Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 30

yay!!!!  I've made it - 30 poems in 30 days, another year in the books!  Well, after I get this last one, anyway.  If I looked back on this year and tried to pick up a theme for it, I would have to say it's "restarting."  It's difficult to do, and this year, I've had to restart a bunch of times.  But it's good to remember that no matter what we face in life, restarting is always a possibility - it just takes an awful lot of work and perseverance.  Restarting isn't easy.  I can promise you, though, that if you are in a place where a restart is necessary, the process is worth it.  And that brings us to the last poem for this April:

the beginning

it's always full of questions,
options,
opinions,
hopes and dreams,
excitement,
nervousness,
and the fear.
that's what no one talks about,
the fear of starting out -
what if it fails,
what if i look foolish,
what if what if what if -

what if you let go of that,
and begin?


there's a special guest post - this writer is someone I have looked up to for many years, now, and I find that the more I get to experience her writing, the more I understand her, and enjoy the process.  She is an inspiration on many levels, and I am proud to share the work that she has so graciously shared with me. 

DECK WATCH

Trees shedding,

feeders hanging,

wrens singing,

cardinals chipping,

winter baring,

hollys staring,

acorns sprouting, 

forget-mes-notting,

birches peeling,

season springing 

to life anew!

Thanks to all who have read along.  I hope maybe it's been as good for you as it was for me, and even if you don't like poetry, maybe you will consider giving it another shot.  Thanks for all your support, and as always,

Thanks for reading,

Me

poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 29

Sometimes, projects take me a really long time.  Occasionally, it's because I bite off a bit more than I can chew, and sometimes, it's just because the vision I start with isn't quite complete. Sometimes, you have to just jump in to some of these things, and sometimes, you need to have everything planned out correctly beforehand.  There are a couple in particular that have taken me forever - and one of those took a very long time to even get started.  It's a carving project, and that is all the detail I am going to give until it's done, other than to say it's started.....

just a block of wood

six sides is how it starts,
nothing fantastic to see in it,
except the possibilities
of what lies beneath.
schroedinger's carving -
until the first stroke of the chisel, it is everything
and it is nothing,
but every stroke of the chisel,
and more is revealed, as it slowly takes shape,
the form coming slowly,
one small flake of wood at a time.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, v.10.0, Day 28

oooooooooooooo....it's one of our summer storms......

i can smell the pressure building
before i can feel it,
i know what will happen,
i've seen it before,
what feels like a long time ago,
and i wonder to myself
how no one else seems to understand it,
they don't see it,
smell it,
taste it in the thick stifling air,
always surprised,
even though it's happened a thousand times,
and it will happen a thousand more.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 27

I catch myself, sometimes - and in this year's rendition of National Poetry Month more so than ever before - in that state of mind where poetry has to be impactful, say something relevant, be poignant, altruistic, etc.  Certainly poetry CAN be all those things, and there's nothing wrong with that.  But, poetry, I think, is more than that.  Being reminded of the simplest things, in a simple way, is often the best way to produce a feeling, and getting a reaction from the audience is really more what poetry is about.  it's not always good, either - it can be offensive, and still be quality poetry.  Now, the real question: is it easier to incite a riotous emotion or to instill a peaceful one???  My vote: peacefulness and tranquility take more effort and skill, because they do not rely on adrenaline to sustain themselves.  Just some humble thoughts, and as I'm in the final push for poems this year, I suppose it's nice to see a little bit of that growth in my spirit, if not in my work.


why clouds?

i used to hate the clouds,
the shielded the sun
and made everything feel the same shade of grey.
it looks like rain and depressing wetness,
even with the bright greens of spring
adding color everywhere.
why have them,
why like them
why clouds?

but they clouds bring the rains,
and relief from the oppressive sun,
and they force me to think,
and be quiet and restful,
and slow down,
and be grateful for the blessings in my life,
the people i love and care for,
and this world.

and maybe,
because of that, it gets just a little better,
because of the clouds.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 26

So, let's talk about reincarnation.  I have a theory - and for those who know me, this ether means it's something really good and plausible, or it's something that is going to sound so far-fetched, it must be fiction.  Frankly, I think both have the same probability of happening.  But my theory is roughly this: we have more than one life, and we keep coming back over and over and over.  We're not always the same person, we're not always even the same gender.  Sometimes, we have a memory of those older lives, and often times, we don't - or at least, it's very dormant and needs just the right trigger to awaken those memories.  Now, I don't think that everyone has to subscribe to my theory, so please, don't get your dander up - just accept that I have (another) crackpot theory and you can totally discount it and I won't be offended in the least.  BUT.....it gives a little notion as to where this poem comes from.

 i fear that place,

what i might find there,

if it will let me go,

and if not, what will become of me?

it has a hold on that place,

something beneath the skin, 

in the very marrow of me,

something in the ground,

as though i have known it before,

walked in its paths,

drank its water,

and grew strong here.

i can't explain how i know, but i do -

i fear to travel there,

and i know,

at some point,

it will be required.

there is a question to ask, 

that drives me there,

pulls me,

demanding an answer.

and i must go.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 25

To everything I get to create - whether it's a poem, a carving, a turning, a piece of furniture, growing a plant in the garden - or better, harvesting that plant - there is a phase of every project that I enjoy the most.  It's not always the reward.  NO, when I make something in the shop, the reward is the look on someone's face when they receive it, either as a gift or as a purchase.  That is one reward - and really, that's the payout.  But there is a smaller phase, one that only I get to witness, that is all mine.  And as much as the other is great, often times, that smaller reward is, for me, the sweetest.

to create,

to carve,

to whittle and burnish,

to give birth to a form out of the ether,

and admire it in the privacy of my thoughts,

that is the sweetest reward,

where the artist looks at the thing,

the idea,

like a magical overlay that falls down,

covering the object in such a way as to make the pattern fit perfectly,

an idea no more,

these are the treasures to the artist,

what no fame can bring, and no lauds can accomplish,

but what is achieved in his own mind.

the silent reward,

the lonesome exultation,

before anyone sees it,

a joy no one will ever know.

Thanks for Reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 24

Have you ever heard a word - a completely made up word - that means nothing, and yet, is perfectly clear???  It's sorta like superkalifragilisticexpialadocious, but not really - it's better, because let's face it, THAT is utter nonsense, and all it really means is that you have been watching too much Mary Poppins.  Well, I heard a word just a little bit ago, and it's such a fun and juicy bit of made-up awesome, I have to share it.  How better than in a poem????

rumblemess

it started as two words,

a gurgle and slither,

a mumble and toss,

the same way a weasel-loop began,

and the snake spring ended.

it was there but for a moment,

and without thinking,

became the rumblemess -

that quasi-queasy, 

turvy-topsy, feeling,

like something is wrong, and yet,

it's perfectly fine.

You can let it go, and hedge your bets against it,

and you might win,

for now,

or when the rumblemess calls,

you can hop to and its bidding.

the choice is yours,

but the rumblemess always calls.

Thanks for reading, 

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 23

i met someone the other day

i met someone,
a traveler,
pack upon their back,
and denim dirtied from their hands,
walking along,
against the traffic flow.

male or female
i could not tell,
and felt it rude to ask,
for what did it matter,
but for ordering them in my own mind?

they were intelligent,
spoke well,
yet appeared to have no job,
and so i took them as irrelevant,
and disregarded their warnings.

then i stepped into the freshly poured concrete,
and the construction crew grew angry.



Today's poem is fiction, but pointed, I think.  We make judgments often, and sometimes, even though we judge against people rather than for them, they really do have our best interests at heart.  In this climate we live in, we are often fast to react, without thinking things through all the way first.  We become so focused on what we have to say that we forget to listen to others - or worse, we simply discount what they say.  I know I do this from time to time, and it really ticks me off when I catch myself at it.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 22

we have officially hit that time when nobody can predict anything that will happen with the weather.  Yup, every spring this happens.  They will call for 80 degrees, we'll get 47....they will call for 47 and sunny....we'll get 74 and rainy.  It's a crapshoot, which offers its own level of fun, but more often, is cause to simply shrug your shoulders and plan for every weather eventuality.  Oh Spring.....



looking through the pane,
at the world outside,
in its bright-green cloak,
the sun highlighting the yellow bits
that have yet to gain their hue,
taunting and tempting me.
i know i cannot leave the warm confines without a coat -
nature's cruelest joke after
the seeming endless winter.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 21

While we're on the subject of smell......


it rained today,
but it wasn't just water,
it smelled of an older storm,
bringing the memory of something else with it,
the water from another place,
the wind from another time.
both are old when they get to me here,
they have seen so much already,
more than i can hope to understand,
reminding me of how small i am, and just how large the world can be.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project,: v. 10.0, Day 20

They say that there is nothing more connected with memory than the sense of smell.  I have always found that interesting.  Who would think, at first, that small, rather than vision or taste or touch or sound, would be more powerfully connected with memory?  Lately, smell has been huge - mostly because my neighbors had some truly foul-smelling trash that was stinking up the entire area.  SO much fun, let me tell you.  But, even such a smell sparks a memory, so here we go....

brantingham

the smell of the hemlock forest surrounds me,
a breeze blowing up the hill from lake.
in the distance, the sounds of the mountains -
birds and gently lapping water,
even the sound of a motorboat in the distance,
the sounds of my youthful summer.
someone is grilling - i can smell the charcoal and lighter fluid -
and then it comes,
the breeze changes direction
and i can small the trash by the back door,
it overpowered the little can three days ago,
filled with the discarded bits of fish we've caught.
Every one of us speeds past the can when we use that entrance,
eager to be away from the stench.
and i loved every moment of it,
back then, and would do it again tomorrow if i could.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V.10.0, Day 19

THere's something to be said for commuting via bicycle.  Aside from the physical and environmental benefits, there is plenty of time to think, and sometimes, the best ideas come from those moments.  For me, at least, it's about finding ways to get those moments for the thoughts to come and take root.  This is especially true for writing - whether it's poems, or some prose.  It's about the words, true, but it's more about the opportunity to put oneself into that place where inspiration can find you, and find you easily.  Maybe that's why I've had a difficult time getting some writing done this month.  I will likely never know, precisely, but it's a good solid, "maybe".  Anyway, on to the poety!

hours

a car door slams,
a phone rings,
i hear it all through the window,
and normally would not care,
but for the time - one or two or three o'clock in the morning,
and i have to get up soon to go about getting to work on time.
the shouting starts,
it's not angry shouting, but it pulls me back from the stupor that is sleep,
and now i know too much of their lives,
things i never wanted to hear,
now mine to cherish.
and when we see them in the daylight hours,
they greet with the voice that is blissfully unaware
of the damage they cause
a the odd times of day
when they aren't paying attention.

Thanks for reading,
Me

Poetry Project, v. 10.0, Day 18

if you're lucky


if you're lucky,
you get to know someone
on a level that defies description,
to see the storms that rage in their eyes,
where the passion burns brightly just under the surface,
and you get to watch it break,
like the waves crashing upon the coastal rocks,
and that person has that one little moment,
to decide if they will let the tide roll over them
or not.
if you're lucky,
you get to know someone.


Thanks for reading,
Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, day 17

One of the things I love about writing, about woodworking, about cooking - is that it takes something and changes it into something else.  Cooking, you take the raw elements, veggies, meat, grains, and turn them into something entirely different, edible (I hope) and pleasing.  With wood, it's taking a board that has very little personality to it and augmenting that personality to help it shine.  With words, it's an idea, a thought, a feeling, and making that concept take root in the reader.  What these all have in common is that they are creative endeavors, and that is where I feel most at home, like I am doing something I am supposed to do.  So when people ask, "Why Poetry?"  I can only respond with "Because I must."  Yes, it sounds incredibly pompous - I'm not going to lie - but it's also the truth.  Is my poetry good?  Honestly....out of ten years' time, there are only a couple that I think are worth anything, let alone calling them "good."  Maybe there are a few more than that, but that's really up to the reader.  If I were a smarter person, I would consider writing a book called "Why Poetry?" but to be honest, it would be a short book.  So if anyone is wondering why....well, maybe you have a little more insight now that you didn't before...at least into one would be poet's reasons.

to write or not

there is never a question,
but to write is to share,
it might be a lot,
or a little,
but to take an idea and plant it in someone's mind
like a door,
tall and narrow,
four panels and a brass knob,
no peep-hole,
sitting atop a three-stepped stoop
attached to a white house with black shutters
on a rainy day in the country,
with bright flowers in a window box
that contrast with the greens of the fields and grasses -
that is something, indeed.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, v. 10.0, Day 16

past lives

there are time when i know i have seen
what is about to happen,
because i've seen it before,
somewhere else,
another time,
another place,
when i wore the face of another person,
and wielded a weapon these hands have never felt.

i've seen glimpses of those lives,
moments of knowing, really,
that explain many of the experiences
this life contains.

they way i hold a sword,
see movement before it happens,
understand the next thing
that must inevitably follow -
shadows of old lives aiding this one.

there are places i fear to go,
plots of earth i know will hold answers,
perhaps to questions i am not ready to ask,
because i fear the answers that may be waiting for me.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 15

So, for those who know me, I like to make things out of wood.  I would not go as far as to say I'm a carpenter, though that is certainly something I can do.  No, I deal with more of the artisan side of things - along with the occasional piece of furniture.  It's fun, it relaxes me, and keeps me out of trouble...except for those occasional slips of the chisel that result in a frantic run to the bathroom to wash and bandage a fresh would in one or more of my fingers.  Oddly,my hands bear few visible scars.  I have no idea how that has happened, but it has.  I guess my cuts just don't go very deep, but that is ok, really!  In any case, sometimes I stare at my hands and wonder about them and all the various things that have happened to them over the years.

Hands

i remember when they used to be calloused,
dirty and more brown,
used for everything,
and they were tougher,
more agile,
but less skilled.

and i wonder if that is the price of the skill -
do we become softer, cleaner,
more apt to do thing which keep us this way?
the more we know,
the more we can do,
the more we strive to get away from the hands that brought us where we are.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 14

Dinner

what's the plan tonight?
simple, but good, zucchini noodles.
right.  not feeling it.
what sounds good?
wine and cheese.
i'll get the crackers, you pick the cheese.
the adventures in a grocery store.

Happily/sadly, this is a true story - it happened the other day as we were going grocery shopping, and frankly, it was fantastic!!!  It might be short and not much of a poem to most people, but hey, this is an exploration, remember!!!

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project,: v. 10.0, Day 13

blisters

on my hands,
torn skin letting the air get to the new underneath
burning, tightening,
twisting  my finger in upon themselves
the blisters that come from working with my hands
on a warm spring day,
dirty and uncomfortable,
but i can't stop,
won't stop for the pain,
because this needs to be done and now is the time I have to do it.
and though i may regret it tomorrow,
today is the day i have,
and i will not be stopped by blisters.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 12

OK, so this year has been difficult at best.  Not sure why, precisely, but it's been difficult to find the desire to write anything that feels like I haven't said it before.  I have no idea why that is, and frankly, it's rather frustrating, but there it is.  Perhaps it's sense of another spring and things that feel so much like they have before - a rather strange kind of routine.  Perhaps that is where I can begin.

a new day, and old way

the day starts,
a simple routines of getting up,
take the dog out,
get ready for work,
work all day,
come home,
rinse and repeat,
and all the while, looking for something new in the routine,
something not normal,
something to sink my teeth into with vigor,
something to set the day apart from the rest,
something new.

the day ends,
and off to my comfortable bed,
and i look back and even though
there was nothing new,
i am pleased
and i would not trade this day
for anything else.
i am grateful for it,
and all who were in it.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 11

peace

i thought i found it once,
long ago atop a hill
looking out over the fields.
i was wrong.
i thought i found it again,
amidst the hustle of a city morning,
an oasis of comfort in otherwise cold steel and concrete.
i was wrong.
i gave up searching for it,
assuming it would find me.
it never came.
it only comes when you practice it,
deep inside,
in the parts of you no one talks about at parties,
the secret heart inside us all.
there resides peace.

No distinct narrative today, just some words on a page.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 10

I am quite a bit behind in my writing at this point, and it stinks.  It seems there are a lot of demands on my time at present, most self-imposed, and my energies have been quite divided.  Anyway, as I play catch-up here, it's good to know that at least I have not forgotten!!!  They have finally opened up a new road near me, which makes my commute quite wonderful.  So here are some thoughts on the new path.

new roads

the road lies open, now,
where once there were factories
and the bustle of industry
there is now an open plain,
but for a single road,
sinewy and bending,
gently winding through
a nothing where once there was something,
a new monument to Man.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 9

Adieu

i know it's not good-bye,
and i know it will be rebuilt,
but it will not be the same.
it must have been like that for countless places,
war-ravaged, famine-stricken,
places where once people came to stare in awe
but now are gone, or damaged.
rebuilt, yes, but the majesty is gone.
the loss is great,
and rips me to the core,
though i never was able to see it with my own eyes.
and when i do someday see it,
it will not be the same.


It's a sad day, following the loss of Notre Dame.  There is some consolation, in that many of the valuable items in the building were saved, but so much culture and history is lost.It's a reminder that God and Faith are not a building, but are so much bigger.  The people of the world need them to be bigger than a building today.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 8

OK, this one is very off-color.  It stems from a conversation overheard in which two women were discussing fellas named "Richard" in their family.  Of course, the nickname for Richard is "Dick," and this is the name they were using.  The vernacular meaning, of course, is.... rather uncouth.  Let me just say that out of context, this was hilarious, and so, it MUST become, in some way, a poem.  And yes.....the whole thing is a joke about the vernacular, so if you do not want to read....you have been warned.  PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!!

two Dicks

"my Dick is fat."
"my Dick is thin."
"we really should be careful when we talk about our Dicks."
"it could get people confused."
"i have to be careful when i tell people there are Dicks in my family."
"me too."
"my father was a Dick, and so was my uncle on the other side.
it was funny when we had to talk about our Dick or my mother's Dick."
"i'm just grateful my grandmother called my dad Dickie."
"well at least you can pretend."
"my brother was a Dick, but now he's Rich."
     there was a moment of brief silence before raucous laughter filled the air.

Thanks for reading!

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 7

It's been a beautiful couple of days here, a much needed relief from the cold winter.  It was actually a fairly warm winter, but there is still something about a nice spring day.  People are happier, and more fun, and things seem good, even in the midst of whatever turmoil may be roiling just underneath the surface.  It's like the warmth gives people the strength and fortitude to deal with it.  I dunno - that's probably me waxing more psychological than I have a right to be.  Anyway, poetry.  Let's have some!!

spring city

the yellow sun gleams down,
bringing to life the colors of the city below -
red and yellow brick amidst the
concrete and glass,
old meeting new
under a clear blue sky,
just waiting for the spring greens
to show their colors
and add the pastoral to the urban landscape,
softening the edges and rounding its corners,
a city among the trees.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 6

On the other side of having a funeral to go to, there's the chance to travel a little, and have some new experiences.  So, on the heals of the last post, something a little lighter!

lonely tree

on the top of a mountain

i saw a little tree -

scrubby and wretched,

eking out a lonely existence

in a barren and tortured land,

finding just barely water enough to survive 

atop the windy peak.

i snapped a photo,

hoping to get some of the distant mountains in frame,

and when i looked again,

i understood -

even the wild and craggy plants atop the tallest mountain

enjoy the view.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 5

Simple and no frills for this one.  I went to a funeral last week, and realized something: no matter how many times I go to a funeral, I always remember all of them.  All at once.  It happens with other things, too - weddings, Christenings, graduations, First Communions, voting - all those life events in which we participate all seem to rush back upon me at every single event.  Some of them, my memories are a child's memory, those little things that stood out to me as a kid that are probably unimportant to me now, but that is what I have.  Those ones tend to be images only, maybe a face or two.  Perhaps that is why funerals are so very difficult: it's the collective memory of all of those similar events that come rushing back to us all at once, and we relive them all.  Or maybe that's just me - I don't really know if other people experience it the way I do.  Come to think of it, I've never bothered to ask.  So forgive me if this one is a bit morose or depressing. 

the woman i never met

we said good-bye today,
another member of a generation lost,
leaving only memories behind her.
i met her family and friends,
her faith community,
and the church where she celebrated,
a restaurant she enjoyed.
i saw the place where she was interred next to her husband,
and heard the sound of the cold wind whistling by.
in some ways the same as those like days i have known,
and i shed my own tears
for a woman i never had the honor of meeting in person.
but i know her family
and i met many friends,
and saw the cherished wedding album as it lay open,
the black-and-white photos of a different era.
i was afforded a glimpse of a life,
the chance to see the beauty and fullness of it,
and celebrate her.


Thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry project, V. 10.0, Day 4

Today, my father turned 76.  As per my usual, I called and talked to him for a good bit - we said good-bye four times.  It's usually like that, and I wouldn't change it for anything.  I love my dad.  I could ask for no better example to follow, nor to improve upon - for that is the goal of each generation: to improve upon the works of the previous one.  I have been given an excellent foundation upon which to build, and so, I do my best to build upward in whatever way I can.  I spent this weekend in pursuit of the activities my father enjoys, and so, my inspiration....

honor thy father

i shoveled yesterday,
heaping dirt upon itself,
tilling the ground ahead of planting,
preparing for a garden.
i remember my father working the same way,
and i, as a child, mimicking him,
trying to push the spade the full way down on one push.
i wondered how he managed it,
and as i pushed shovelfulls of dirt around
i saw myself in my father's place,
the child in the window next door watching me.
did he wonder how i did it, too?
did he wonder why?
i no longer wonder such things -
thanks, Dad.

I'm a few days behind, and while I will likely publish more than one a day for the next several, I'm going to take a bit of a different tact, and publish them as singular entities.

As always,
thanks for reading,

Me

Poetry Project, V. 10.0, Day 3

Oy - unplanned travels this week have made for some sporadic writing.  It will take me the weekend to catch up, I think.  Suffice it to say it was family business, of an unpleasant nature.  Not the most fun.  Anyway, the next few poems might be influenced by that, so i hope you'll bear with me.

Nanuet


it's cold here, still,
in a way i had long forgotten,
the morning refusing to let go of winter's chill,
even though the birds can be heard singing
with the beginning of the morning.
i can hear the streets outside the hotel,
already bustling with the commuters
on their way into the city,
a strange orchestra of sounds,
caressing and assaulting my ears
that have not yet awoken.
i'll leave today,
and head back to my regular life -
it will be a relief,
and yet, i will be sad to leave this place,
these people whom i have gotten to know a little,
and even the cold mornings.

Thanks for reading!!

Me

Poetry project, v. 10.0, Day 2

Day two and I am already behind by a little bit....ugh.  Sometimes, the inspiration comes quickly, and sometimes, it doesn't.  Such is life, I suppose.  It does make being timely a little difficult, though, and I find myself up late attempting to write something good and worthwhile.  Today's inspiration comes from my workshop.  Lately, I have been having a lot of fun on my lathe, with some really promising results.  It's really quite cathartic.  And that brings me to today's verse.

art and artist

Nothing more than spinning wood,
against a sharpened bit of metal,
chipping away the grain,
to reveal something that was always there, unseen.
an expression of vision - the artist's mind -
viewing something new in a simple block of wood,
changing the old into the new,
remaking,
and being born again in the process,
the artist finding something new inside himself,
hidden below the skin, unseen,
finally revealed at last.


Thanks for reading, as always!

Me

Poetry Project, v.10.0 Day 1

Holy crap!  It's been ten years!!!!!  Ten years of poetry, of exploring, of writing, of growing - it's hard to believe it!  BUT, here I am, still going strong!

For those who have never followed, here's the challenge behind the poetry project: write an original poem every day for the month of April.  It's National Poetry Month, after all, and so the celebration of the written word and the imagination shall once again take place!!  Play along at home, or you can participate by sending me you poems!  You are under no obligation to do every day, or to even do them at all.  No topic is too off.  It can be anything you want - even risque, if you really want to go there - just know that if it is, it will come with warnings so those not wanting to read it will not find themselves reading things they don't want to see.

So bring on the poems!!!!!!

Today is opening day of baseball in Pittsburgh - and it is a balmy 30 degrees.  That is the inspiration of today's entry - the first of this year's challenge!!!  Batter up!!

opening day in Pittsburgh
sun shines today,
but if offers me no warmth,
winter's last hurrah in this,
the desolate green country between north and south,
between winter and spring,
when a forecast means little
and the prognostications of a rodent prove asinine.

but there is joy to be found,
when a crowd will roar for their heroes,
and the hopes of a city once again move 
to the shoulders of the boys of summer.

And as always,

Thanks for reading,
Me