Skagit Valley Tulip Festival

Tulips – La Conner Washington

Red, pink and yellow
on the distant horizon
like a rainbow mirage
beckons flower-hunters.

Textured strips of wine, crimson
magenta, plum, canary
blanket the fields
a crocheted afghan of color.

Packed clay borders
teem with beauty-seekers.
Couples walk hand-in-hand.
Old women push walkers

over the lumpy earth
beside middle-aged daughters
pleased to have given Mom
her springtime outing.

A young mother poses her little girl
in a storybook of princess pink.
The dark-skinned family are chocolate sprinkles
against a confection of yellow.

All the while photographers
tap smart phones and tablets
focus and click pocket-sized digitals
the serious weighted down

with tripods and equipment
peer through their blunt snouts of lenses
into cups and bowls, take with them
images of undersides and private rooms.

In April the fields of La Conner
are awash, a-drift, a-wonder
with spring’s one month miracle—
the resurrection of tulips!

© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly

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This week hubby and I took a mid-week break to go across the line and visit La Conner, Washington, part of the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival. What a thrill for this camera-toting flower-lover.

The collage contains a tiny sample of my photos. (In the days ahead, I’ll be sharing more at my photoblog, promptings 2).

The poem above is so new the ink is still wet on it, which means it is very much a first draft, but I feel like sharing the enjoyment during tulip season. The Skagit Valley Tulip Festival continues to the end of April.

This poem is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by Laura Salas at Writing the World for Kids.

Adolescent spring

Spring is truly on its way where I live—something that makes poem-writing in April a lot easier. This is one of my poem-a-day efforts from this week along with the scene that inspired it.

This post is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by  Diane Mayr at Random Noodling.

Houston Trail – Langley BC

“…branches arc…”

Peacock ferns, prehistoric, lush
draw us into the dim, cedar-canopied wood.
Uprooted trunks sprawl, branches arc,
snapped limbs leap in frozen pirouettes.
Slim apparitions forever grope, reach, grasp
a menagerie of many-appendaged moon monsters
sculpted from dripping filigree
and moss macramé.

Victim of the spell
in Mother’s warning:
“If you frown like that
your face will stay that way,”
the forest’s pose is fixed.
But time has softened the arboreal grimace
muffled the keening of the wind
with hangings of verdant chenille,
knitted blankets, sweaters,
hats and gloves of lime angora
for the slumbering
arms, stumps and claws.

© 2004 – Violet Nesdoly

“…apparitions forever grope, reach, grasp…”

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I live near rainforest. Some of my favorite walks are through woods beside the Fraser River. I’ll never forget the first time I walked the Houston Trail—a loop walk through the most mossy woods I’ve ever seen. It looked like a forest minefield draped in green. The poem above is my memory of that walk.

On Sunday I walked another trail near that one and again moss was everywhere. I wrote the poem some years ago. I took the photos on Sunday.

This poem is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by Greg at GottaBook

fog

penetrates
cold through jackets
bites into boots and gloves
grips bones
greedy for more
breathes on windows
slips under doors

muffles traffic’s roar
with cotton batting
drivers grope
through the tulle
maneuver cautious
past blurred landscapes
strain to see crimson
pinpricks ahead
standards looming
green, yellow, red

weakens under
distant globe
like consciousness
after a coma
colour seeps back
into earth-corpse
a blush
of pastel happiness
to clarity
then the brilliance
of hope
dissipating depression

© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly

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We are in the season of fog. Though our winter has been milder than many, we often have day after day of the stuff. I don’t mind fog, though it does have a way of poking shivers through jackets, it’s nasty to drive in, and when it lingers and lingers, I do feel a sort of cabin fever, even outside. What’s wonderful about fog is how suddenly and unexpectedly it can clear… like some other types of weather.

“fog” is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by the very hospitable (she has tea!) April Halprin Wayland at Teaching Authors.

Full Moon Almanac

Full Moon Almanac

Wolf Moon
lights snow-blue fields
embossed with paw print trails
to where January ghosts howl
Ice Moon

Snow Moon
February’s
bluster winds heap white dunes
We’ve stocked the cupboard full against
Storm Moon

Worm Moon
March’s wiggly
trails of melt, then Crust Moon
Spring so white and pure we call her
Chaste Moon

Pink Moon
wild flowers bloom
as April birds return
to build twig nest, lay a sky blue
Egg Moon

Flower
Moon of May
Bunnies hop in Hare Moon
Farmers dream Planting Corn Moon and
Milk Moon

Rose Moon
Strawberry Moon
of June when hard green fruits
soften, blush under sun’s rays, night’s
Hot Moon

Buck Moon
July’s the time
to hunt, replenish stores
then sleep secure through Thunder Moon
Hay Moon

Red Moon
August’s smoky
skies color Sturgeon Moon
while green Corn Moon sprouts, promises
Grain Moon

Harvest
Moon, September
lights nights of bringing in
oats and wheat under Barley Moon
Corn Moon

Hunter’s
Moon, roam under
October’s Travelers
Moon, stalk prey in frosty Dying
Grass Moon

Beaver
Moon, the busy
rodents mend their dams in
icy blue November’s grip of
Frost Moon

Cold Moon
lights Christmas paths
December’s carollers
so bright you could forget it’s Long
Night Moon

Blue Moon
rare-month moon
when full moons multiply
their charm, mystery, magnetism
My Moon

- Violet Nesdoly

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The November 2nd Poem-A-Day prompt was to write a full moon poem. I know there’s a lot of interesting lore about moons—full moons in particular. So I went hunting for some before I wrote my poem. My favorite find was a wonderful National Geographic article called “Full Moon: What’s in a Name?” It listed names the full moon has been called in lore and history through the months of the year, and gave the genesis of many of these names.

I wrote the poem in cinquain form (a 2-4-6-8-2 syllable cinquain) to keep myself reined in and the poem compact—seeing as how it would go on for 13 stanzas in any case.

This poem is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted today by kidlit maven Anastasia Suen at Book Talking.

Leisure these days

I’ve been keeping up with the November Poem-A-Day poetry prompts at Poetic Asides. Yesterday’s was  “Talk back to a dead poet. Choose a poem you like by a poet who is no longer living and offer a rebuttal.”

I chose the poem “Leisure” by W. H. Davies (1871-1940).

Here is the original:

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

- W. H. Davies

My talk-back poem is more a reflection than a rebuttal. Some days I’d definitely prefer Davies’ brand of leisure. But, then, who can entirely resist ‘progress’?

Leisure these days

I think I’ll pass on woods and grass
if my connection’s nice and fast.

Ignore lithe Beauty’s dancing feet
as Google serves me sure and fleet.

Watch girl in sidebar smile or scowl
and not that pensive sheep or cow.

See YouTube arrow turn to bars
instead of watching squirrels and stars.

The stream of stars that I prefer
Netflix delivers all the year.

What good is life and what’s it worth
without the time to sit and surf?

- Violet Nesdoly (November 8, 2012)

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I’m offering this poem to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by the dauntingly clever Ed DeCaria. Come on over to Poetry Friday: Findability, Discoverability, and Marketing to sample dozens of poetic offerings from the Kidlitosphere and beyond.

Duck Pond Primary

A solitary heron is the pond’s pundit

Crows are campaigning
for the abolition of eagles and hawks.
Starlings are a pollster’s nightmare
can’t make up their minds about anything.
Ducks hang around the path
in true socialist fashion:
Why get ambitious when most walkers
carry birdseed or bags of bread?
A solitary heron is the pond’s pundit
but he doesn’t look optimistic.
Chickadees with their happy-go-lucky
pine-branch somersaults and games of tag
are surely too frivolous to vote.
But most of the forest
from robins and waxwings to flickers and jays
go about their business giving nothing away.
Expect a surprise or two come election day.

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

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Even though I live in Canada, I have been following the run-up to the U.S. election with great interest. With it being only days away, I thought of “Duck Pond Primary” which I wrote last May around the time of the Canadian federal election when, after being subjected to interviews, campaign ads, signs, predictions, debates, polls and more polls, even the world of birds began to look political!

I submit this poem to Poetry Friday, hosted today by Donna at Mainely Write.

Migration

Snow against the waiting bulkhead

Migration

A little fog, a little snow
a little icy rain
has grounded all the iron birds
till weather clears again.

A mighty fall of passengers
now fills the airport lounge
an unexpected stopover
to water and to scrounge.

Their tickets said it was nonstop
but leading lines of weather
interrupt diurnal flight—
at least they are together.

They hope the flyway opens soon
to the next staging post
till then they text and read and roost
while dreaming of that coast.

- Violet Nesdoly

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A couple of flights over the last while have proved to me again how weather-dependent flying still is. Last week we were delayed hours by a little fog, and it will only get worse as fall and winter’s grip tighten. Bon vol!

This poem is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem… (Irene has just published a new novel – Don’t Feed the Boy! - Congratulations Irene!!)

Shutting down

I took this photo on a September holiday several years ago. It’s a lake along the Sunshine Coast Highway, between Sechelt , B.C. and the Earl’s Cove ferry terminal. It was perfectly still; the air was absolutely breathless. That sense of peace, as in rest from labour and waiting is what I often feel on fall days.

This poem is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted today by Marjorie at Paper Tigers.

Prairie Autumn

Diane’s post about wild geese on Random Noodling last Poetry Friday reminded me of this poem. Are the geese doing their autumn flypast where you live?

This post is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Diane at Random Noodling