It’s Poetry Friday in National Poetry Month. It’s been a busy month for me, entertaining good friends and family, chasing my sweet almost three-year-old grandson, celebrating my husband’s 70th, protests and good trouble work. I have missed being here. Today’s Poetry Friday host is Heidi at my juicy little universe. She’s got some Earth Day love, protesting, and poetry, along with the next line in our progressive poem. Thank you, Heidi.
Springtime in the desert is so magical this week, I’ve written about it the last two days in a row for my Verselove poems.
Give a new name to springtime in the Mojave, for there is no word for this special desert season. [It’s not like springtime in the Midwest, which springs to a summer of growth and an autumn of harvest. Springtime in the desert is its own sweet thing, shouting out to the world before it springs into the fire of searing summer.]
Here’s why our spring needs a new name:
The juniper and creosote scents drift on the breeze
The red-tailed hawk rises, watches for a meal
The tiny green star inside the blossom of the strawberry hedgehog cactus shouts, Look at me
The purple of the Mojave aster salutes this day
The bees make merry
The sparrows—Brewer’s, white-crowned, black-throated—hold a concert
The phainopepla enjoys the sparrow orchestra, while munching mistletoe berries
The hummingbirds feast on flowers
Grandfather Nolina, like Father Time, passes the dried torch of last year to the next generation, where bees dance around the new fresh blossom
The purple desert chia flowers wait to dry out and nourish others
So many shades of green
The quail’s wings shake and shiver
The apricot mallow flower holds a dozen shades of coral
What
To call
this magic–
where color, scent,
and gentle blossoms
hold sway in the breeze of
perfection, and greens abound
‘til they dry into brown season?
What can one call this sweet enchantment,
which changes daily as fresh buds open
and others take leave until next year’s bloom?
The ladderback woodpecker sips sweet
nectar with the hummingbird, both
share the wealth of this spring dawn.
Shall I call it “Birds-sing-
buds-burst-forth” season?
Or shall I just
savor this
one fine
day?
I have seen the quiet dust
on the blue sage beavertail pads–
day after week after month,
month after brown month.
Until today, and the fuchsia
fireworks burst out.
We’re
diggers.
Two shovels,
Milo, and me:
Excavators.
Transfer sand here to there,
onto the porch in neat piles.
Sweep off the sand and pile again.
One large pile became a volcano.
So much sand. Is there time to move it all?
when poetry……………started
when poetry……………was first created
when poetry……………ruled the streets
when poetry……………speaks
when torture………………..d poets come out
when torture………………..d poets release
when was torture………….banned
what……………………………qualifies as torture
when is torture……………..legal
what is due process………………of law
what is due process………………in simple terms
what is due process………………for illegal (sic) immigrants
what is due process………………rights
what is due process………………simple definition
what is due process………………mean
In this world, we think we need order and power and money for a successful you and me. And everyone wants to have the same. We fight the write, ignoring the poetry, and now that’s our downfall,
(not that we create) but that we trust political leaders too much. I hope we have learned that must never again be our hope. We listen to human torture, to the concentration camps in the deforested land, where birds fail to thrive and sing and presidents call dehumanization in prison strength and order their soldiers to continue the brutality, prisoners who did not hear the judge pronounce them guilty. Just the kidnapping, the human trafficking, and the birds who weep because there is no due process. The United States used to be leaders, but a war on justice has turned us into a global enemy. Planes of mercy, smooth out the gouges that must be leveled before we can thrive again. Citizens, Be resistors of injustice and do not ever be silent again.
Striking line by Marwan Makhoul – “In order for me to write poetry that’s not political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the war planes must be silent.”
When the day is almost finished,
and you are relieved to not be going
to dinner, you rest in the change.
Sadness and disappointment establish
a premium of anger, as you watch
the rabbits scream and jump at each other
in conflict over the carrot scraps.
You are having a birthday celebration,
not a memorial service. The old agitation,
like a tumor, squeezes out your resolve.
Then your day finally finishes with piano
music and a warm bath. A minority of
your days are like this one.
Praise be to heaven.
It’s your birthday–
and Mexican food, it is,
no one would be surprised.
It’s your usual request,
made by my sister.
Bon appetit: Today we enjoy
chicken en mole, chile verde,
beans, rice and the biggest
bowls of chips and salsa
you’ve ever seen.
She made enough to feed
a hundred, even though we
were 24. All of us were there
to honor the new 70-year-old
and eat big and delicious
to celebrate this special day
of the love of my life.
The milk of human kindness ain’t got thick cream on it for all of us. Ask Hoover Musk & Trump.
~John Samuelson
What I Didn’t Do Today
· Deface National Park Service property by graffitiing over “Hoover” on this, one of Samuelson’s Rocks.
· Break any bones or twist any ankles hiking at JTNP
· Bake homemade hamburger buns
· Get bit by the rattlesnake
· Kill the pope
· Give up
That’s right, it’s the Slice of Life challenge today, and I almost forgot. I’ll have to get into the every Tuesday routine again.
This month, it is National Poetry Month, and I am writing a poem a day, and posting them on my blog. Eventually this post will have a week’s worth; today, we begin Week 2.
Join us at EthicalELA.com/category/verselove for tomorrow’s prompt and the next day’s and the next, etc., through April 30. You are always welcome to lurk or write and comment with us.
In her old age, Grandma’s
“church” moved onto
the television—Jim and Tammy
Faye Bakker, Pat Robertson,
Oral Roberts and more.
Words of fear and
“send us your money” formed my
early faith journey–
for endless Sunday mornings
when we visited Grandma’s place.
At least there was time for her
to make popovers while she listened in
to her shows. We devoured the golden-orbed
puff pastry muffins, steaming hot,
filled with butter and jam, made
with Love.
My mother, years earlier, had rejected
the fear of fundamentalism that
infused her own childhood
and adolescence. She rejected
the faithful (for my dad), disrupting
the religion of her home and lineage.
Now, I’m thankful.
My mom rejected my grandma’s fear,
and she let me choose faith
with minimal nudges.
A God who isn’t afraid chose me;
a God who is patient and
uses evolution to create;
a God who made us thinkers;
a God who ushers in diversity,
equity and inclusion;
a Jesus God who values
humility,
empathy,
and Love.
Always Love.
I choose Love. And I choose
Grandma’s popovers–
baked with her recipe,
her ceramic ramekins,
and Love.
Always Love.
You shared this morning’s headline with me: there’s
Evidence that pets can “boost wellbeing”, that
Pets can, surprisingly, make one
As satisfied with life as being married. You
Tell me I could have had an easier life, and circle
Back playfully to all the pain I could have avoided, back
To the several dogs that could have replaced you, to
Instead, remind me, this fine day, of your love, for
Which I am grateful and so at home.
I took pride in being the first of seven children
to go to a four-year university. It took me 6.5 years,
but I did it. I took pride in my first apartment
and paid my share of the rent. I was 22 and
worked 16 hours a week in a hospital.
I earned union wages with health care,
and at the same time I was enrolled fulltime
in a tuition-free state university.
I remember a decade later
when they decided to
apply a “trickle down” of wealth–
huge tax breaks for the richest–
Reaganomics, they called it.
I had finished school by then,
and I was working. I wasn’t paying close
attention to what trickled down: poverty,
hopelessness, and lower wages;
broken unions, no benefits for
part-time work, and no more
tuition-free education.
I remember they gave
the abundance to the rich,
instead of offering
the next generation of poor kids
a leverage out of poverty.
What used to be common millionaires
are now common billionaires, competing
to see who will be the first trillionaire.
Forty years of this economic injustice,
and we are now doubling down on it.
I was in first grade when
Mrs. Rhodes read us
a sweet little book called
Disney’s Beaver Valley.
Imagine my surprise,
while shopping with my mom
in the grocery store,
when I saw a rack
of Tell-a-Tale books,
and there, shining brighter
than all others, was Beaver Valley.
“Mom, Mom, Mrs. Rhodes
read this to us today!
Wouldn’t she be surprised
if I had my own book like hers?”
My mom agreed that would
be surprised, and she bought it
for me. (That was not usual, AT ALL.)
I have always loved
my teachers,
books,
reading,
and my mom,
who knew that day that
it was worth spending the grocery money
to splurge on me. I have saved this book
for these sixty-some years.
Delicious tiny zucchini carefully scooped Of their insides and filled with meat, rice, history. Lebanese or Armenian? I think both, like you. Made with love and hope in your Bahrain kitchen. Always you are in my heart. Today Armenia is too.
It’s my turn to write a line for our dear progressive poem. I read Donna chose to write line 4 because she wanted to see if a rhyme would be appropriate. She decided she would add one–air/flair sound great in our newly-forming poem. I had no reason at all for picking line 5, but I’m glad to be here, even though I get nervous to add my line!
I decided to choose another verb to start the second stanza, but other than that it is wide open for what happens next. Now Buffy will take us to the next line.
Here is our Progressive Poem so far:
Open an April window let sunlight paint the air stippling every dogwood dappling daffodils with flair
Race to the garden
where woodpeckers drum
as hummingbirds thrum in the blossoming Sweetgum.
Sing as you set up the easels
Dabble in the paints echo the colors of lilacs and phlox
Commune without contraints
Breathe deeply the gift of the lilacs Rejoice in earth’s sweet offerings feel renewed-give thanks at day’s end
remember long-ago springs
Bask in a royal spring meadow Romp like a golden-doodle pup!
Startle the sleeping grasshoppers delight in each flowering shrub
Drinking in orange-blossom twilight relax to the rhythm of stars dotting sky as a passing Whip-poor-will gulps bugs I follow a moon-lit path that calls us
Grab your dripping brushes! Our celestial canvas awaits…
On Saturday, I look forward to writing the next line in our progressive poem. I’ll share it Friday evening. My project for National Poetry Month is to write a poem daily with #Verselove. Here are the first few days of poems and prompts.
To America, 2025
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
flames as it has flamed.
I hear America singing–
Believing what we don’t believe,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
God mend thine every flaw.
In order of appearance: Emma Lazarus, Langston Hughes, William Carlos Williams, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Claude McKay, Katharine Lee Bates.
Mi amiga, my friend,
Gracias por tu ayuda again
My skills are slowly creeping
I think of Spanish while I’m sleeping
You challenge my brain,
Our sweet friendship remains.
I used to study solo alone;
No ripples from the tiny stone.
Your knowledge lights my lamp,
brings me hope. I won’t damp-
en el entusiasmo’s light
Gracias, mi amiga, día y night
(Rhyming words for my poem are from verses 1 and 2 of “The Sound of Silence” by Simon and Garfunkel.)
I hold a handful
of scars—literally.
These ones all
on my left hand–
our old dachshund bit
six-year-old me, thinking
I was our aggressive beagle.
(He felt bad afterwards.)
With high school friends, I
attempted to slice a frozen English
muffin for a late-night snack—
but sliced my thumb instead,
(best to wait for the thawing).
The college sleepover mango-cutting
while working on breakfast
for the late sleepers turned out bad,
lots of blood and even fainting
as I watched the blood pour into the sink.
In seventh grade, I sliced off the knuckle
of my thumb, and as a seventh grade
teacher, I sliced off my
index fingernail–those last two
with an X-Acto knife.
Now, along with age spots
and arthritic knuckles,
the scars are hardly visible.
They have settled in
and found a home
on this valued hand,
a home of mercy and
remembering, a home of
gratitude and love.
I wrote a psalm with a stanza each of protest, petition, and praise. I know there are millennia full of terrible history and brokenness in this world, so I want to quit thinking God is always just on my side. God is just and true, and I’m sure God is not a member of a political party. I am trying to practice petitioning that all mockers, scoffers, liars, and haters be exposed, especially when I find myself in those groups.
Peace to all this Lenten season.
Psalm for Today
The road is winding, steep, rough
too many pathways to choose
We cry, ‘We’ve had enough
of this exhaustive ruse!”
God, mockers rebuff.
The scoffer refuse.
Expose the liar’s bluff.
No haters excuse.
So many songs conjure up stories for me. I could come to Leigh Anne’s Music Festival many times, but I come today with these songs that reminded me of small stories of my childhood.
When I was in eighth grade, Ms. Andrews was my English teacher. We were reading the novel Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes. The story of Charlie Gordon pulled out feelings of empathy and sadness that I had never experienced before. At the same time we were reading the book, the song “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie” by Don McLean came out. For no lyric or rational reason, but just a matter of the heart, when I heard the song, I thought of Charlie Gordon. I still do to this day; the song brings me back to eighth grade and this important novel we read.
I have never been much of a consumer of music, but when I was a freshman in high school, I received the album The Sounds of Silence for my birthday. It wasn’t a new album, but it was still popular, if I remember correctly. I had a record player in my room, and I listened to this album continually. Other the years, I did buy a few singles (45s) of other artists, but I never bought or received another album.
Every day in third grade, Mrs. Gaffney’s class said the pledge of allegiance and then we were all trained to break into singing the first stanza and chorus of “America, the Beautiful.” It’s a familiar song for people my age. I recently had an experience at a rally on President’s Day (Not My President Protest) in Palm Springs. One of the first things we did was sing “America the Beautiful.” I was touched and a little choked up singing that song with this unlikely group. Patriot protestors taking the flag back.
Patriotism
shines through warriors under
Mother’s spacious sky
This seems like a good time in our nation’s history to learn another verse from Bates’ prophetic poem:
America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law!
I found writing about a small slice of the day to be a rewarding and interesting exercise. I didn’t plan anything special during each day’s timeframe, but instead I enjoyed waiting for it; I just lived my day and paid attention when that time came up. It was easy for the most part and also the first time I’ve ever had a plan for the Slice of Life Story Challenge. In the past, I was on the lookout for slices anytime during the day, collected formats, watched what others wrote, and borrowed ideas. My notes were usually disorganized, but I always had more than enough ideas to make it through the month. This year many opportunity’s like Leigh Ann’s invitation to the Slicer Music Festival passed me by. I just paid attention to my upcoming 31-minute slice. I liked doing something new, but I don’t think I would do this time slicing again. I would consider trying a new plan for the SOLSC next year.
So as this evening’s slice of time draws to a close, I’m finishing up this last post of March with a brief synopsis of what one day in my life looked like this month in 2025. I’m glad I lived this “day” over the whole month instead of in 24 hours.
5:00-5:31 a.m. Read in bed Resistance: How Women Saved Democracy from Donald Trump by Jennifer Rubin.
5:32-6:03 Read more because I couldn’t sleep during the night due to the nonsense going on in Washington.
6:04-6:35 Slept through this slice because of a very busy day yesterday, and a poor night’s sleep the night before.
6:36-7:07 Drove to windy Palm Springs for car repairs.
8:28-8:59 Rerun evening slice, so instead I blogged about grasping from earlier in the day.
9:00-9:31 Summarized and reflected on this year’s Slice of Life Story Challenge.
*D-Backs beat the Cubs on Sunday, 10-6. I guess I’m enjoying this MLB app more than I thought I would.
Now, we continue our writing adventure. Tomorrow the Slice of Life community continues on Tuesdays. See you then. I also want to invite anyone who would like to join us at Ethical ELA’s VerseLove, with classroom-ready poetry prompts each day during National Poetry Month. I’ll be hosting on Thursday this week. (It was five years ago that Glenda invited us at the end of the SOLSC, and I’ve been enjoying being part of that community ever since. Do come and give it a try.)
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