Writerquake

The Quaking Aspen

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Wed, 15 Jul 2020 22:18:00 +0000

Here is my dying Quaking Aspen tree
Now age 20, dwarfed and smothered of light
By a giant Coast Maple, there before its time. Once,
it was a sapling planted by a couple, the ex-
husband called it the stick, a mean-spirited nick-
name for such a lovely being. As it grew, it set
out new saplings up and down the yard—its
young, for which there was no room. The mower
chewed them up, and as the Aspen grew it shared
fewer of them until it gave up on making a grove,
attending to its own struggle in the Maple's shade.

Quaking, shimmering leaves on a summer afternoon
make music like no other sound. Goldfinches sing along,
preparing nests for their young, then begin losing their
bright yellow coloring in late autumn as the Aspen flashes
leaves of the brightest gold, as if borrowing color from
the birds. Then the leaves fall, and the tree sleeps and
waits for spring.

This spring was the Aspen's last, with few brave leaves
on bare boughs that still stretch for the sun. I will
burn incense in its bark, will sit against its strong white
trunk—maybe will sing to it—before the workers come.

*

Written for dVerse Poetics: 9th year Anniversary hosted by Brian Miller, whose encouraging anniversary prompt inspired my first poem in nearly a year. My case of writer's block has been debilitating and I thank him for coaxing something, just anything, out of me!

*

Sobriety: 33 years

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 16 Oct 2018 02:45:00 +0000

Ich komme aus meinen Schwingen heim -by Rainier Maria Rilke

I come home from the soaring in which I lost myself.
I was song, and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still
and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.
I’d gone very far, as far as the angels,
and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God.

-from Rilke's Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

As I have since this blog's inception, on the day of my sobriety anniversary I publish this treasured Rilke poem, but with a new image each year.
.
(I hope to join the blogging community again soon. I have missed writing, and I have missed you.
.

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Sobriety: 32 years

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sun, 15 Oct 2017 09:03:00 +0000

Alone, young birdy

Ich komme aus meinen Schwingen heim -by Rainier Maria Rilke

I come home from the soaring in which I lost myself.
I was song, and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still
and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.
I’d gone very far, as far as the angels,
and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God.

-from Rilke's Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

As I have since this blog's inception, on the day of my sobriety anniversary I publish this treasured Rilke poem, but with a new image each year.
.

Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 29 Sep 2017 09:23:00 +0000

If not for the gray-haired man on the beach

who stopped me to ask if my dog could have a biscuit —

his eyes welling with tears over the loss of his Lab just

two days before (leaving him without a dog for the first

time in 30 years and his pocket still full of treats) —

who pointed to a wave at "one o'clock" to site the

huge seal bobbing there and then noted a whale

was out there further, I'd not have walked on

(after wishing his heavy heart peace) with my eyes fixed

below the horizon, and would not have seen the joyous

spout ~ I called back to him and he nodded ~ and then

another spout to the right, indicating at least two whales

were there, and would not have seen the graceful curves

of two whale bodies shining in the early autumn sun.

Were not the three Monarch butterflies puddling in pools

near the cliffs, flocks of celebratory Sanderlings flying

switch-backs along the waves, and the companionship of

my precious dog already gifts enough to me this day?

I honor them all with Gratitude.

Sobriety: 31 years

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sat, 15 Oct 2016 07:22:00 +0000

Wind Moon, and Clouds by Cam Davis

Ich komme aus meinen Schwingen heim -by Rainier Maria Rilke

I come home from the soaring in which I lost myself.
I was song, and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still
and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.
I’d gone very far, as far as the angels,
and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God.

-from Rilke's Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

As I have since this blog's inception, on the day of my sobriety anniversary I publish this treasured Rilke poem, but with a new image each year.
.

I love the moon

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 23 Sep 2016 00:00:00 +0000

For the moon

Even if I could not see you
Your glow would cool my mind.
There you are, steadfast, at ease,
Lighting the night, putting right all
The harsh ills of the day, making
Me grateful for my eyes, your peace.

.

Happy New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 09:42:00 +0000

The separation from my blog since my last post in October 2015 is the longest I've had since creating Writerquake. Focus has been a main issue. I absolutely hate that, and hope to reign myself in, settle down here more often. I have missed writing, and, more than that, have missed reading posts at other blogs so much and sharing comments with you.

The only consistent writing I've done is at Facebook in the form of Haiku posts. I've gathered some of them here to communicate how I witnessed the seasons of 2015, simple proof that I kept my eyes and heart open last year.

~~~

Muted moon tonight
Hazy ring wide as the dome
Night birds flew through it

Road through rainforest
Sopping air, clouds high and bright
Prisms burst through fog.

Tense ionic air
Zeuss rumbles and cracks - birds still
Wash of sweet rain calms

Sleeps in black velvet
More precious than daytime's gauze
Summer night sublime

Silver Creek whispers:
"Remember, remember when . . ."
I know when is Now

Vast starlight—midnight
Shooting star arcs in delight
Dusts me with insight

Last rays on gold fish
Bird of prey soars with dinner
First/last flight for fish.

Golden spider weaves
Midnight, porchlight, rain falling
Autumn comes softly

Power saw's loud scream
Silent fir's last day of sun
Old-growth thuds on ground

Low frothy white clouds
Tiny star plays hide and seek
My bright deep-space friend

Asleep beside me
Stretches, grunts, long legs twitching
Wild puppy runs free

Tree finally up
Lights purple red green gold white
Sugarplum puppy

.

Sobriety: 30 years

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Thu, 15 Oct 2015 07:32:00 +0000

Stillness by Michael Sprouse

Ich komme aus meinen Schwingen heim -by Rainier Maria Rilke

I come home from the soaring in which I lost myself.
I was song, and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still
and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.
I’d gone very far, as far as the angels,
and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God.

-from Rilke's Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

As I have since this blog's inception, on the day of my sobriety anniversary I publish this treasured Rilke poem, but with a new image each year.
.

Mag 284 — Sunset Pantoum

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sat, 12 Sep 2015 06:15:00 +0000

I want to wander there now
In the land split by the hills
Where sunset colors the valley
And gloaming shades the mounds

In the land split by the hills
Days live long in the mossy fields
And gloaming shades the mounds
As night comes in layers of beauty

Days live long in the mossy fields
Youth takes for granted the sun
As night comes in layers of beauty
Age sees and remembers it all

Youth takes for granted the sun
And the moon, the stars, and youth
Age sees and remembers it all
As sighs turn to smiles of knowing

And the moon, the stars, and youth
Then focus over the misty crest
As sighs turn to smiles of knowing
Open the gate to the beckoning path

Then focus over the misty crest
Back to the shining valley below
Open the gate to the beckoning path
I want to wander there now.

Written for The Mag: Mag 284 that inspired with the above image (it seemed like a visual pantoum to me, thus the poetic form I used).

Mag 278 — goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Wed, 15 Jul 2015 04:51:00 +0000

So as to not disturb the silence from which
this poem came I will whisper goodbye.

No goodbyes to the space that will always
hold us but goodbye to the vastness of
that space. No goodbyes to your face that
is there for friends in the good book of
these days, and no goodbyes to your face
in smiling pictures from those days,
but goodbye to seeing eye to eye.
Goodbye to your hands: I loved them to
look at, and being gifted by them with
pleasures. Goodbye to the pleasure of
knowing you well. Goodbye to your voice-
its tone and timbre, and your written voice-
its passion and poignancy. Goodbye to all you
were for me—heartbreaker and muse, taker
and lover, forsaker and friend, forgiver and
forgiven.

__________
*first stanza - with a nod to final line of HOW TO BE A POET by Wendell Berry

Written for The Mag: Mag 278 that inspired with the above image prompt.
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Pause for Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 07 Jul 2015 08:04:00 +0000

The image she kept of herself: sophisticated
elegance, hair swept in perfumed grace, nails
groomed pink clinking against the drink glass,
ice winking from clear blue eyes.

Who she was: the drunk in dirty overalls,
flirty beauty long gone, slurring stories long on
lies, interrupting herself with "Excuse me,"
before puking inside her garment bib.

Written (with gratitude for we women who have attained sobriety) for two writing prompts:

1) Photo Challenge #68, Pause at MindLoveMisery's Menagerie.
Note: Image by wallpaperswide.com

2) 55 words for Flash 55 Plus at imaginary garden with real toads

Mag 270 — imprint

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 19 May 2015 07:53:00 +0000

Today, five months after your death,
two young deer surprised me in the
yard at dawn. One trotted rhythmically
across the lawn, but the other stood
stoically feet away and we regarded
one another with quiet understanding.

The day held sunshine that filtered
through the slats and rays streaked
your bed. I lie briefly there each
night, my head quieted, my bones
sinking into spots where you slept.
Truth is, I still weep for you there.

At dusk clouds bloated with moisture
chugged across the sky, competing
with the sun. Eventually, as was pre-
dicted, they won. But the glorious
contest colored a modest rainbow,
while birds worked on symphonies.

Tonight gentle rain misted the yard
you loved well. It puddled in huge
rocks where it fell, those turquoise
ones we had hauled here that are
beloved by butterflies in summer.
I think they leave their prints behind.

Written for The Mag: Mag 270 that inspired with the above image prompt: artwork

by Ulrike Bolenz.

Mag 265 — I am the sea

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Mon, 13 Apr 2015 08:57:00 +0000

This is me. I am the sea.
I am pale as foam and
blue, drenched by a river
of tears flowing into me —
From me waves of change
are blowing, yet
I am still in the night,
cradling my host of loved
ones of the deep. We
sleep with the moon in
reflective trust as aeons
of dreams turn the tide.

Written for The Mag: Mag 265 that inspired with the above image prompt: painting by Daria Petrilli.

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Mag 262 — Green God

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Mon, 23 Mar 2015 19:14:00 +0000

You see, I see you
you mossy green god
and god how I love you,
you with trunks to spare
and that wild white eye
beneath your unicorn horn

You see me ignoring your
comical grimace as I come
near to whisper into your
elfin ear god how I love you

You raise your forked tail
into the green canopy,
grasping to feel the rays
of the sun and

You coax out the stars
from a midnight sky to
cool under as I unroll
my bag to sleep beneath
you with your claws as a
mossy green pillow

You show me visions in my
dreams of the story of your
old forest grove, the sad story
how you came to be lone elder

You see then that I see you
and how your grimace formed
and why you grew your giant
elfin ear to maybe, maybe
hear across the fields for
messages from your type

You stretch deeper and farther
beyond the tender young ones
and grasses, reaching for eternity,
showing earth how you love her

Written for The Mag: Mag 262 that inspired with the above image prompt.

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When

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 10 Mar 2015 20:14:00 +0000

When when was a word
trailing off into space
and change was avoided,
to keep an unholy peace,
I kept pace with the
fullness of nothing.

Then then became a sword
to die upon or to swallow
and in my marrow I knew
that when is now and
always had been.

So without a runway or
landing strip I changed
course and one day
I will say I flew.

.

Flash 55 — Boon's

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 05:42:00 +0000

There is power of place here,
Solid as mortared brick -
Ethereal as finespun memories.

I sip Earl Grey tea
On a waning winter day,
Remembering dark ale drunk
In the sunshine of youth at
That table, and that one by the
Pot-bellied stove.

Decades slipped away …
And his eyes are still the bluest blue.

_________

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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Meeting the Bar — For my dog, Bonbon

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 30 Jan 2015 09:57:00 +0000

Jupiter and moons from telescope, via astronomyonline.org

Jupiter
Is our meeting place
Since you died my light went out
Out I go each night and I see you
Prancing there

Written for Meeting The Bar—The Cinquain .. .Expanded, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Tony Maude. Tony has revitalized the traditional five-line Cinquain poetry form (follow link to refresh your memory) by working "with the cinquain, breaking it by adding an extra syllable to each line, giving a five-line poem with lines of 3, 5, 7, 9 and 3 syllables in that order." Very cool, Tony!

Poetics: The Stuff of Life in Old Reno

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Thu, 18 Dec 2014 00:49:00 +0000

The streets were gray, safe alleyways
showed some minor decay.
Bums slept there at night under neon signs
as street walkers strutted by.
In winter there was snow—
the valley air was crisp and clear,
scrubbed by high desert winds.
Morning came and many casino
workers mixed with fewer office
workers on the sidewalks, as some
drunk gamblers swayed, holding smudged
drink glasses, bleary-eyed and determined
to break even in the new day.
And all were connected by scent from the
old brick corner bakery with steamy windows—
a sweet yeasty aroma created in the
dark of night when the baker and his crew
in white aprons mixed and kneaded
and baked breads so sumptuous
as to make the people proud to live there,
to breathe the same air, to break bread
with one another, to be nourished for another day.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Grace, in a truly lovely prompt, asked us to write about bread.
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Carpe Diem Haiku Kai: Solitude (Kodoku)

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Thu, 11 Dec 2014 06:18:00 +0000

Christmas music plays
We select prized ornaments
Just the cat and me

~

Old handwritten note
"New York childhood Christmases"
Beaded star for tree

~

As far as a star
As near as these memories
Tender solitude

Written for Carpe Diem Haiku Kai: Solitude (Kodoku)

Carpe Diem Haiku Kai: Autumn Sunlight

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 02 Dec 2014 02:58:00 +0000

Dog runs in late sun
Grass carpet of dewy webs
Spiders may forgive

~

Written for Carpe Diem Haiku Kai: "Autumn Sunlight"
This is a new meme group for me. I was drawn to this prompt, as it reminded me of a scene this autumn when I was walking my dog. We were alone in the vast soccer fields of a nearby school on a weekend and the late slanting sun showed that the grasses were totally carpeted with spider webs. It was truly awesome, and I pondered how fleeting the beauty of the spiders' handiwork would be.
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Meeting the Bar — Thankfulness, unfinished

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sat, 29 Nov 2014 04:18:00 +0000

Ferns in Black and White by Jim Crotty (2010)

That unseen bird chirping alone, rejoicing
in a tall fern, in the rain, at Thanksgiving

The Pastoral, Beethoven’s 6th symphony,
for deep insight and soft soul flight,
to rejoice in musical thanksgiving

All feelings that swell beneath certain words:
rejoice and pastoral, unseen and alone,
rain and music, thanks and giving

The quiet breath that fills the chest before
a sweet note or an unkind word: one
deserves thanks, the other needs forgiving

Breathing here, now, in this symphony of
solitude in the night, following news of
an old classmate’s passing on Thanksgiving

That unseen bird chirping alone, rejoicing

Written for MeetingTheBar—Thanksgiving Turkey with a side of Poetry, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Brian Miller. He asked us to write a poem about what we are thankful for. Fresh on my mind were the last 24 hours......

Flash Fiction 55 — impressions

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Mon, 10 Nov 2014 10:46:00 +0000

The Waning Honeymoon, 1878 (oil on canvas) by George Henry Boughton

Old Woman by Suzanne Marie LeClair

When she was a child, Jacqueline’s aunt Lily made two pronouncements that left lifelong impressions.
“Paul is crazy."
"Sex is incidental."

Auntie truisms warped and wrapped together, even decades after Lily and Paul passed. Paul died first, screaming mad he was at the end, leaving Lily to years of no longing with shortbread and tea.

______________________________
My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads. In searching for images to accompany this prose I could not decide which of the two above most suited the fiction. The mood seems to change with each, yet each touches the tone.......so I kept them both!
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Sobriety: 29 years

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Wed, 15 Oct 2014 08:34:00 +0000

catmasutra-earth-5-elements by Paul Koh

Ich komme aus meinen Schwingen heim -by Rainier Maria Rilke

I come home from the soaring in which I lost myself.
I was song, and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still
and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.
I’d gone very far, as far as the angels,
and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God.

-from Rilke's Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

As I have since this blog's inception, on the day of my sobriety anniversary I publish this treasured Rilke poem, but with a new image each year.
.

Mag 236 — Moth at Mindfulness Camp

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 09 Sep 2014 08:15:00 +0000

We were meditators, Buddhists, and
free spirits, we walked in the sand,
danced in waves, sang fireside,
worked side by side
in happy labor, sat side by side
in locked silence needing no key
but to return to our breath,
to that one moment, the
only breath, the only moment.

Some brought their kids there too, the cutest
things, sweet groundling sprites
with painted faces and spirits so
pure, who warmed in friendship
and made plays for us, whose bows
to us in the great hall made me cry,
they caught the first light of dawn to
find low tide where the caves told
them secrets, maybe only one secret.

The youngest, age five, caught me
walking one day to the lodge, ran
to me, said I could see her moth -
Come, come - her eyes all alight,
she led me to a corner of the deck
then reverently lifted the moth
and put it in my hand, and I said I
hoped it had had a happy life, and
she whispered It never knew winter.

Written for The Mag: Mag 236 that inspired with the above image prompt.
My picture of the child in the poem is below.

Poetics: Reno

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 23:29:00 +0000

A homecoming

Everything, everything I saw while driving
there was enveloped in beauty.
Besotted with three great forests, I
had haiku in my head, celebrations
transferred to scrappy notes at stops along
the way and later simply written on
paper with the steering wheel for support
as I drove. Everything, everything so
sublimely crystal real had full appeal
until, seemingly surreal,
The Biggest Little City came into view.

How now brown cow town,
with your bawdy teats suckling the masses
who build on your dry rolling hills, sucking
the life out of my memories of the place
where my mother breastfed me
in a room near the Truckee River, the
place where my haiku stream ran dry.....

But some love the town I left long
ago and left again, this time feeling
somehow renewed in spite of the disjunction
as, in spite of myself, a part of me
functions there still: a little blessing part that
whispers "please stop growing" - all the while
knowing it won't, and guessing it does not
mind that my mind was fresh with haiku
once I reached the next timber line
where everything was everything.

~~~

Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Abhra shares beautiful thoughts about frequent moving, and returning home, then asks us to compose a poem about a homecoming: "what it is to stay away and the coming back after a long time – have you been worried that the place you call home has changed all the time you have been away?"

~~~

This scene seems necessary to me. RIP, Robin Williams.