April's Love

April's Love 

.

It was the best of months, the worst of  months

married young, so good it's hard to describe

tender and sweet, closely entwined, young love

 

Young marriages may not last, seasons change

bitterness and sorrow, brokenhearted 

storms threw down their nest, the flowers died

 

 

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Photos and Poem Copyright
© 2014 Jimmiehov
All Rights Reserved

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Today I am  linked to the Real Toads, Words Count with Momma Zen

 (My word count is forty-six)

"In his masterpiece The Waste Land, poet T.S. Eliot 

describes April as the cruelest month," Mom Zee asked,

"Give me the best and worst of April, then render a verdict . . . in 66 words or less."

 

Where I was born

 

Early home

The old house was home to me 

Seventeen years there I lived 

First breath I took, fresh farm air 

 

Reading lights there we had none

No one was afraid of dark,

except for one little boy

 

My trip at night outhouse bound

Little sis was my escort

We had hope for the flashlight

 

Four room house, sis needed one  

The front porch became my room

For sister I didn't mind

 

Corn cob stove, later fuel oil

Kerosene lamps, then came juice

Outhouse filled up, bathroom came

 

Raccoons and snakes made their home

Elm trees growing in my porch

And then it was razed and burned

 

A hundred plus, house had lived

Perfect place a boy to grow

Little sister, Mom and Dad 

 

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Poem and Photo Copyright
© 2014 Jimmiehov
All Rights Reserved

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Today I am  linked with Helen at the Real Toads, All About Abodes

 

A rundown of the old home place, here

Words Count? -- A double inverse Venetian sonnet

Didya?

Ya hear, eons past,

two nuns, a priest, a gopher,

died, went to Heaven

Met St. Peter at the gate

Eighty-plus, four April Fools
.

Haha, folks, that's all.

Got their Obama Care. Now

deadline came and went

Double inverse Venetian

sonnet--nonesuch, April Fools!
.
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Poem and Photo Copyright
© 2014 and 2010 Jimmiehov
All Rights Reserved

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Today my double tanka is linked with Mama Zen at the Real Toads Word Count

Mom Zee's command:
- "Today, I would like you to write a double inverse Venetian sonnet using the traditional hexatonic goatameter. Your piece must include two nuns, a priest, a gopher, and a space / time paradox.  Please address either universal health care or twerking in the volta . . . in 37 words or less.
- April Fools!"

- I did pretty well even with the joke.  My 'Word Count:' 1 (title), 24 (verse one), 20 (second verse) (thats less than 37 per tanka so it was fudged a bit for a total of 45 words)

Finding pieces -- Unfinished Nonsense

Saint Michael fighting the dragon, Hours of Etienne Chevalier, illuminated by Jean Fouquet. Innumerable symbols here: "The scene is inspired by chapter 12 of the Apocalypse which describes the combat of St. Michael against the dragon, symbol of the forces of Evil. Assisted by the angels, one of whom holds his helmet and lance, Michael raises his  sword against a monster of seven heads in front of a mountainous and fantastic landscape. Below, the caves of  hell open where Satan oversees the torture of hearts. On the right, one sees in the flames the dragon  defeated  by the archangel." Public domain via wikipedia.fr

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Unfinished Nonsense: 
.

Today a new process was to be installed in our routine.

They call it finding our life's meaning through happiness, hardships, and indulgences.

We called it "walking with the rat on the wheel of labour."

What did it matter, what was in a name
which we didn't understand nor did we care?
 .

Without an inkling of sensibility they proceeded.

First was the harness, all of the rats has one, maybe two or three.

There are ones for working, playing, and

maybe a different one to knock around in or sleep. 

Most rats don't have all as the better ones come through rewards.

Definitely they are in control.
.

My harness fit nicely and now the wait,

tension arising, for the first uphill ordeal of the wheel. 

That would come as a series of questions they would present
throughout, seeking to trigger a cataloged response. 

"Did we like our mother?  Our father?  Do we hate our love partner. Et al."
...

Oh my.  This wasn't what I thought it would be,

my responses are becoming evasive and a bit cruel today. 

Usually I'm such a caring and tender person ...
.

Cryptic mode, cryptic mode!  I'm switching to cryptic mode! 
.

Ialbocvdeeyfoguhailjlk,blymenfooprqervsetrunvowwx,

I'mdrowningindissociatedandirrationaldisguise!
.

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Poem Copyright, ©  2014, Jimmiehov, All Rights Reserved

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My piece is 'unfinished' because I chose to stop writing it.  It was going nowhere that poems should go.  I liked my idea of telling of the trials of a person undergoing mass psychological testing but I am lacking in enough subject matter knowledge to complete this task.  (I did take Psychology 101 in college which wasn't of much help to me now, forty-some years later.)

Today I'm listed with the Real Toads, Open Link Monday.
 

My 'unfinished' prose poem is also linked today with the Real Toads, Get listed with Hedgewich: Mind and Symbol. 
Please read her piece.  The illustration and accompanying description were from her post. 
The instructions were:
"- The piece should deal with the world of dreams, the mind,  symbols or the unconscious. It may retell an archetypal myth. It may be about a specific dream. It may be about sanity or madness, or it may explore and focus on any one or more of the symbols shown in these pictures or on a personally meaningful one. 
- I have included thirty-two words (below) so that our poems may take different directions. There is no maximum number limit, but also no requirement to use them all, either. 
- However you must use at least five of the words from this list:

meaning, wheel, name, inkling, indulgence, unconscious, perception, limit, amplification, faint, threshold, frail, dissociated, control, evasive, tender, oscillate, tension, impulse, penumbra, fetish, stiff, irrational, precise, trigger, primitive, cryptic, jump, boundaries, deflected, forgetting, collective, disguise."   [I've used the ones underlined].

Redbud tree knows

click on picture to enlarge . . . . . . . . . . .

Redbud tree knows 

Blooming redbud tree knows

Is the redbud tree wise?

She stands on guard always

Morning and afternoon

Day and night, all she sees 

By the roadside she's seen

Both injury and death

Timid drivers are some

Others elderly be

Teenagers at the wheel 

With ears no human knows

She hears secrets untold

Gossip flows--couples walk

Anger and disrespect

Things we don't want to know 

On this tree weather's hard

Snow on these blossoms pink

No complaining we hear

She tells not what she sees

Spring's delight for our eyes

Is the redbud tree wise?

Really doesn't matter

We love her anyway

Beautiful tree we see

Her beauty will prevail

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Photo and Poem Copyright, ©  2014, Jimmiehov, All Rights Reserved

I'm linked today with Kerry at the Real Toads, Open Link Monday

The Pig

The kids are coming

The kids are coming, that's what Grandpa said.

Grandpa had been uptight, climbing the walls.

But Grandma was tearing up, really sad.

Grandpa hadn't noticed, counting his balls.  

Grandpa hadn't liked this new holiday.

Never before was a day, freedom lost,

honor White Pigs Day. The president made

mandatory celebration, dang laws. 

Honor the pig? Really a day off work.

Well, the kids all came, the grandchildren too.

Yes, there had been a pig, white spotted York.

Saved the nation from Coffee Party new. 

Those mad men and ladies he slew, no few.

The ones who didn't die went underground.

Soon to be gassed they were, Presidents do.

Honor The Pig, accolades all around. 

Grandpa pretended his day to enjoy.

He'd rather playing golf, losing more balls,

than give homage to The Pig, mangy boy.

The President? The Pig? Coffee Man galls?

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Photo and Poem Copyright, © Photo 2008, Poem 2014, Jimmiehov, All Rights Reserved

I'm linked today with Izzy at the Real Toads, The Challenge--Out of Standard

Izzy's Challenge:
Invoke your reign over the calendar and write a poem which takes place on a holiday you invented.  It can be to canonized your personal hero who does not have a holiday already, or celebrate an event that you feel deserves it’s own time in the limelight. Or just make up some crazy nonsense, like the Day of the Seventh Head of Matilda.  You know, shake hands with your imagination.

I have one rule and one rule only for this prompt--your poem must take place on your holiday, not simply be about your holiday.  This means you will need to invoke a narrator and some sort of setting!

Some National Pi Day Poems (a Pi-ku) # 05 -- To 'Let it Go'

 .

Pi Today
 

.Pi, a math constant

Pi "R" Squared -- Circle's domain

My pi is spelled pie 
.

They aren't always round

Deserts, my favorite kind

My pie is a cake 

.

 

 

Enough of the Senryū set, now, a Pi-ku ditty for "Let it Go"
 

 - -

 3-14
 

Three, one, four 

syl-

lables per line

Happy Pi
Day
to you and yours

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Photos and Poem Copyright © Photos and Poems 2014, Jimmiehov, All Rights Reserved

International Pi Day reading here (remember pi, aka π.)

I'm linked today with the Real Toads, "Let it Go" with Marion

 

Marion said, "And then write your (new) poem based on the idea of letting go, not holding back, just being yourself and no one else. Enjoy! 

 More of my Pi Day poems here

Today, March 14 (3-14 or 3.14) is Pi Day (link). Pi Day is celebrated mostly by mathematicians but you can join in on the fun, somehow. Me? I am writing thess Pi Poems for my blog. Perhaps next year I will write another Pi Haiku (3, 1, 4 syllables per line)

I am not a mathematician but I do have a math minor to go along with my bachelor of science in economics. For me that involved taking seven college math classes for a total of 21 semester hours.

Differential Equations, DE, was my most involved class that I completed. Advanced Calculus was my 'weedout' class, i.e. I dropped it before completion. Read here to find out why this course "weeded me out."

 

 

Her Cargo

Precious Cargo 

Her cargo was precious, family jewel.

She loaded her daughter into Dad's car.

Car seat required by law, Dad had the best.

Firmly strapped, now traffic to entertain. 

She pulled out gingerly onto the way.

Take the expressway today, she hurried.

It wasn't always like this, she recalled.

From teenage driving she had honed her skills. 

Dad would keep some golf balls on the console,

they had better all be there next morning.

If even one was on the floor Dad knew,

he knew and she heard, "cornering too fast." 

Watch that truck, it's veering from lane to lane!

Toy with it, like the racer she still was?

When she was six she raced her bicycle.

On her racer bike, she would come in first. 

She'd learned from racing in pinewood derbies.

Her car was pretty blue, it always won.

Dad helped with mechanics, she did the paint.

Today though, no racing, she'd stay in line. 

Her cargo was precious, her only girl.

That girl she hoped would win races, her own,

driving her car that Grandpa helped to carve.

She'd paint it pretty, prettier than Mom's.




Photos and Poem Copyright © (Photos 2009, 2011) (Poem 2014) Jimmiehov All Rights Reserved

I'm linked today with the Real Toads, Kerry Says: Create that Flashback Moment!

Kerry's challenge today was to incorporate the element of flashback narrative into a poem. This could be based on real experience or entirely imaginary, but it should have a purpose in creating the emotional mood or background to the present situation depicted.

Pictured is KP, my youngest grand-daughter.  You can see more picture of KP driving here.

Rocks I know and ...

Rocks I know and some I don't 

Rocks are my friends, that wasn't always so

When I was young and in college my prof

Said to me, "if you'd have come more often

You would have passed mineralogy class" 

So I failed. Even so I still like rocks

I find them hiding in places I've been

From a friend one may come my way to stay

Dull or bright, to me they are pretty souls 

Now I'll introduce a few of my pets

Several in my fold have Orient blood

Polished smooth I plucked from clear river beds

Lakeside beaches wet and shining they called 

Some black, volcanic from a lava flow

Hawaii took for granted; my cherished

Mount St. Helens gray pumice rock, rolled down

at birth, three months old came into my fold

 

Found along a path walking up the hill

Derelict, Athens Greece gave no respect

Ireland, Scotland, Isle of Man roosted

From Adriatic, Black, and Baltic seas

Mediterranean, Aegean, more

North Pole, South Pole, not--try Australia

One, large and green, I call to be Jadeite

Quartz, petrified wood, and fools gold abound 

One rock I've not, I want it so badly

It's on my bucket list--been there so long

Before I die it might come to my home

Big bucks I'll gladly spend, METEORITE

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Photo and Poem Copyright © 2014 Jimmiehov All Rights Reserved

I'm linked today with the Real Toads, Hannah's Transforming Friday

Some of my older rock and stone posts (link)

The Oscars Last Night

I Watched the Oscars Last Night

I watched the Oscars last night, I don't know

why. There was just one of the picture shows

that I'd seen. That was the Secret Life of

Walter Mitty. Count typewriters above,

not real fun but I liked their style. Manual

and old. I don't think you saw them at all.

I watched the Oscars last night, I don't know

why. Mrs. went to sleep, hurt her elbow. 

Watched for McConaughey and Bullock be-

cause they had Texas ties, cow country, see.

I watched the Oscars last night, not at first.

Missed the start, my dog was about to burst. 

Great Gadsby was a movie I saw last

fall--on the plane, going to London fast.

I watched the Oscars last night but I missed

Fitzgerald's pride. I liked it too, his best.

I watched the Oscars last night, they went so

slow, Ellen DeGeneres hurt the flow.

She passed out pizza and tried to collect.

I changed the channel and said, "what the heck."

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Photo of A B C telecast and poem Copyright © 2014 Jimmiehov. All Rights Reserved

I'm linked with Real Toads, Open Monday.