Michellia

  • bitter is what I remember,
    growing stoutly against the leaning barn,
    broad green leaves with
    familiar red stalks,
    a row of healthy fruit
    that Grandma would sweeten
    and make pies for Sunday […]

    • This is SO compact – and yet it says SO much (sorry for all the capitals!). I love the fact that you begin the poem with the word ‘bitter’ (what I certainly identify with unsweetened rhubarb) and conclude the poem with the image of the pie made by your Grandmother for Sunday dinner. Lovely!

    • Thank you for taking time to comment on my poem. I remember rhubarb so well growing up – that bitterness and how my Grandmother could make it taste so good. Good memories.

  • back home again,
    at the trailer,
    and it seems that I can see –
    the gleaming street light,
    still shining bright,
    by the curb for me,
    the fresh cut grass,
    sends out it’s fragrance,
    on the streets I used to […]

  • on our place on Old 31 in Franklin,
    we had a three compartment garage –
    the left side is where Grandpa kept the
    old red riding lawn mower that he kept
    sharp to keep a beautiful lawn;
    it was a Wheel Horse a […]

    • good clear fluent words. They flow well and describe so I can see the mower and have a good sense of him.

      look at this section again.
      he harbored so much knowledge;
      He bought the lawnmower very used, but
      in his vast brain he just knew inherently how
      to fix it. He was smart like that.

      I think we knowledge suggests something we learn,and you are talking about talent,an inherent and inborn skill. Was he smart like that in other ways? I’m just more interested in him/

    • I am so appreciative of your constructive input. I will definitely make corrections. Thank you.

  • Cold so bitter that a long draw
    of air would pull the cilia inside your lungs;
    grab a handful of these tiny hairs and pull
    until the breath of air turned into a deep cough;
    the snow,
    so high, the clothes […]

    • I have one of these memories, an ice storm in Oklahoma when I was 13 or 14. We took an old wooden ironing board, turned it upside down, and rode it down the hill again and and again.

      Well-written memory poem.

    • I was eight, and a brand new transplant to Indiana from Florida, for the blizzard of ’78. I was certain every winter would be that magical, and what a letdown when I found out that was unusual! Thank you for the reminder of a bit of childhood magic.

    • My memories of snow in Indiana are so pleasant. I miss everything about it. Tennessee just does not get much snow. We get ice, which is dangerous. Thank you both for your thoughts.

  • she was a tractor,
    and Alice Chalmers,
    a restored red/orange piece of history
    that Grandpa poured sweat into,
    bringing us an easier way to break the ground;

    Ol’ Alice was a beloved family member,
    parked n […]

  • nothin’ smells better than
    Indiana dirt,
    bein’ turned with a pitchfork,
    tines sharp enough to pierce
    clean through
    anything that is in it’s path;

    taters exposed for the first time
    to the summer sun, […]

  • It takes just the right tree
    to build the proper tree house;
    we had just that tree –
    the sprawled red apple tree
    made just that house,
    complete with a proper ladder
    and sturdy old board floor,
    built l […]

  • We had an abundance of trees
    to slice the horizon into a beautiful half circle;
    blessed with two knobby apple trees
    that guaranteed apple butter to spice up
    our fall dinner table;
    Nothing wasted as my pioneer […]

  • you never saw such a wretched tree,
    standing in the middle of a beautiful, full ivy patch;
    the tree was dead,
    but had eerie life nesting inside it’s hollow;
    quiet during the day in it’s spooky sta […]

  • Under the moist blanket of pine needles
    and cool, dark, loose soil,
    early afternoon,
    though the veil of pine trees dropping
    its shroud of duskiness over the forrest;
    and in places we looked yesterday,
    we […]

  • after winter opened her taught fist,
    and mountains of snow made ponds in the yard,
    my Grandmother nurtured peach pit seeds
    for weeks –
    ready for transplant…
    she mixed rich soil and added her secret nut […]

  • Standing tall in it’s stately manner,
    curved at the top and rich purple grapes
    growing up the trellis and overhead,
    prolific with fruit and beautiful to see;
    in just weeks all that plump fruit
    will be c […]

  • The end of May when all the cars show up
    at the Speedway,
    preliminary races entertain the crowd,
    warming up the beaten track
    and smells of rubber fill the nostrils;
    car lovers live for this day as the […]

  • Crusty, mousy brown pods,
    that only a month before was a pleasant prickly green,
    tops so pointed,
    they nip the fingertips,
    breaking the stem,
    brings oozing milk
    in the circumference of the shoot;
    cool […]

  • Edinburgh –

    Indiana, not England,
    1970s
    where random explosions
    burst through the
    purple and orange evening sky –
    uneasy flocks of birds
    trying to find a place of quiet,
    a place to safely perch,
    we liv […]

  • June.

    Warm, breezy, dark evenings,

    my sisters and I ran circles in the back yard,

    my grandparents sitting in their

    aluminum, mesh webbed chairs,

    a pleasant childhood playground,

    Ball jars with […]

  • As I push back the curtains,
    the shrubbery below the frosty window,
    in it’s evergreen style –
    with it’s small prickly green foliage,
    home to bagworms during summer,
    nestling pockets of snow now,
    in the glimm […]

  • Part XI

    We all know,
    not all dreams are pleasant,
    and as my body gives in to the wares of war,
    I drift into a dream far away;
    past days of my mother’s brutality,
    into the realm of falling in love and e […]

  • Part II

    The war continued day and night,
    for years and years and years,
    the girl kept silent behind the red vinyl bunker,
    the poet inside mustering courage to
    actually draw pictures and put words to […]

    • “The red vinyl bunker” – I love that image. The mystery of the girl’s secrets and the conflict of the artist were so compelling.

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