Bashful school personality tucked tightly away child again – looking for approval
An elfchen, this eleven word poem follows the 1,2,3,4,1 word pattern over five lines. As one poet noted, the final word is often a commentary or summary word.
Sigh… tossing and turning, wishing for sleep, a cacophony erupts inside my head. Worries, memories, to dos flood the neural pathways instead of soothing waves of restoration.
*Written as a nonet, the nine-line poem begins with a one-syllable line and builds to a nine-syllable line. Form idea courtesy of Irene Latham & Charles Waters from Dictionary for a Better World.
Late at night hands itching wildly I justify: maybe scratch just a little?
*The poem is a Byte — written in 140 characters or less, inspired by the original character limit for a tweet. Form idea courtesy of Irene Latham & Charles Waters from Dictionary for a Better World.
Author Linda Sue Park asks: “Imagine your home is on fire. You’re allowed to save one thing. Your family and pets are safe, so don’t worry about them.”
In a house filled with art, travel mementos, heirlooms, my eye zeroes in on a football-shaped stuffed animal.
Army, a worn brown-stripped armadillo, joined the family in 1996.
Until Army’s arrival, my three-year old son had shunned all stuffed animals — no Winnie the Pooh, Peter Rabbit, or Bert & Ernie rested in his junior bed.
Picked up at the San Antonio airport by my perpetually traveling husband, Army was an after thought… until he wasn’t.
Our son Nash carried him everywhere.
Army has been to London, Boston, New York, Key West, California, Canada and more.
Like any family member, Army has endured injury — our beagle pup chewed off one ear; neglect — left on a Boston hotel bed, Army ventured into the laundry facility; smothering — our son held Army so tight when nightmares visited he could scarcely breath.
Ask any member of our family: what would you save in a fire? Army will likely top the list, he is family after all.
*Inspired by Linda Sue Park’s book, The One Thing You’d Save
Letter in hand, the twins stood sheepishly at my front door.
“This is for you… we are so very sad and sorry.”
I have known the girls since they were small. First, as playmates for my two frisky pups. Lately, as thoughtful middle schoolers.
The two scurried back across the street leaving me lost, confused.
Opening the creamy envelope I found a single spaced, one page letter.
“Dear neighbors, it is with a heavy heart we must inform you…”
My breath caught in my throat.
“The beloved oak tree in our front yard is dying.”
“We have consulted multiple arborists… there is no saving the tree. Development, weather and age have taken a toll. The spirit of the tree will live on in our memory, but after next Tuesday, the tree itself will no longer stand.”
“With the help of our three young daughters, we are selecting a new oak to occupy the space. But, nothing can replace this giant.”
“As a sapling, she witnessed the aftermath of civil war. She stood tall as houses began to dot the landscape. She watched two new centuries commence.”
“We wanted everyone to hear the news before seeing the empty space. Sincerely…”
Our street is empty without broad limbs sheltering us, as we trudge on hot days or dash in a sudden downpour.
I am surprised how often I notice the absence, the void.
Yet, I am as sure as sure can be — we are the lucky ones for having lived in this magnificent oak’s universe.
*memory unearthed thanks to reading Amy Juengst’s wonderful post First Degree
A Reading Life 