Advent changes plans. I am not writing of the Advent of the Christmas season, but of the flu season.
Due to the beginning of this nasty season, one of coughing and sore throats and running noses, our poetry project barely got off the ground just as I hit the ground.
It was a good idea. One we may revisit some day.
Until then, here are the meager fruits of my labor, with the hope that my Advent of the Christmas season will yield a more rewarding crop.
Re-cap: I began December with the hope of writing a poem a day with my writing companion, my husband. We were to choose one image per week and write seven poems. One poem would be a haiku and another would be rhymed and metered. The other five could take any form of choice. Below is the photo for the first, and now only, week. It is by Cade Martin. My rhymed/metered poem is the first one and my first stab at a ghazal. The last poem is my haiku.
He stands at attention, awaits the arriving
Of crinoline skirts too soon to be arriving.
The dawn alights on the far eastern shore
while morning birds fawn on sun’s arriving.
Mist cloaks the mind and fog shadows thoughts,
numbness follows to find pain soon arriving.
The ivied boat at rest, aground with gaping
wounds addressed by a carpenter late arriving.
Only visage appears reflected on water’s skin,
but cracking ribs eject the soul’s arriving.
Unfurled in haste, slipping to the ground,
a handkerchief to wipe tears never arriving.
I stand ashore my feet firmly on clay
from which He made me complete before arriving.
Mr. McCafferty bought a strange little boat
with three lovely sails that stood straight out.
Proud as he was of his herbaceous find
He couldn’t convince not a pal of his to ride.
He searched and he searched with his fine little scope
Peering east and to west to the ends of the globe.
But alas he was lost not to waves uncontrolled,
but the snowstorm he ignored as the weathermen foretold.
For you see Mr. McCafferty’s boat never floated,
He paid no attention to the gardener who gloated.
Slyly he took McCafferty’s money not pointing out
that the green grounded boat could never sail about.
And Mr. McCafferty’s widow just smiled and sighed
when she learned how her husband had finally died.
For she and the gardener were quite fond of each other
and Mr. McCafferty had always loved just his mother.
the fog crawled in
spewing muddled thoughts
filling the bottom of the boat
a path indiscernible
within the aphid mist
fogging Odin’s gaze
through his solitary glass
longing for her breath
mixing with the day
the water’s stillness
brought little comfort
he will not move
cannot move from his pinnace
wrapping itself around the bow
sprouting ivy climbing the mast
covering the sails
until snow burns tangerine leaves
leaving but the skeleton of summer
she will sail away upon the aphid mist
away from his treasured glass
and curious gaze
towards a burgeoning infant green
Dipping fingers in
the green basin, tree limbs join
reflection to soul.