Hummingbirds

A hummingbird sits

upon the feeder
taking a sugary sip.

Along comes another
hummer and now
the two of them take a dip.

The hummers start to flit away
the feeder starts to tip and sway.
'It is a windy day
for trying to feed hummers.

      My mother's favorite bird was a hummingbird.  She had figurines, candles, plates, tiles, even a stained glass window with hummingbirds.  I always feel a little closer to her when I see a hummingbird.  Today they have been darting around the feeder outside my window.  They sit on the feeder and watch me.  I can see the long thin beak open and close, as if the bird is talking to me.
      What is your favorite bird?  Can you write a poem about a bird?  Have fun.

Rainbows

There is something
magic about
rainbows.


I'm sure
a scientist
could provide
a formula
for wave lengths
of light
and an explanation
for bending rays
a prism
of color
and how rain
and sunshine
make the rainbow.

But for me
I'd rather
think
about the beauty
of the colrs
and the magic
a rainbow
makes
me feel.


     How does seeing a rainbow make you feel?  Can you write a poem about that?

Native Artist

NATIVE ARTIST IN ECUADOR

She paints nuts—

Brazilian, pecan, hazel, buckeye—

Hard-shelled beauties.

Her soft hands

Add warmth and sheen

To the dark shells

As she sands the surface,

Then brushes the colors

Of butterflies, lizards, toucans.

When, as her brush gets finer

She paints whole scenes--

Women in white blouses

With skirts the colors of her tropical flowers

Bright pink, orange and turquoise

More radiant than sun shining on waves.

The native men in her pictures

Wear wide round hats to protect their brown skin

From the sun. On their feet

A fine one-hair brush paints

Black stripes of huaraches, the soles

from used, old bus tires.

The people she paints carry

Guitars, drums and pipes

Fipple flutes—the siku, kena, and pinkillo.

She sells the nuts on the street.

Some tourists crack them

to eat the soft meat inside.

YES!

OK, we're trying this again.  The text reads:

I fly

on a zip line

through the trees.

YIPEEEE!

          This is a concrete poem in that the final letter is supposed to make a zip-line through the poem.  I recently read an article about one of Elizabeth Bishop's concrete poems and the author made the point that in the days before computers the poet had to position each letter on the typewriter platen.  I'm not so sure it would be harder because I often end up at odds with the computer program that wants to take out spaces, wrap, or put the lines hard left.  Hence, I drew what I wanted and then took a picture.  

          This poem is also an acrostic.  The last letter of each of the first three lines forms a word--the title of this poem.  For such a short little poem, I'm not sure if it isn't more trouble than it is worth, but I'll keep trying to get it right.  Have a great Sunday.

Rain Again!

It's raining outside my window.
I can hear its pitter pat.
It's raining out the window
as I sit here with the cat.

The rain is bouncing on the glass
making all a blur.
It's raining out the window
while the cat sleeps here and purrs.

It's raining out the window
and all is getting wet.
I stroke the cat and watch her
stretch, she's such a lovely pet.

Memory Poem

Knocking

Cycling in fifth grade

I pedaled a ride

with the girl scout troop.

The leader's

dimpled daughter,

with the platinum pageboy,

Loyal, bicycled first.

Packed in the middle

I was told

not to go ahead

of her complaining

I went too fast for

her aching knees.

The troop leader took

the rear

though there was nothing

to fear because she was

the only one

to go so slowly.

For two hours

I turned my wheels

to the sounds

of Loyal's silky, taunting,

"You can't' go ahead of me."

"You mustn't go in front."

"Do NOT go beyond me."

Her words a rasp--

the cheese grater

biting into my skin.

Finally,

I'd had enough

of NOTs and CAN'Ts,

wanting to feel

wind through my hair,

I made my dash--

pedaled for freedom

fast as I could

raced to my house,

hid in the closet.

Mother was shopping.

Loyal's mother chased.

She pumped so hard

her pedal pushers

showed the sweat.

Panting,

she knocked on my door.

My older sister answered

said I wasn't home.

Lately I've been working on some memory poems about things that happened when I was a kid.  Can you write a poem about something that happened to you today?  This morning there was a lizard running around in my bedroom.  I couldn't catch him. Every time I'd get close, he would scoot away.  I was trying to be careful because I didn't want him to drop his tail in fright.  I finally just opened the door to the outside and chased him to the doorway and he found his way out.  I'm thinking about that poem.  My friend Sally Buckner told me that Theodore Roethke had things he called thinkies the beginning thoughts for poems.  I think this event is a thinkie.  Have a good time writing. 

FEET

Mom has pretty feet with rosy painted toes.
Dad has hairy feet that curls as his hair grows.
Baby has feet with nails that Mommy has to clip.
I have two strong feet to run and jump and skip.

Cats have feet, we call them paws
and puppies have them too.
Fish have fins, they don't have feet.
Oh what is a fish to do?

Ducks and frogs have webbed feet,
for swimming these are best.
Birds have thin, long spindly feet
to fly twigs to their nest.

How do snakes and worms move
since they do not have feet?
My mom she likes them all
but hates our muddy feet.

     I wrote this poem about feet.  Can you write one about hands?  What can you hold in your hand?  How does a snake shake hands?  Have fun writing.