MOLE POEMS: Variations on a Theme

 

Every now and then, I like to write poems about a particular subject in a number of different ways. I have arranged the following three mole poems in the order in which I wrote them. The first poem is a “things to do” list poem; the second and third are mask poems.

THINGS TO DO IF YOU ARE A MOLE

Make your home

in the damp darkness

underground

unknowing of snow

and stars

and summer breezes.

Live among roots

and rocks

and sleeping cicadas.

Excavate tunnels

in the moist brown earth.

Listen for the soft music

of seeds sprouting,

worms wiggling,

rain pattering on your grassy roof.

Spend your days in a world

of unending night.

MOLE ANSWERS AN INTERVIEW QUESTION

I live in the earth.

I burrow through soil.

A claw-footed creature,

In darkness I toil.

I excavate tunnels.

I really DIG dirt!

I’m a fine engineer.

I do hate to be curt…

But I’m here on the job…

I can’t stop now to chat.

I’m a hole-digging mole.

I’ll just leave it at that!

MOLE

Psst! Psst! HEY! I’m right down here.

I’m a busy little engineer

Building tunnels underground.

You rarely hear ME make a sound.

My life is lonely…one of toil.

I claw my way through darkness soil.

The sun’s is not a face I know.

I live where seeds begin to grow.

Dear Mother Earth is my good friend

And through her big brown heart I wend

Digging tunnels right down here.

Listen! Listen! Cup an ear.

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The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Life Is Better with Books.

CRICKETS: An Original Acrostic

One of my favorite sounds is that of crickets chirping on summer nights. I haven’t had the opportunity to listen to them lately because it has been so hot around here lately that we’ve had to run the air conditioner in our bedroom.

Here’s an acrostic poem I wrote some years ago about crickets strumming on summer evenings:

Chirping in the dark, their song

Resonates

In the still air. A

Chorus of summer night strummers in concert with

Katydids

Entertaining warm evenings with

Their

Symphony of wings.

One of my favorite things to do is to feed my little granddaughter. She enjoys eating all kinds of food—including broccoli, snap peas, carrots, and bananas. In addition, I can usually snap my best pictures of her when she’s sitting in her high chair and can't make a fast getaway. Here are some recent pictures of Julia:

Julia enjoyed dropping food on the floor

when we took her out to eat

on Father's Day.

Yum...broccoli!

A two-fisted eater!

 She can now drink from a "sippy" cup.

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The Poetry Friday Roundup is at A Teaching Life.

Here & There: July 15, 2012

THE HORN BOOK

Caldecott 2012: “everything…which is yes” by Joanna Rudge Long

King of All the Caldecotts by Roger Sutton

Newbery 2012: The Year in Words by Nina Lindsay

Chris Raschka: The Habits of an Artist by Lydoe Raschka

Jack Gantos: Seriously Funny by Wesley Adams

A Profile of Kadir Nelson by Donna Bray

2012 Mind the Gap Awards

SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL

Folk and Fairy Tales Retold: Spin-offs | Focus On by Joy Fleishhacker

Very Pinteresting!: The hot social network is taking educators by storm by Kate Messner

The Big Tease: Trailers are a terrific way to hook kids on books by Karen Springen

BCCB

Trials and Triumphs: A Human Rights Dozen--selected by Lauren Chenevert, CCB outreach

Bulletin Stars for July

BOOKLIST

Talking with Sy Montgomery

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

Spring 2012 Flying Starts: Debut Children's and YA Authors

BEA 2012: Big Books for Kids:Surveying the Scene by Diane Roback

Taking the Pulse of Children's Bookselling—and Summer Reading by Judith Rosen, with additional reporting by Claire Kirch and Wendy Werris

KIDSREADS

Cool and New Books: June 2012

KIRKUS

2012 Back-to-School Roundup

POETRY FOR CHILDREN

Bug Poetry

Poetry Books about Summer

SUMMER RITUAL: An Original Memoir Poem

In June, I wrote a post about Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) that included a memoir poem about picking strawberries in my grandfather’s garden. Every visit to the home of my maternal grandparents in summertime meant a trip to Dzidzi’s garden to pick fresh vegetables. Dzidzi loved sharing what he grew with relatives and neighbors.

 Here’s is a poem about my memories of my visits to my grandfather’s garden:

SUMMER RITUAL

My mother and I arrive at my grandparents’ house

late one Sunday afternoon.

Babci greets us in the kitchen

with cold drinks clinking with ice cubes.

Dzidzi fetches a small wooden basket

from the cellar, takes my hand,

and walks me down the stone path to his garden.

He leans over a tomato plant,

holds a fat red globe in his cupped hand,

and looks at me. I nod approval.

I can almost taste the tomato’s warm, juicy flesh.

We choose a dozen more and place them in the basket.

We pick three green, glossy-skinned peppers,

pull up a bunch of feather-topped carrots,

enough beets for my mother to make a pot of zimny barszcz

thickened with sour cream and floating with cucumber slices.

Every visit to my grandparents’ house

is the same this season—

a small harvest of vegetables—

and when we leave, I take home

a little basket of Dzidzi’s garden.

********************

 

Jone has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Check It Out.

A Home for the Seasons: An Original Memoir Poem

 

Last September, I wrote a post titled Cleaning House and Discovering Old Poems. Well, I’ve been cleaning house again—that’s why I’ve taken a brief break from blogging. This time, I am truly a woman on a mission. I’ve been throwing away TONS of stuff—except for old poems. My library/office in my basement had become so cluttered and disorganized that it was difficult to find things. (That wasn’t the only room in the house that needed attention!) It feels so good to be getting rid of things that I don’t need or no longer use…to be organized…to have room once more in my cupboards and drawers and closets…to be able to locate things easily. 

While going through all my stuff, I found some old photographs and newspaper clippings. Memories came flooding back—memories of family…friends…times past…places we have traveled to. I also began to think about all the happy memories the house where I live holds for me. I admit that I have a sentimental attachment to my home of thirty-six years.

There is another house that holds a special place in my heart. It’s the home of my maternal grandparents where I spent many of my of my happiest childhood days. This Friday, I’m taking a stroll down memory lane with the following poem about my grandparents’ house.

A Home for the Seasons

My grandparents’ house seems to hug their shady street.

A white duplex, its twin front doors

stand side by side

just three steps up from the sidewalk.

We always enter the house through the side door.

Stepping into the kitchen,

we find Babci sitting at the far end of the table

spooning filling onto circles of homemade dough

and making pierogis, crocheting afghans,

or snipping lacy designs from paper—

a traditional folk art she learned in Poland.

Sometimes we see her painting flowers on the cupboard doors

or hanging starched curtains she embroidered by hand.

The aroma of stuffed cabbage or babka baking in the oven

often greets us at the door.

Most days, Dzidzi spends outdoors tending to his garden

or painting the shutters green

or mending the picket fence

or building a backyard fireplace for summertime barbecues.

My grandparents always busy themselves

making their place a special place

for the family to gather throughout the year,

making it a home for all the seasons.

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Tabatha has the Poetry Friday Roundup at The Opposite of Indifference.