemistry test.

 

Today’s Concerns:

our children’s happiness,

whether this mole looks weird,

the Climate test.

 

Joyful Constants:

your smile crinkles,

shared memories,

the way you say, “This is delightful!”

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One week ago, I was in my bedroom reading and enjoying the coolness of evening. My husband was working on a computer backup in the next room.  I noticed our dog, Bean, barking in the backyard.  I didn’t think much of it.  She often finds a squirrel very upsetting, lets out a string of dog profanity, and then goes about her business. 

This time, her cursing extended into a full-blown tirade.  I heard my husband go outside and call her into the house.  A few seconds later, the bedroom door opened, and my husband said, “Do you smell anything on Bean?”

I called her over, put my nose on her head, and inhaled deeply.  The stench was so overwhelming that I felt woozy. 

My husband said, “I think she might have found a skunk,” and pulled the bedroom door shut. 

Bean and I stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.  We silently agreed that the best short-term solution was for me to ignore the problem.  She went over to her dog bed and began the work of licking off the skunk spray.  (In retrospect, letting her lick skunk spray was probably a horrible idea!)  I resumed reading my book.  This arrangement worked for approximately forty-five seconds, which coincidentally, is the exact amount of time it takes skunk smell to permeate every fiber of every fabric in a room.

I bolted out of the room and said, “We have to do something!  I don’t have any tomato juice, but I can give her a bath in tomato sauce and canned tomatoes.”

My husband and I blinked at each other, our eyes now watering from the smell.  

I said, “Maybe we should ask Google if there is a better solution.”

My husband scanned several articles and announced, “Says: tomato juice doesn’t work.  We need hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap.”

Yes!  These are items that we always have on hand.  I began rummaging through the closet looking for hydrogen peroxide. 

Rubbing alcohol – too strong. 

Mineral oil – too oily. 

Witch Hazel (circa 1995) – why did I buy this? 

Not one drop of peroxide.  

Sigh.  My husband drove off to the 24-hour drugstore in the next town.  Bean and I stared at each other again.  I gave her a long lecture that went, “No, no, no skunks.  Skunks stink.  Pee-ew.  Now you stink.  Pee-ew.  No, no, no skunks.”  Bean blinked.  She licked her leg as if to say, “Look, I’m working on it.”

Thirty minutes later, with the house now smelling like it belonged to a family of skunks (how does the smell MULTIPLY?), we were armed with three small spray-bottles of hydrogen peroxide (‘cause apparently, “That’s all they had.”).  I popped off the spray triggers and dumped the peroxide into a bowl with the required amounts of baking soda and dish soap. 

I lathered Bean up and let her sit in the mixture for a minute while my husband removed the covering from her dog bed and stuffed it in the washer.  After thoroughly rinsing and toweling down Bean, her stench had indeed decreased by, I would estimate, a solid 3%.  Sigh.

The three of us gave up and went to bed stinky.  The next morning, we were still stinky.  One week later ... still stinky.

 

For this Poetry Friday, a handy recipe and a mini ode:

 

Skunk Stink Remover

  • 1 quart of hydrogen peroxide
  • ¼ c baking soda
  • 1 t dish soap

Mix ingredients in a bowl.  Pour over dog and scrub thoroughly.  Rinse.  Notice no difference.  Wash dog with shampoo.  Notice the smell of skunk paired with the smell of shampoo.  Wash everything in the house that the dog has even stood near, including bed linens, curtains, and the clothes that you are wearing.  Open every window in the house.  Wait one week, maybe two.  You should notice some improvement.

 

Mini Ode to a Skunk

 

I sense your presence all throughout the day.

Your fragrance flits upon the evening air.

I drift to sleep and dream about the way,

You dwell within my clothes, my home, my hair.

 

To get your Poetry Friday fix, visit Jan Godown Annino's blog BookSeedStudio for Jan's planted words, a dragonfly, and this week’s roundup!

Poetry Friday

 

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I know that I have no right to feel upset because before I was born, I imagine that someone cut down trees to build our house, but today I lament as I listen to a succession of falling trees.  I know that I have contributed to the pollution of the air and the contamination of water.  The air hangs with smoke from distant wildfires and the global temperature may again soar to a new record high.  I worry about the Swomee-Swans, the Brown Bar-ba-loots, and the Humming Fish.  Where will they go, now that the air is not clean and the grass is not green?

Buzzzzzz, CRACK, Swish, THUMP

 

The Man watches from the road in his sunhat with his hands on his hips.

He smiles a satisfied smile.

Buzzzzzz, CRACK, swish, THUMP.

 

I approach and ask him how many trees he is cutting down.

He grins and says, “Thirty-two and some are pretty big!”

I say, “How sad.  They must be very old.”

Buzzzzzz, CRACK, swish, THUMP.

 

We both stare into the decimated forest with hands on our hips.

As smoke from distant wildfires browns the air,

I wish for the Lorax to pop out of a stump.

Buzzzzzz, CRACK, swish, THUMP.

 

No Lorax.

Buzzzzzz, CRACK, swish, THUMP.

 

Please visit Margaret at Reflections on the Teche to see her ruby-red, delicious poem: Ode to Molly's Strawberry Jam and Poetry Friday poems from many friends.

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Last night at 9:30 PM, a friend texted and urged us to come see the fireflies on a trail near his house.  We raced there to view the display.  Thousands of tiny lights hovered above the darkened path.  It was truly spectacular, like Christmas in July. 

I tried to record the show on video, but my camera could only capture the closest lights, not the tunnel of flickering sparks fading to infinity.  Maybe you can hear the twanging, bluegrass frog-band that accompanied the visual fireworks?

flashbulbs pop at dusk

scattered specks of light beckon

fireflies seek romance

          Haiku and Video © 2023 Tracey Kiff-Judson

 

For more Poetry Friday fun and this week's roundup, head to Linda Mitchell’s fantastic blog: A Word Edgewise!

 

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Thank you to the always-supportive Marcie Flinchum Atkins for hosting this week’s Poetry Friday roundup.  Please visit her blog to see her gorgeous nature photos and for more Poetry Friday poems.

Yesterday, I rode my bike earlier in the day than usual.  A morning ride beats the afternoon mugginess, but also affords the opportunity to see morning critters.  A baby Garter snake slithered off the side of the road when it heard the crunch of my tires.  A chubby rabbit bolted across a field of grass.  A tiny snapping turtle bit my sneaker when I tried to nudge it to the side of the road.   

The day before, I saw three crayfish crossing the road near a stream.  Why not stay in the water through the tunnel that goes under the road? Why climb up to the road and risk the vulnerability of crossing on pavement?  I wonder. 

I also saw these ghostly plants growing along the road.  I don’t know what they are, and I couldn’t ask the question in a way that would get Google to tell me.  Maybe some kind of fungus?  Maybe you know them?

 

rising from gnarled leaves

surprising among earth tones

ghost of a lily

Strawberry Moon

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I am excited to join in the Poetry Friday fun! This week’s roundup is hosted by Irene Latham. Please visit Irene’s website https://irenelatham.blogspot.com/ for her roundup of moon poems.

For additional information on Poetry Friday, please see Renee LaTulippe’s post.

Strawberry Moon

Rosy-cheeked
Strawberry Moon,
what cosmic cataclysm
wrought your craters
and left you
seeded and
stunned?

 

© 2023 Tracey Kiff-Judson

 

On Saturday, June 3, Connecticut was supposed to see the 2023 Strawberry Moon, but sadly, it was overcast when I when I peeked out at the nighttime sky. According to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, the name “Strawberry Moon” was used by Native American Algonquian tribes to refer to the full moon in June, which is strawberry season in the northeastern US. The Almanac also says that the name does not refer to the color of the moon, but sometimes, when you catch the June full moon just after sunset, it shines like a sun-warmed strawberry.

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Category: Blog

Our last two dogs, Sugar and Bean, were nothing alike in their outward appearance. Sugar was a gorgeous, yellow lab mix who was obedient, loyal, and a fetcher among fetchers. Bean, judging from her appearance and behavior, may be a cross between a cheetah and a giraffe – unlikely combo, I know. She is naughty and fast, and her neck measures nearly half of her body length.

Although they differ in many ways, Sugar and Bean share one unusual characteristic: both pups smile. If you have never seen a dog sporting a “passive grin,” as the vet calls it, it can be alarming. I think it is an unusual trait, but we have been blessed with two smilers. Sugar is no longer with us, but if you meet Bean, be prepared for a wag of her tail and a flash of her pearly whites.

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Category: Blog

While going for a bike ride through the woods of CT yesterday, the air was heavy with the smoke from forest fires in Canada. 

“ What? Canada?  Isn’t Canada cool, wet, and immune from forest fires of that magnitude ?” you ask.  

Apparently not, at least not any more.  [See this website from the Canadian government for details on current fire conditions in Canada.]

To complicate matters, as forests are destroyed, those trees are no longer available to pull carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, potentially speeding climate change.  [See this article reporting on Boston University research.]

What can the average Josephine do to help slow climate change?  This site lists several actions to help reduce our energy consumption, such as:

  • Whenever feasible, use mass transit, ride a bike, or drive an electric vehicle for transportation (though there is debate over whether electric vehicles offer the benefit hoped).
  • Switch to renewable energy sources (e.g., solar, wind) whenever possible.
  • Ensure that our homes are well-insulated.
  • When replacing appliances, select those with high energy efficiency ratings.
  • Support local businesses that use sustainable business practices.
  • I would add that citizens can speak out and ask their local governments to adopt sustainability initiatives.  In CT, an organization, called 

Sustainable CT, tracks each town’s voluntary efforts toward becoming a more sustainable community.  Other states and cities have similar organizations.

What can the average Josephine do to help slow climate change?

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Category: Blog

When you mention a Highlights retreat, everyone stops to listen. In Boyd’s Mill, PA, a magical place hides in the woods. If you visit, you will discover: acres of trees parted by hiking trails, a bubbling brook, cozy cabins, barns, libraries, locally sourced meals, fellow artists, peace.

In April, 2023, I traveled to this place. Note to travelers: beware of the speed trap in NY, 5.8 miles prior to Boyd’s Mills. Harrumph. I attended a children’s poetry retreat instructed by Irene Latham and Charles Waters. Charles and Irene set the tone for supportive, thoughtful discussions on writing, poetry, and children’s literature.

Being rather shy, I anticipated sitting at a lunch table by myself, listening more than speaking, and quickly retreating to my cabin at night, but this place, these people would have none of that.

My days were filled with lively instruction and discussions, renowned guest speakers, hot meals with a new of group people that felt like old friends, a campfire with banjo playing, thank you, Dean, and nights of sound sleep with extra quilts on my bed.

After the learning, laughter, and admittedly a few tears, I left brimming with purpose. Cautiously driving 29 MPH through Tusten, NY, I made my way home believing that people who write poetry for children are the kindest people in the world, and that Highlights brings out the best in people.

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