I’ve been partially participating in Laura Shovan‘s Found Object Poetry Project this month. This photo (Day 28) had me longing for spring and budding flowers.

I recognized the distinctive bud as most likely belonging to the Allium family but did a quick search to make sure I wasn’t totally off-base. I then discovered the botanical term “umbel”. An umbel is a group or cluster of flowers with a number of short flower stalks coming from one common central point, rather like the ribs of an umbrella. It’s typical of the Allium family. Given a bit more time, this bud would burst out into a beautiful umbel, potentially looking something like this:

Blooming Allium always remind me of fireworks. They’re such jubilant blossoms and have a bit of over-the-top Seuss-like whimsy to them.  The photo of the bud planted the idea of them “lollipopping” into the sky, I discovered the word, umbel, (happily beginning with a u) and this acrostic poem grew from there.

Allium
A burgeoning bud
Lollipops into the sky
Launches into an
Illuminated
Umbel
Making merry in the garden

Note to self: Pick up some Allium bulbs this May for an explosion of color in the garden.   Spring can’t come soon enough!

If you’d like to read some more poetry, head on over to Elizabeth Steinglass‘s blog– She’s hosting today’s Poetry Friday Round up!

This month I’ve been participating (occasionally!) in Laura Shovan’s Found Object Poem Project. Although I haven’t participated in a while, I’m jumping back into the mix with this photo, for Day 25:

A Constellation of Keys
Common key cards
have no romance,
slipping into a pocket
without a wrinkle,
unnoticeable,
silent and disposable.

Carved metal keys
have character
and reassuring heft.
They clink happily
in a pocket,
socializing with spare change,
or if you please,
they sit in hand,
guaranteeing imminent access
or denying the same.

Patiently waiting on hooks,
a constellation of keys
has purpose,
power and potential,
silently offering up
an array of possibilities.

Pelican sunrise

Morning comes softly to Puerto Rico. An early array of colors blushes the sky, edging clouds with indigo shadows. The sky brightens slowly but steadily until the sun eases over the horizon in a final burst of radiance. In the in-between time the pelicans arrive. One by one or in groups of two or three. They wing their way across the dawn, entrancing me as surely as the sunrise.

Their silhouettes and dense beaks call to mind pterodactyls and prehistoric times. They whirl and circle over the shallow surging surf, powerful and fluid in flight. Intently they eye the depths and then turn, dive and plunge, hitting the water with an audible THUD! and a splash, like a fish-seeking
missile.  When they’re successful, they emerge from turquoise water to tilt their head back, their distinctive throat pouch apparent as they swallow their catch…gulp, gulp. Soon they’re off again wheeling and diving or gliding in smoothly to rest on a piling, rousting smaller birds. They spread their wings wide and perch, facing the early morning sun.

Action at the pilings

Preening, they  ruffle through their feathers with their long beaks. Sometimes they twist their sinuous necks and rub their heads up and down their backs, over and over again. Some float in the water, rising and falling  with the crests of the waves, seemingly unperturbed by the motion around them.

Each morning last week I sat on a bench, in a hammock or at the open-air restaurant watching the pelicans, fascinated by their ceaseless activity, enthralled and relishing the sweet start to the day. This week, back at home in Maine, morning comes softly as well. It has its own dramatic beauty, framed by pines and oaks rather than palm trees, and it is just as sweet. But I do miss those pelicans.

On a side note, no post about pelicans could be complete without including this wonderful, whimsical pelican limerick–a clever delight no matter who authored it. It often ran through my mind as I enjoyed watching the pelican escapades each morning.

The Pelican:
by Ogden Nash or by Dixon Lanier Merritt

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill can hold more than his beli-can.
He can take in his beak
Food enough for the week;
But I’m damned if I see how the heli-can.

Note: I did a bit of research and learned that pelicans aren’t only fun to watch, they’re quite fascinating to read about. They rub their heads on their backs to pick up an oily secretion from their glands. The rubbing head then distributes this over their feathers to keep them waterproof.  Apparently they also have air sacs under their skin and in their bones to keep them especially buoyant.  These air sacs also help cushion their bodies when they hit the water in those high speed fish-seeking dives. Another fun fact–the American white pelican can hold up to 3 gallons of water in its bill.  Wow! Finally, I learned that there’s a reason pelicans look prehistoric–they’ve  been around for 30 to 40 million years!  Clearly they’re doing something right!

Recipe for  relaxation, Puerto Rican Style

Ingredients:
sunshine
water
birds
time

First, preheat your day to approximately 83 degrees Fahrenheit.

Next, prepare your soundtrack. Take a large scoop of waves crashing on the shore. Hear the swoosh and hiss as they roll in and pull away. Add in an occasional rustle of palm in the stiff breeze and a dash of some exotic bird call. If you’d like, you can add a spattering of quiet Spanish in the background.

Now, for the visuals. Carefully look around. Watch the breakers rolling in to shore. Overhead pelicans are circling, periodically diving into the water with a dramatic splash. One or two  of them stop to perch on old pilings. They shake their feathers and preen, highlighted by the rising sun, which glints off the turquoise waters. One gecko darts across the pathway while another meanders under a multi-colored hammock strung between palm trees.

Finally, breathe in the warm salty air. Feel the breeze caress your bare arms. Let the moment sink deep into your bones. Enjoy.

Note–My husband and I are in Puerto Rico for a week-long vacation–our first without children in 22 years.   This was a quickly written slice and I can’t figure out how to get my photos into it.  Ah well–instead of battling technology, I chose to relax and explore. I’ll check back and comment on other posts a bit later.

Feeling time-pressured, I’ve gone with my first haiku effort for this photo response.

Autumn maracas
invite you to merengue
Shake a leg, baby!

After Friday’s unexpected snow day, I started paying closer attention to the weather. I get one day off and then I want another–even when I don’t really want it! (Kind of like eating one piece of chocolate and then another and another until you have a pile of wrappers in front of you, feel faintly queasy and have no idea what just happened. Not that that’s ever happened to me!) And lo and behold! Rumors of an impending storm surfaced and rippled through the school.  My students, my colleagues and I spent much of yesterday speculating about the storm track and likely outcomes.

“We’re going to have a snow day tomorrow,” a student announced as he walked in the door.
“Yeah.  It’s gonna snow a lot!” another offered in support and small voices chimed in with their thoughts and their parents’ predictions. “My mom says…”
“Oh, I think we’ll be here,” I said, trying to steer the day into more productive directions (and to subdue the inner child in me that leapt about, fist pumping at the idea of another day in PJs.)
“Nope. We won’t have school,” the first student maintained with sublime confidence.

Conversation in the Teacher’s Room at lunchtime wasn’t much different. The air buzzed with intense speculation.
“Do you think we’ll have school?”
“What does SnowDayCalculator say?”
“Why isn’t it snowing yet? Wasn’t it supposed to start late morning?”
“Maybe it’s delayed. It might linger later into the morning then. That would be good.”
“What happens if there’s a delay? I heard we still have to be here on time anyway?”

We compared forecasts, theorized about likelihoods, and some of us maintained, with straight faces, that we didn’t really want a snow day with all that needed to happen this week. (I am convinced, though, that I was not the only one with an irrepressible, wildly-hopeful, grinning, PJ-clad inner child dancing about in anticipation.) Eventually we decided a 2-hour delay might be a possibility and would probably be the best outcome.
As lunch ended a colleague whipped out her smart phone and reported. “SnowDayCalculator says it’s a 78% chance for a snow day tomorrow.” Not great odds, but not too bad either. We all smiled and headed off to lunch duty.

Last night I watched the chances go down, down, down. By late evening chances of a snow day had diminished to 56%. Not at all likely.

Before heading to bed, I donned my pajamas inside out (in a last ditch effort to entice a snow day from the weather gods) and then took a look at Laura Shovan’s latest photo prompt. (For more information about her wonderful Found Object Poetry Project click on the link.) My short response was colored by the buzz of the day, the fun of snow day speculation, and the declining likelihood of a day off or a delay.

Winter Sorrow
Looking at the treadmarks
crisscrossing
a mere tracery of snow
I sigh,
resigned,
No snow day.

Epilogue: Moments ago the phone just rang. At this time in the morning it meant only one thing–snow day or delay! And…wait for it….it’s a 2 hour delay!  Perfect!

For today’s photograph in Linda Shovan’s FOPP, I opted to write a prose response, rather than a poem. Something about this massive smooth boulder spoke to me of clouds and legend.  I may rework it in days to come and update it here. This deadline business is for the birds and work is intruding on my writing time!

The Origin of the White Boulder

Long ago, not at the beginning, but soon thereafter, when the earth was young and the green of the land blazed against a brilliant blue sky, the clouds lived at peace with the sky and the land. Though the world was new, they understood that they were irrevocably joined and that each one enhanced the other.  And for many, many years, all was peaceful and the clouds and skies drifted over the land and the people were happy.

Then one day a small cloud formed. It drifted through the sky, forming, reforming, shape-shifting as small clouds do. It rode the air currents and came and went as the sky the land and the elder clouds bid it.

But as time passed, this small cloud grew and as he grew, he began to change. Instead of drifting with the other clouds above the land, dancing over lakes and mountaintops, he sought to make mischief. Day after day he drew close to the land to form great, dense banks of fog. He laughed as he hid the fleecy white sheep from the farmers and the ports from weary sailors seeking safe harbor.

And at last Land grew tired of his pranks and spoke to him coldly, saying, “Go back to your place, Young Cloud. Leave the people be.”

In his pride the cloud thought, “Who is Land to order me about? For I am far more powerful than she.  I can cover the tops of the mountains, hide the sea, and block the very rays of the sun.”

And in his anger he covered the land, blocking her from the sky and from the sun’s light. Day after day he refused to leave and each day he spread further and higher. Land grew ever more angry and rumbled her warnings and laughter no longer drifted on the breeze from the homes of the people.

Weeks passed and the plants began to sag and rot in the earth and the people wept. Still Young Cloud would not leave and in his pride and arrogance, he ignored the final warnings of Sky, Land, and Clouds. At last, the Clouds gathered, dark with fury, and thundered their displeasure at him. The earth trembled below him and the sky lit with flashes of lightning.

And in that instant, banished, Young Cloud tumbled from the sky to the earth, transformed from lightest vapor to heaviest boulder. And there he remains, forever immobile, earthbound.  And once again Cloud, Land and Sky lived in harmony and the people were happy.

Another day and another photograph in Laura Shovan’s FOPP (Found Object Poetry Project). When I first looked at this picture, I had no idea what I would write, and was thankful it was slated for the last entry of the week as that gave me more time to ponder my response.  But as the week passed, I was no closer to knowing how to approach this photograph. So with the deadline looming, I focused on the blade and just started to write anything, knowing most of it would be deleted.  And after a lot of “scribbles” and false starts, I now have two different poems. The first feels more responsive to the photograph. The second poem is grounded in a childhood memory.

 Before the Photo
A simple blade in capable hands
transforms stick
to whittled whistle,
kisses apple’s russet skin
twirling off
one
long
swirling spiral,
and sculpts a blushing peach
into glistening golden slices,
hitching a bit as it nicks
into the deeply crevassed pit.

Wiped clean on cotton cloth
discarded with a careless toss into
the shallow metal bowl
burnished vibrations echo
and fade
as the simple blade
rocks
back and forth
slowly
to
rest.

Memory: The Blade
Once there was a theft
at our neighbor’s
down the road
and it thrilled us
while scaring the bejesus out of us
because we walked behind that house
on the way home from school
usually in twos or threes
but sometimes alone
on the shortcut that cut
through the dappled woods
and not long after that break-in
in a nearby tree
we found the dull, rusted blade,
discarded
tucked into a hollow
and we shook with certainty
just knowing it was involved
in the crime
Our urgent whispers quivered
in the shifting green shade
Should we call the police?
Tell our parents?
Fingers of fear
spidered down my spine
as I tentatively touched
that contraband blade.
After much debate
we tucked it
back into the hollow,
fearing the thief might return
and seek retribution
if his blade was missing.

I can’t recall
what happened next
and wonder
if the blade still rests
in that dusty tree hollow
in the Pennsylvania woods.

Well, this photo was a bit creepy and for some reason I just kept thinking of dolls gone bad.

Breaking News
Mass Escape from
St. Claud’s Center
for Delinquent Dolls
Just this morning
a passing photographer
captured this pivotal scene
of the notorious Brown-Haired Doll
with her famous fringed blue eyes,
gang leader, miscreant,
dimpled arm raised,
baby-blue-shoed foot
kicking out,
targeting the glass barrier,
already fractured,
and demure-looking accomplices
lurking in assumed postures
with their flat and soulless
marble gazes intent.
Look-outs.
All poised on the verge of escape.

This month I’ve been participating in Laura Shovan’s Found Object Poem Project. Each day I’ve attempted to respond to a random photo with a poem. Some days are certainly easier than others!  It’s fascinating to see the different directions that poets travel from the same photo. The whole thing intimidates me, actually, (check out some of the high-caliber poems at Laura’s site!) and I have to be sure not to read others’ entries before posting my own. I’m trusting in the process though and working hard to silence that inner critic. And, I’m writing, writing, writing, and isn’t that what it’s all about?

One Plump Tomato

In the midst of winter
one plump tomato
stirs memories of
the sun’s caressing warmth
on berry-brown bare arms
and flush freckle-dusted cheeks
of toes dipping into rich earth
and of the enticing tangled scent
of robust green vines
and sweet spicy basil

In the midst of winter
one plump tomato
sings a silent song
of summer

Check out more poetry! The Miss Rumphius Effect is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.