janice.scully – Page 19 – SALT CITY VERSE

Snowflakes

Welcome to Poetry Friday, today hosted by Linda Baie at TeacherDance . Thank you, Linda, for hosting!

Happy Thanksgiving week, even as many, including myself, won’t see their children. But I am happy to help the effort to control the pandemic. We’re all well and I’m grateful for that. I hope all of you and you families are well, too.

As Nero fiddles, thousands of families are insecure in so many ways.

When I looked out the window today, I saw snow brightening my yard. It took my mind in another direction. I wrote a poem and took a picture of the snow, but it wasn’t cheerful or sparkly enough to share. So I found a more cheerful graphic, something Snowflake Bentley might admire, with wildly diverse snowflakes:

Here is my poem:

SNOWFLAKE

I am a snowflake
I fall from the sky,
float down all day,
meander and play.

I whiten the grass
trees and the street
tickle warm faces
with wet chilly feet.

I am a snowflake,
hear my shivery sigh?
Winter begins when I 
fall from the sky.

©Janice Scully 2020

Wilson A. Bentley (1865-1931), aka Snowflake Bentley, was a farmer in Jericho, Vermont, who loved snow. He loved it so much that he became the first person to ever photograph snowflakes. He captured more than 5,000 during his lifetime, no two alike. Part of the challenge, I imagine, was to keep them in solid state while he photographed them. He lived and died where he grew up.

Below is a print I bought when I visited his red barn museum several years ago followed by two haiku.

A Vermont farmer
saw something in snow--took it
quite seriously.


Did Snowflake Bentley
ever think that snowflakes
might be all the same?

Have a wonderful Holiday week. Stay healthy and safe! Thank you Linda for hosting.

A Peaceful Lake for a Tumultuous Time

Today is Poetry Friday and Robyn Hood Black is hosting at Life on the Deckle Edge. Be sure to stop by to see what she has in store for us. Thank you, Robyn, for hosting! I hope everyone is healthy and safe.

When I feel agitated, as I have been this week by yet more over-the-top political chaos, it helps to go outside and find peace in nature. Yesterday my husband and I went to a favorite place called Green Lake, a “meromictic” lake that is always a deep blue-green. It is protected by trees and so is usually calm, with trees and sky reflected photographically in its surface. The lake is 195 feet deep, created by a glacier long ago in the Finger Lakes region of New York.

What is a meromictic lake?

Briefly, it is a lake of three layers that never mix. Compared to the top surface layer, the bottom layer has a low oxygen content, a high salt content, and little light. A middle layer separates the two extremes. Depending on the oxygen, light and salt content, different organisms survive in the the three layers.

Most lakes, the great majority, are “holomictic” meaning that its surface and deep waters mix at least once a year. Meromictic lakes don’t mix because they are deep, have steep sides, and because the bottom waters are heavier, with salt. The Black Sea is the largest meromictic lake in the world.

I was there on a perfect fall day. The brighter leaves have fallen from trees around the lake, replaced by brown and rust colors. Beautiful changes. Here’s a haiku I wrote to share today.

Meromictic lake--
like neighbors in a highrise
its waters find peace.

Our hike around the lake was peaceful as I hope our country will be, at least relative to recent times, soon.

Have a wonderful day and weekend. I hope you all find peace wherever you go.

Thanks again, Robyn Hood Black, for hosting!

Vote by Mail

It’s Poetry Friday and today artist and writer, Susan Bruck is hosting at Soul Blossom Living. Thank you for hosting, Susan! Be sure to stop by and see what she has in store for us.

It’s been a busy week! A week of worry and waiting for the results of this important election to be finalized. I’d like to celebrate not just November 3rd being over, but the fact that we take voting in America seriously. I have been very impressed by those I’ve seen on TV who run state elections. They are amazing in their dedication at all levels.

I was grateful that I could cast a ballot by mail. I did it weeks ago. I thought today about the founders. What we are really doing when we cast a ballot? Connect with the idea of America? I wrote this to share:

A 2020 WAKE UP


Thanks
to the
The U.S
Postal Service,
millions and millions
of Americans place
ballots in boxes, circles
filled in, sealed, and carefully signed,
aware, maybe not, that they struggle 
to jostle sleepy Founders from their beds.
 
© Janice Scully 2020

For those who might not be familiar, though I know many who will read this are, this poetic form is and “etheree” and it’s easy to remember, and fun to write. All I needed is an idea and ten fingers.

It is composed of ten lines. The first line is one syllable and each line increases by one. I hope I counted right. Alternatively it can start with ten syllables and end with one syllable.

Have a great weekend as we all await final results. We still have functioning institutions in America, and I hope with this election they will be stronger, still.

Check out the link above for Soul Blossom Living as you peruse Poetry Friday posts. Thank you Susan for hosting!

Three Bird Haiku

Thank you, Linda Baie, for hosting Poetry Friday. Don’t forget to stop by TeacherDance and see what’s on Linda’s mind this week.

It’s the anxious time. States are trying to vote safely and struggling with the virus. I am trying to come up with small and more distant ways to acknowledge loved ones this holiday season. It’s just the way it is. We have to accept it.

For this post, I dusted off three bird haiku. This first one was chosen as one of the poems to be paired with an artist for the SYRACUSE POSTER PROJECT in 2013. Artist Carolyn Glavin, a student at Syracuse University at the time, illustrated it, which I thought was perfect. The photo doesn’t do the artist justice, but it’s a charming painting that I cherish.

cardinal, feathered
masked bandit on a snowy 
limb--all can see you

Here are two more haiku featuring birds:

the black white and red
woodpecker pecks a metal
pipe--he doesn't know.

a sudden robin
among the forsythia--
orange in yellow light

Thinking about birds this morning has taken my mind off the election for a short time. Out my window I see bright orange and yellow leaves which brightens an otherwise cloudy damp day.

To close, Happy Halloween 2020! I just read Lee Bennett Hopkin’s 1993 anthology RAGGED SHADOWS to celebrate. Inside these covers, as many teachers probably already know, are wonderfully eerie Halloween poems by legendary poets such as Karla Kuskin and Eileen Fisher and Valerie Worth.

Enjoy the weekend and be sure to stop by TeacherDance for more Poetry Friday inspiration with Linda Baie.

Hope for America

It’s Poetry Friday and make sure you check out Jama’s delicious offerings at Jama’s Alphabet Soup, here. Thank you so much, Jama, for hosting.

Today, while working on an INKTOBER prompt, I encountered the word “wisp.” (Notice I haven’t gotten too far down my list!)

I had already written a short poem using the word FISH, which I’ll share:

HORS D'OEUVRE PARTY

Salmon paté
on plates painted with fish—
to the eye was so fetching 
some guests ate the dish.

I like writing short and hopefully humorous poems, but when I came to the word WISP, I came up with something of a different tone. Today, I felt quite sad hearing the point of view of someone interviewed on NPR who had no hope. He’s not planning to vote. I understand, as best I can, why some, including many African Americans like the discouraged interviewee, might feel that way. But I hope he can change his mind.

I have several friends and family members who are painfully hopeful that things will improve. Painfully, because hope. though necessary, can make a person vulnerable. So those thoughts inspired a Golden Shovel poem.

Here’s a link that describes the Golden Shovel form. The last words in each line read vertically comprise are a quote from another poem. I needed a quote to use and also wanted poems with the word wisp for my Inktober prompt. I discovered poet Florence Maude. You can read her poem, LITTLE WISP OF HOPE, here.

In a previous post here, I mentioned British playwright Simon Stephens. He said that the only mature way to deal with tragedy is through optimism. That requires hope. So I wrote this thinking of friends and family who are on the edge of their seats, maintaining hope, this election.

TO MY FRIEND
A Golden Shovel Poem from a line in a poem by poet Florence Maude
“Little wisp of hope, I wish you would stay.”  



It seems that some, like you and me, other’s too, don’t feel in little


amounts; no mere wisp


of love for us passionate ones. No small sense of


injustice do we feel today about America. So, hope,


must always be in our hearts as well. I


can’t imagine, can you, love with no hope? Or a wish


for something that can never, ever be? No, you  


and me, we must imagine a better world and what it would


be like to have dreams like miracles that stay.

I hope everyone has a good weekend. Nine days till Halloween! Thank you Jama, again for hosting.

Poetry Friday, and a Thought from Thomas Carlyle

Welcome to Poetry Friday! This is my first time hosting and have looked forward to it. I’ve been away from my blog for month and my thoughts have been with teachers who are returning to their students.

There are madmen running the country but still I managed to write. Being away from my blog has confirmed what I knew, that being part of this group inspires me to write and learn.

I have added Mister Linky to my blog so I hope he does his job. Fingers crossed. If he doesn’t, just place your address in the comments section.

Seasons are changing, so a few photos to celebrate Fall. In Upstate New York, it’s a time of contrasts. Lots of gold, yellow and red on my walks. Even pink.

And Halloween is almost here. I have to figure out how I will greet trick or treaters this year when they come to my door. My pumpkin door hanging and my little scarecrow have returned:

It struck me that the sky yesterday was showing a concern for others:

There have been many quiet, lovely mornings this summer, and I wish somehow I could keep them with me, freeze a moment, make it last. Maybe because I am apprehensive of the solitude that will come with frigid weather, I treasured each summer and fall moment. That’s what inspired this short poem.

AT EIGHT O'CLOCK

I wish for time  
to slow and stop
on a Thursday morning
at eight o’clock

when rays of sunshine
ignite chartreuse trees,

and maple leaves wave 
their hands in the breeze,
while cardinals chattering
on perches, be.

For this singular moment
each second will steal,
as the day rolls on
like a movie reel.

© Janice Scully 2020

I’ll end with a quote that seems relevant, by nineteenth century writer Thomas Carlyle, about what I might be listening for in quiet moments. I discovered the quote in a wonderful book, The Discovery of Poetry by Frances Mayes, who is a poetry professor and author of Under the Tuscan Sun.

All deep things are Song. It seems somehow the very
central essence of us, Song; as if all the rest were
but wrappers and hulls! . . . See deep enough,
and you see musically; the heart of Nature being
everywhere music, if you can only reach it.

Thomas Carlyle

Have a wonderful week and my best to you in your writing and in your classrooms.

Lucky Rock

It’s Poetry Friday! Thank you, Kiesha Shepard at Whispers From The Ridge for hosting. This week she is sharing poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar that speak to the heart of what it means to be black in America.

I’m hoping for the best this fall, and think that we will need a lot of work and maybe a little luck to get through Covid, the election, and get our country back on track.

I’ve enjoyed being outside during this summer of social distancing, and one of my favorite places was Long Point State Park on Cayuga Lake. One day, I was given a lucky rock by a woman on the narrow beach. A lucky rock, apparently, is one in which a hole has been worn through it. Here are a few rocks I collected. See the holes in the top three?

I didn’t realize lucky rocks were a bonafide thing until on a later visit, another woman asked me if I’d found any lucky rocks.

So here’s a poem inspired by lucky rocks. And to celebrate summer.

LOST AND FOUND.

In early September,
on the shore of the lake,

buried in sand and shells sat
a velvety gray rock

with a hole piercing its
teardrop shape,

as if a mermaid
had lost her pendant. 

Many similar rocks
sprinkled the shoreline

like an end of summer
lost and found. 




© Janice Scully 2020

I am beginning an on-line workshop on novels in verse and so I won’t be posting this next month. Any progress on my WIP will require considerable focus, which has been difficult for me this summer. I hope all the teachers out there are well, successfully and happily returning to their work.

Thank you, Kiesha, for hosting!

Present Tense

It’s Poetry Friday, this week hosted by the talented Carol Valsalona on her blog, Beyond Literacy. Make sure you stop by and check out what she has in store this week. Thank you, Carol.

Two weeks ago, Carol made a request:

Poetry Friday Friends:
If so inclined, please share a new image poem on the topic, Summer 2020 in the Midst of Quarantine Life, at your blog for the September 4, 2020 Poetry Friday that I am hosting.  It will be a way to showcase the beauty of nature during trying times.

I have been celebrating the beauty of summer this week in my kitchen. With all the sun and rain in Syracuse, my generous neighbor’s garden has exploded with vegetables, especially tomatoes. It’s been a bright spot during the pandemic at my house.

I think this qualifies as an image that celebrates the beauty of nature, don’t you? I was indeed inundated, as the tomatoes were ripe and many could not wait to be cooked. Spaghetti and meat balls anyone?

Of course summer seems sweet partly because, at least where I live, it ends. I’ve been feeling nostalgic. A week of chilly weather, it seems as if summer never happened. This idea inspired this:

PRESENT TENSE


After a week,
cool air on bare arms.
The sharp flap of wind gusts
in street awnings.
Clouds linger, the sun
too weak to chase them.

You can't seem to remember summer.
 
Months later, you notice
the sprinkle of
white on trees. The black glare
on sidewalks,
breath turns to mist
as the world
starts to freeze

and it's like a dream, the time
before you moved on from fall,
and into your winter clothes
but you did.





© Janice Scully

Enjoy your weekend. I haven’t mentioned here all the disturbing things that are going on in America, but my thoughts and prayers are with Black Lives Matter, with those who are ill, with the scientists who are working to defeat Covid, and with the Joe Biden campaign.

Be sure to visit Carol’s blog, Beyond Literacy!

If you want to know more about Poetry Friday, it’s here.

Stormy Weather

It’s Poetry Friday and Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe is hosting. Thank you Heidi! Make sure you check out what she has in store for poets and poetry lovers.

First have to say I want to renew my support for the Black Lives Matter movement after yet another unnecessary death. My heart goes out to Jacob Blake’s family. Can our country get any worse? My optimism lies only with the possibility of Joe Biden defeating Donald Trump in the fall and remembering heroes like John Lewis who never gave up.

My thoughts are with also those who have suffered injury and loss last night from Hurricane Laura and who are in danger still.

Today I woke up to thunder and lightening in Upstate New York which is in no way to be compared to that hurricane. Still, all storms inspire respect for the power of nature.

Stormy Weather somewhere with thunder bolt.

Last week a poem I wrote was published on line. It had been inspired by the run of the mill, but still dramatic storms I watched in my back yard as a child.

I was pleased and grateful, of course, that my poem was accepted but reading it again, I felt that it needed revision. A lot! Maybe my craft is improving, so I see it more easily. I can only hope. I revised it and will share it here. It was initially imagined as a picture book but ended up a poem.

PLAY! 


The sky wakes like an orchestra
tuning violins and oboes before a show.

In a sudden wind
leaves swoosh in my yard.
Pine trees sway to beckon 
black swollen clouds to play.


Caterpillars hide. 
Bees, dusty with pollen,
return home.  
Crows caw like a 
thousand stage hands
as the curtain rises
and fat drops splash
here and there. 

But soon leaves rattle
like snare drums.

Thunder booms!
Cymbals clash!
lightening flashes . . .

     When the curtain falls,
     and quiet settles over all, 
     Maple trees bow,
     and high in the balcony, 
     a rainbow applauds.


© Janice Scully2020

Again, I’d like to express my concern for all those affected by last night’s hurricane.

I’ll end by sharing a video of one of my favorite Gershwin songs, “Stormy Weather.” It is sung by Etta James.

Stay well, everyone, and safe. Thank you, Heidi, for hosting.

If you want to know more about Poetry Friday, find it here, on Renee LaTulippe’s website, No Water River.

What Women Can Do

It’s Poetry Friday! Romona host today from her blog Pleasures of the Page. Thank you for hosting, Romona, and we look forward to seeing what you have in store for us on Poetry Friday.

I’m thrilled to see such a competent woman V.P. candidate on the Democratic ticket. Kamala Harris is smart, articulate (remember the Kavanaugh hearings?) and not afraid to speak the truth. We need to get women’s voices into the American Oval Office, in the executive branch of government.

Congratulations, Kamala!

I was thinking when I wrote this poem below, how women know how to do things. I don’t want to make blanket statement about all women, but often women are versatile. They are problem solvers and have to be. My mother was a nurse, but most of her working life ran our family restaurant’s kitchen. She could do many things, one of them feeding a dining room full of restaurant customers. Every day.

It may seem a little dark, but thinking of my mom and other women talented in so many diverse ways, inspired this poem:

IN THE EVENT OF AN APOCALYPSE


Mothers make things,
can sew straight seams,
nurse the sick,
catch fish,
grow potatoes
roses and tomatoes
in rocky soil. 

So, if someday 
civilization crumbles
like an accordion, 
or a collapsed pile
of pick up sticks,
there might be others
of similar mothers
who carry the seeds
of a new world. 

© Janice Scully 2020

Enjoy the end of August. Stay well.