NOTES: Write a poem about a favorite bird. I don't have any idea where this one came from... I can still surprise myself. [43/365] REDBIRD Her blouse a silky red today, not the cruel blood-red of her eyes after her usual night of debauched drinking, nor the gaudy crimson of her smeared lipstick, but the brilliant red plumage of the cardinals  who nested in the yews of her childhood, feathers flaming   against  winter's virgin white. She remembers things she's forgotten, things she wishes she hadn't done, knows she can't run away  because there's nowhere to go.

HAIKU [42/365] DANDELION  Virgin white fluffs float on a sunbeam, light as air, downy tufts set free.

  This House, home for the last 48 years, where we’ve lived a life together. The two of us, later joined by a daughter, then a son. Now just the two of us again, older slower grayer, but still together. We moved in May,  views of leafy branches burgeoning beyond each window.   Our babies conceived  in the same bedroom where we still sleep So many milestones, so much love. Soon, it will be time to leave. This new chapter isn’t as exciting no matter how I try to make it so. The sound of happy feet running up the stairs Family parties when all our loved ones were alive A strong memory I have is being up in the attic, at the very top of this new to me house, scrubing the attic floor.  

  MY FATHER MY HERO [40/365] I dream you back to the present, pater familias  and protector, the father I loved and hated, my first hero. Strong, handsome you were the real deal. You demanded perfection, your sky-high expectations impossibly steep, I failed too many times. Alike in countless ways, yet you never saw; always needless anger between us. When you died, I was the one at your bedside, holding your hand as you passed into eternity. My life went suddenly flat, I wondered how I would exist in a world where you didn't.

  BUTTON JAR [39/365] Tucked away on a low shelf in the linen closet, Grandma's button jar waits, an ordinary Ball jar with a homemade calico pincushion top. The button collection inside tells her story, a patchwork of years, kaleidoscope of memories. Brass buttons, glass buttons, pearl buttons. Buttons from Grandpa's white dress shirts, buttons from her special Sunday church dress, a fancy jeweled button off Aunt Mary's good coat, buttons from Danny's jacket and Lily's jumper, tiny white buttons from a baby's sweater. Jumbled together, settled in linty thread, souvenirs from days past, keepsakes of a lifetime. *comments welcome

Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka. Think about avoiding capitalization and punctuation because a tanka needn’t be like a sentence. Tete-a-Tete  [36/365] sitting knee to knee two old people alone together youth and beauty gone sore joints and wrinkles prevail their memories bring comfort

I DREAM IN COLOR [36] We were cat-sitting at Madeline’s but it wasn’t her real house  and we never saw the cat. Instead we stayed at a formidable  red brick mansion with wrought iron gates and an ivy-trellised  courtyard, I think it was New Orleans.  Out of the blue your mother’s long dead bridge partners barged in  through French doors that opened off the library. The old busybodies  wore magnificent feathered hats in marvelous gaudy colors:  magenta, aquamarine, vermilion, saffron. They left as suddenly  as they arrived, carrying away Madeline’s prized first editions  sequestered under their fluttering headpieces. All kinds  of outlandish strangers  wandered in after that and I yelled at you  to lock the doors.  A Mardi Gras parade  with a captain who looked  like Woody Allen,  wearing a kaleidoscope  of colored beads,  a sapphire uniform  with diamond studded buttons  and a pocket...

  Rod McKuen [35] Love poet of the 1960s, inspired her, centered her in stillness. She bought his book, planned to give it,  a 3rd anniversary present. He'd already left by then. She kept the book for years,  not sure  why,  cried every time  she saw it on the shelf. Bitter keepsake of a lost future, hurting journey from there to here. *comments welcome. First draft.... ROD McKUEN love poet of the 1960s inspired her connected her to inner silence. She bought his book planned to give it as a 3rd anniversary present. He'd already left her by then. She kept the book for years. She doesn't know why. She cried every time she saw it on the bookshelf. It's a long way from morning to evening. "We come into the world alone. We go away the same. We're meant to spend the interlude between in closeness or so we tell ourselves. But it's a long way from the morning to the evening." ~ Rod McKuen 1950s, he began writing poetry and delivered his wor...

FALSE SPRING  [34] Snow flurries, they said. Seven ill-timed inches later, we're still digging out. *comments welcome

GRANDMA WAS A KNITTER [33] Soft pink booties when I arrived (first grandbaby and a girl). She knit a bag   of mismatched baby shoes  until she managed to get a "just right" pair. Intricate argyle socks for Dad and Uncle. Uncle Dick was a bachelor and older; that evidently qualified him  to bring his dirty socks back to grandma  when they needed  hand- washing and special drying on wooden  sock stretcher forms. Drove my father crazy, always thought she favored brother Dick and was secretly jealous. I came across those booties not long ago, an absolute marvel of ingenuity. Made me cry. I wonder what she thought  about while her needles clicked away. *comments welcome

Today is the 59th anniversary of our first date, February 18, 1967 [whew!].  I still have the ticket stub  from the Minnesota hockey game  we attended.  I gave it to him, framed,  on our 35th anniversary.  He was so touched  I had saved it.  This year, we'll celebrate No. 55! BLIND DATE 1967. [32] She remembers it snowed and she wore new leather gloves, elegant and buttery-soft,  nut-brown kid gloves from Paris, the kind that fit her fingers snugly and stretched just the tiniest bit each time she wore them. They held hands in the frosty dark while snowflakes tumbled all around, some landing in his hair. Removing her glove to brush them   away, her fingers grazed his cheek. Little shivers of pleasure fluttered, the moment one of happy chance, fortunate stroke of serendipity. Unforgettable, that's what he was. *comments welcome  

ON THE COVER OF VOGUE, 1949 [31] Last time I went to visit she told me about her Ceil Chapman dress, sleekly elegant dream of a dress, shoulder-baring Marilyn Monroe dress, a dress that made the cover of Vogue. Smooth, lustrous black taffeta, a row of shiny jet buttons, heavy cream lace peeping at the neck, draped, tucked, folded just so, a frothy fairy-tale confection. Deeply in love, she danced  the night away  to the romantic pop ballads with her handsome escort. Enchanting is what she was.

MENTAL GRAFFITI [30] She doesn't smoke (ever), doesn't drink (often) and she definitely doesn't sleep around (here's where she admits to being over 70), but she curses. Not out loud, of course,  (well sometimes), rather it's all exploding in her head! There's a constant stream of profanities short, blunt and four-letter ranging from sharp, one-syllable vulgarities to creative compound insults (really ugly words) swirling around in there. She's moved way past  hell  and  damn. Her mother, and the pious sisters  who taught her, would be appalled. Intense political frustration is the   plausible catalyst. It wasn't always this way,   before her world went up in red smoke, destroyed by evil old white men,  chasing dreams of corrupted greatness. --comments welcome-- Also, I have not edited this.  That comes next year!!!

  POT OF GOLD 1955 [29] Scattered showers followed by a rainbow, two little girls, aged eight and nine, Sandy Clark and me, on a rainbow-chasing-mission, across a dirt road, through grassy fields, hopping running skipping, repeat. Part of me knew this was a fool's journey, still, I held the tiniest scintilla of hope. Maybe somehow, we'd find the golden prize. Suddenly, the sun moved, prisms vanished. We lost our marker, the game was over. Downcast, we returned across the fields, along the road and...home.

I'm not much for explaining my work because, to quote Eliot, "Any attempt on my part to explain would merely be saying something else." I've really been enjoying writing stream-of-consciousness poems in the last few days. I think they are accessible, and the poetry is in the experience of the poem itself, as opposed to what the poem says about anything. https://tseliot.com/edi.../in-eliots-own-words-four-quartets

  CENTO POEM:  A cento is a poem constructed entirely from lines or phrases borrowed from other poets, acting as a patchwork or collage of existing literature to create a new piece. A cento can range from a few lines to a long poem, sometimes taking only one line from a variety of sources.   Cite the original authors.  FROM HERE TO THERE [28] So early it's still almost dark out. I was going to write a poem, I made a pie instead. I'll get back to the poem. Are we out of coffee? You never know what is enough unless you know  what is more than enough. The mantle clock that  was my grandfather's has stopped at 9:20;  we haven't had time to get it repaired. In a poem we can do  anything we want. -- comments welcome -- ------------------------ ORIGINAL AUTHORS: " So early it's still almost dark out." Happiness, by Raymond Carver "I was going to write a poem, I made a pie instead."      The Poet’s Occasional Alternative,   By Grace Ha...