The Stream It is cold under the slimy moss covered rock slabs crayfish scrambling, cold, my feet cold, reeds and maybe beaver in the reeds, cold so cold skip small white pebbles laugh Warren The hills like a cape i wear around my shoulders The river, muddy, not stagnant Homes of brick and wood, 12,000 population now The stores wear new themes for tourists, The hills are like a cape I wear. One opening... The river flows west and forms a pathway out. I took that journey west and never returned to stay I know these hills, their paths to hike, their streams, called Runs, their hardwood trees, all colors in the Fall, and the dirt roads I drive with wonder. The hills are a memory as fresh as a blackberry picked on the trail and popped into my soul. My Car My Car, Tar Green one thin line across its doors "Keyed", they say, Perhaps someone against my stickers My car has taken me far, to PA, to CO, to MI. Marred now by hail and spots of rust, my car is a quiet haven, a cave where I play my music, think my thoughts and feel free to roam. |
I haven't written poetry in quite a while. I'm feeling a bit tenuous about it but I think I'll put some of it out there. I am taking a class on writing about landscape, gathering places, maps, daily images. The title intrigued me and a friend encouraged me to take the class. There are very good poets in the class and I am a little shy of them but here goes anyway. in writing assignment about PLACE, I wrote about our camp seven miles from our home in Warren PA. where my family spent lovely summer days there when I was a child. It was located on a dirt road, in the woods and the Farnsworth Stream ran close by.
Laudromats Hum of the spin cycle chug of the soap and water Taking care of clothes The Smell of soap and coffee Dunn Brothers an easy target while waiting for that last spin hot, wet clothes, into the drier Hot Hot children running around the track, screaming I read, I write poetry, Laundromats are my place away from home |
The road Two miles, two miles I can walk two miles on this sandy road, the color of peach, pebbles of pink, white and blue A deer flashes her tail and we come to the mysterious place where dark shadows allow no growth Here the tall pines and milky Indian pipes have a carpet of pine needles for their own Two miles, two miles I can walk two miles, the Fish Hatchery a goal It is dusk and the kerosene lamps are lit there will be cards to play and laughter awaits our return Ginny's Studio A garage for one car once A Space for creativity now A gas stove heats my fingers that hold the brush four artists meet weekly in this creatively built studio space with Northern and Southern Light My Palette blazes with colors. The white piece of paper shouts "BEGIN!" Every Tuesday, we talk, we paint, we share We are most of all friends. The Martin House Their House Perched high So when they watch out their window they see clouds that get smaller close to the horizon. One Martin has been sitting sentinel looking west for a long time He is in contemplation. His pee brain says, "Cold today" "Windy" "No Mosquitos" "No supper tonight" |
