A POTATO FORK POEM
(for Brenda)
.
Fellow forks, beware!
Do stay away from here!
Brenda takes us
then she breaks us.
Oh tremble! Feel fear!
Come only if you dare!
.
Digging rocks and boulders
(Putting bodies in the ground?)
Brenda will abuse you
Aggressively use you
Your handle’s snapping sound
Means you won’t get older.
.
Forks, do NOT come near!
Get the fork out of here!
I’ve been working on a book of high school poetry units this summer. I’ve been adapting lessons I’ve used for years. I had to write a lot of poems as examples for all the poetry forms (since I don’t have permissions to publish other people’s work). I wrote this Ottava Rima, but decided its tone was too negative to include in the book. I wrote a second Ottava Rima using all the same rhymes that is poetry positive, but I thought you might enjoy this one. 🙂
Ottava Rima form requires:
Teacher Woe
Some get to choose if they should write a poem
While others do not get to have a say
They write when teacher says and so they moan
“I do not want to write a poem today.”
They talk in class, but do not work at home.
The assignment’s ignored so they can play
When poems are handed in, then some will cry,
“I didn’t write. Why-oh-why didn’t I?”
there is space here
enough for me
enough for you
if you’re kind, thoughtful
and respectful; we have room.
you don’t have to be beautiful
or conform to notions of who you should be
so long as others’ genuine needs
are okay with you,
too.
Ramona spent the weekend racing around
The agility arena with her latest training partner,
Sewing personalized dog coats for friends,
Feeding a platoon of poodles
And a concert of birds,
Laughing,
Doing,
Playing.
Ramona didn’t dwell on the degeneration
That made most days painful;
She didn’t focus on the losses,
The quotidian agonies of aging.
I posted a plaintive photo, poor dog begging,
“Play with me, Mom?”
Ramona typed back, “So why aren’t you playing?”
Mere hours later, Ramona left the earth.
Her last words to me ring a challenge
Amid these pain-filled days. We have just one life to embrace
What brings us joy. Despite all the grief,
The sun still rises; there are things to do. Today, find time
to play.
.
.
.
Rest in Peace, Ramona Stirling
“We don’t know
what we’re doing next,”
they said.
“Just expect
that you’ll catch the virus,
so leave instructions at your desk.
“There may be no one
to cover your job;
sorry about that.
“Don’t let uncertainty (or fear of death)
dull your passion
for the work.
“We so appreciate
everything
you do.
“Don’t worry, just relax;
what doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger.”
.
(This is a triversen poem. Each stanza is three lines that make a complete sentence)
I am zipped up in Daddy’s green sweater.
Mom knitted, purled, cabled together
some semblance of love.
He wore it with joy almost every day,
telling all admirers how it was made with love.
It’s wrapped around me,
but it’s not his firm arms,
not his smell (which wasn’t peppermint
or aftershave, but just him),
not his whisper in my ears,
Love you so much.
How can another year have past
without him? How can a sweater
be both so full
and so bereft of him?
In an alternate Earth
injustices do not exist.
The universe feeds liars
to tyrannosauri rex,
which devour slowly
or quickly as befits.
Beyond us
the world has gone
swallowed in grey
a haze that glows orange
at night, around the edges that once
were mountains.
We cannot breathe.
Beyond us
the world has gone.
.
.
.
.
Purpleair.com reports our air quality has improved today. We’re down to 389 from 450s (out of 500) earlier in the week. Still “extremely hazardous.” Wildfires are most unpleasant, particularly where valleys converge and smoke from several fires gathers. The smoke is visible in the street and yards. 254 active fires in our province, over 40% of them out of control. 4 large fires in our local region. Thousands of people evacuated or on alert. Hoping for a weekend of lightning-less rain to wash the sky and allow for deep breaths again! Our lovely 30 degree Celsius summer is wasted when one can’t be outside.
In the porch light
ash is illuminated
specks of falling sky
pieces of evergreen needles
drop onto my arm
leave lines of black.
It hurts to breathe this grey air;
forests blazing hurt the heart.
Pray for rain, or better, snow.
(because, you know, snow
doesn’t bring lightning
or more fire).
Shawn L. Bird 