The mushrooms have been nothing short of spectacular around here this fall and I’ve had such fun hunting for different varieties. I have no intention of tasting these wild mushrooms, but I love taking their pictures. The variety of shapes, sizes and colors is simply amazing and there’s so much to learn! Even a few minutes of research reveals fascinating details. For example, the yellow-orange Fly Agaric (top right) is somewhat poisonous and slightly hallucinogenic. Legend has it that fierce Viking fighters ate it before heading into battle. Yikes! The common names for mushrooms are also a delight. They range from cautionary to whimsical to disgusting, with names like Death Cap, Pink Disco, Judas’ Ear, Trumpet of Death, Weeping Toothcrust (ew!), Old Man in the Woods, Golden Navel, Dewdrop Dapperling, Destroying Angel, etc. What fun! These days I’m inspired and fascinated by funghi!

Mushrooms and fairy folk are irrevocably intertwined in my mind. I imagine all sorts of fairy frolics when I stumble across toadstools and fairy rings.

Where wee folk wander
dimpled dew-drenched prints
blossom into
wending mushroom byways

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

This one really sparked my imagination! An owl? An octopus?

Preparing for the Mushroom Halloween Contest

Parasols are old and trite
expected ‘shroom attire
An owl in flight
a rare delight!
Blue ribbon’s his desire

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Or perhaps this one…I couldn’t resist the first line. (Get it?)

A fiesty fun guy
embraces fall festivities
eschews convention
transforms into an owl

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

And then for some reason these two captured my heart. To me, there was something so poignant about them. (I swear I was not eating the mushrooms!)

Partners

Aged and weather-withered
they lean into each other
long past taut youth
together
they watch
falling autumn leaves
carpet the ground
about them

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

This week Laura Purdie Salas is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup at her blog Writing the World for Kids.  While you’re there, check out her weekly 15 Words or Less poems and her poem sketches. They’re wonderful!  Then, if you want to shift gears, head outside and look for some mushrooms!

“You’ve got to dance like there’s nobody watching…”

All resolutions of mindfulness, being in the moment and the zen state vanished as I looked at the clock then, with a muttered expletive, pushed the last papers into my bag, grabbed my lunch and coffee and dashed out the door, running later than I wanted to get to school. Within a few quick moments, I had turned the car around and was bumping down our steep gravel driveway, dust rising in my wake.

As I neared the road, I caught a glimpse of my neighbor’s middle-school child standing in our driveway blocking my way. His back was to me and his backpack was sitting beside him, a telling clue. I glanced at the clock: He must be waiting for the bus. I approached, surprised that he wasn’t moving out of my way. (My old Subaru is many wonderful things, but silent and stealthy are not among them!)  I continued forward slowly. But wait! What was he doing? He wasn’t standing anymore, he was all out dancing–arms, legs, moving wildly. He had some moves! He was dabbing this way and that, swiveling his hips and in general, going to town with great enthusiasm. I felt a broad smile stretch across my face. I drove even closer, now noticing the ear buds that stopped him from hearing the car’s approach, the ones that fed music into his happy feet. Closer still. Was I going to have to beep or get out and say something?  

Finally, when I was quite close to him, he must have sensed something, and he turned in mid dance step, freezing briefly when he saw me close behind him. Then he turned away, grabbed his bag and shoved it to the side of the driveway, moving quickly to follow it.  I smiled and waved casually as he turned back, maneuvered my car past him and drove out onto the road.  The scene kept me smiling all the way to work–his delight in the music, the unselfconscious dancing, the innocent joy and vitality of the moment. What a great way to start my day!

Fast forward to the next day. Once again, my morning routine was off. I had opted to squeeze in a run and as I returned, he was again waiting at the end of the driveway. Today he was still, stolid. Simply standing. An antonym to yesterday’s animation. I checked: The ear buds were in. Perhaps the music simply wasn’t moving him today. Perhaps he was simply tired. But suddenly a thought occurred to me–what if this quiet waiting was a self-conscious awareness seeded from the day before?  That moment yesterday which delighted me, probably mortified him. Will he now always feel like someone’s watching? Will he ever feel comfortable again dancing at the bus stop? I greeted him as I came to a breathless stop and then I headed up my driveway, hoping that as I disappeared from view, he might burst into uninhibited dance moves again. Crossing my fingers, but not holding my breath.

It was a weekend that inspired poetry, and perhaps more importantly, allowed time for it. My husband and I were driving our daughter from Maine to Philly to move into her new apartment. She’s the first one of our children to fly far from the nest, so this was new territory in more ways than one. One of the upsides of the drive was time with my writing notebook in hand as we careened along the highways or, all too often, idled in traffic. With my husband willing to handle most of the driving, I had the luxury of plenty of time to read and write.

A highlight of the long road trip was reading some of poemcrazy: freeing your life with words by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. I just purchased this recently after reading about it in a post by Catherine Flynn. (Thank you, Catherine!!) It’s a joy of a read with so many wonderful prompts for dipping into words and poetry– for playing. Her love of words shines through the pages and inspires me to look closer, to notice, and to write.

English muffin clouds
nooked and crannied
drenched in buttery sunlight

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

I also was inspired by Michelle Barnes who writes Today’s Little Ditty and who recently shared a challenge from Carole Boston Weatherford to write an abecedarian poem. I’ve been toying with this form for a week or two and played around with it on our car ride as well. I shared the concept with my husband and daughter and we had some fun creating possible themes for such poems–words you’d like to yell at drivers, inventions you wish were created, etc. Michelle’s invitation stated that you could use sections of the alphabet, as long as they were sequential. Although initially I was determined to use all 26 letters, I finally decided not to try to force the x,y,z lines. Here’s what I came up with:

Foggy night

A blank canvas
dew-damp and dark
Ethereal fingerlets and
fronds of fog
ghost and hover
in insubstantial inky jumbles
a kaleidoscope
of lingering moonshine
and nebulous outlines
a patchwork of quivering
roiling swirls and
tenuous tendrils of undulating
vaporous waves
Wisps of wizardry

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

And then there was this heart-full moment with my daughter as we shopped for apartment accessories and essentials at Target. I’m not satisfied with the poem, but the moment was priceless.

Suddenly stopping
by the Home Goods aisle
she rushes around the laden cart
and wraps her arms around me
hugging me close

When I loosen my arms
to release her,
she holds on tighter
longer
til tears prick
and the all-too-short
eternal moment
tattoos my heart.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by the magnificent Amy Ludwig Vanderwater at her blog, The Poem Farm. Talk about inspiring! Make sure to carve out some extra time to spend exploring her rich site–You won’t regret it!

It’s Thursday and time for another 15 words or less poem. Today’s photo prompt from Laura P. Salas was International Peace Day inspired. Sadly, my thoughts were more negative. The beads reminded me of an abacus and that lead to thoughts of the ghastly accumulating total of lives lost in wars and conflicts. I actually have a childhood friend whose brother is an internationally recognized expert in the quantitative analysis of mass human-rights abuses, like genocides. How horrifying that there is a need for such an expert.

Photo credit to Laura Purdie Salas

Without Peace

Quick fingers 
calculate
with slick, clicking
beads
Counting lives lost
Collective sorrow

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Students sprawled about the room, reading independently, and I sat criss cross applesauce, working down on the rug with a strategy group. Other than our low voices, there was no talking in the room. As I finished up, I sent my group members back to their independent reading, and the sound of intense, hushed conversation caught my ear. Looking across the room, I saw two boys, heads bent over a book, chatting urgently. I approached.

“What’s up, guys?” I asked.

“Mrs. Hogan! There’s an inappropriate word in C’s book!” blurted Max, who could be considered a budding classroom authority on such words.

I looked down at John, the consummate rule follower, and he nodded vigorously, eyes wide.

“What is it?” I asked, already considering the possibilities.

“It’s right here,” John whispered and pointed. I looked down at the page and sure enough, there was the offending word (not one I’d considered, but one I’d now add to my mental list). The sentence referred to “three bitches.” A quick glance at the context and the cover confirmed that the book was (thankfully!) about dogs.

“Oh,” I said, “you guys are right. That is a word that some people use inappropriately, but what it really means is a girl dog.” (And yes, in retrospect, perhaps I should have encouraged them to use context clues to figure that out, but in the moment, I went with nipping this particular conversation in the bud.)

“Oh,” they said and nodded in apparent understanding. John looked relieved.

After a second, Max’s nod slowed and he looked up at me, a slightly puzzled expression on his face, and said, “Son of a girl dog, you mean…”

What? It took a second for that to register, then…

Ack! No! That’s not what I mean!

“No, Max,” I said firmly, “just a girl dog.”.

“Oh,” he said doubtfully, “Ok.”

In the summertime and even on weekends, I indulge myself and go to the bathroom whenever I need to. I know. It’s crazy, right? At any rate, I know where the bathrooms are around town. The library and Lowes have especially nice ones, but somehow when I’m running errands, I always need to use the bathroom at the grocery store. It’s adequate but not particularly inviting. There’s a doorway that opens into a short, narrow corridor with a men’s room to the right and a women’s room at the end. Invariably, I am not the only one who needs to use “the facilities”, as my Dad calls them, and there is often a short line. This may shock you, but the line is always to the women’s room. And another potential shocker: When I’m desperate, I tend to slip into the men’s room rather than wait.

Recently, after parking my loaded grocery cart off to the side, I headed into that familiar corridor. No line! I reached for the door handle and turned, but it didn’t budge. Locked, darn it. Oh, well, I wasn’t in dire straits. I’d just have to wait a little bit. After about a minute, a woman opened the door to the corridor behind me and got into line.

“There’s always a line here, ” she said, smiling.

“I know,” I said, commiserating. “Sometimes I just use the men’s room.”

“Me, too,” she said.

We continued to wait, awkwardly lined up in the corridor. Another minute or so passed.  I looked consideringly at the men’s room door. This was taking longer than expected.

“Maybe I should use the men’s room today, ” I said, breaking the silence. Then suddenly, we heard the muted but telltale sounds of a toilet flushing. “Oh, wait! That sounds promising.”

More rustling sounds emerged from the bathroom and then the hand dryer blasted.

Still we waited. We looked at each other and shrugged. I gave the men’s room door another wistful glance.

Finally, we heard the jiggle of the handle and the door started opening. Perking up, we moved to the side to make room for the person exiting. Bit by bit, the door swung slowly open, until, much to our mutual surprise…an elderly man emerged! My fellow wait-er and I made eye contact, our eyes wide. In contrast, the man assiduously avoided our eyes, moved rapidly down the hallway and quickly exited through the door. As soon as he was gone, we turned to each other and burst out laughing.

“Well, that was unexpected!” she said.

Another day, another new-to-me poet (and a professional violinist!). I hope you enjoy these two beauties as much as I did.

Swallows

–Leonora Speyer

And here’s another delight:

A Gift

I missed the Roundup last week so I’m reposting to this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted by the wonderful Michelle Barnes at Today’s Little Ditty.

In the blue ceramic bowl
on the kitchen floor
the cat food sits
untouched
each morning
a jolting reminder that
outside beneath the apple tree
two small mounds
of fresh-turned soil
slowly settle

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

It’s been a very sad week at our house. We had to put our cat, Ling Ling, down on Monday and our cat, Tunafish, on Tuesday. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to clean out their food bowl.

To read more poetry this week, head on over to Kathryn Apel’s blog where she hosts the Poetry Friday Roundup this week, Aussie style!

I’ve been trying to get back into the habit of participating in Laura P. Salas’s 15 Words Or Less Poetry Challenge.  Each Thursday she posts a photo prompt and shares her first draft  poem. The idea is to “wake up your poetry brain” by writing your response to the photo and sharing it. It’s intended as a fun, low-stakes, creative exercise.

This week’s  photo prompt was a picture of a sculpture of a leopard from the Minnesota Zoo.

Photo credit to Laura P. Salas

You can read her delightfully dark poem and other responses here. This is my first draft effort:

Menace

No jaunty polka dots
can camouflage the
lethal grace and
coiled muscles
poised to pounce

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

The vet’s words faded in and out. Key phrases caught my ears.
“Kidney levels…off the charts…heroic efforts…even then it’s unlikely…”
He paused and looked at me for a long moment. “It would be a kindness,” he finally said.

I stroked my cat’s soft fur and my eyes filled and my heart ached. I remembered her as a small fuzzy kitten, skittering about the house. Then, later, as the valiant cat who had recovered from serious injury and re-adjusted to life on three working legs. The cat who greeted me each morning and afternoon. The one who raced to the kitchen whenever a deli bag wrinkled, to beg desperately for sliced ham. The one who meowed plaintively from the hallway when she felt it was time for me to go to bed, and who slept snuggled by my side. Who purred contentedly as I stroked her in the dark hours when insomnia visited. And now I cradled my featherweight cat in my arms, feeling the weight of her years. After a moment, I looked at the vet and I nodded, marking the beginning of the end of seventeen years of our togetherness.

Later, as the poison flowed into her veins, I held her body in my arms, pet her, and wept, whispering to her.

“Thank you, sweet Ling Ling. You were the best.”

“I’m going to miss you so much.”

“You won’t hurt anymore, sweet girl.”

I kissed the top of her head three times, once for each of my children, saying softly, “This is from Connor. This is from Addie. This is from Lyddie.”

And then it was over. Oh, so quickly.

Last night, we buried her under the apple tree.