The Writing Our Way Home people ( http://www.writingourwayhome.com) have begun an August project where we write and share a small stone poem for each day of August. A small stone is described as “a few words that point to a moment” and given that I have had a dry July it feels like a way back in to writing. I will post one small stone here each day through August, and take it from there…
Trees breeze in
as rain tickles leaves
and wind pats them dry
Small green parcels
juicy pockets of pip and pulp.
A deathly hush in the doctors’ waiting room
by a toddler’s shrill scream
struggling with a red toy car
Spilt soil, I stand and stare,
the back dirt sinks into the carpet
as I watch.
I clear up the earth silently
surprised by my own serenity!
Small white Apple flickers
I wait impotent as updates
with new defences are added.
Being mindful of this moment
I write a small stone.
Furious flying through the garden
a sudden silence –
birds are not twittering.
A single feather floats down.
i am trying to ignore the cat, she makes sure I hear her displeasure.
Coming from the west
our man-made moon
sails across the space above
setting silently as a star
in the east
Small green eating machine
Stomach on legs
Except for the small black dots
Discarded on my kitchen counter
Telltale signs of my basil stowaway
Pied mischief makers
pile into the garden
bouncing across the lawn, clacking
barging and strutting
intimidating pigeons and sparrows alike.
Mealworm treats entice
more strident mobsters each day,
this morning, thirteen.
Unlucky for some!
A found poem:
How Does a Caterpillar Turn into a Butterfly?
To become a butterfly, a caterpillar first digests itself.
But certain groups of cells survive,
turning the soup into eyes, wings, antennae.
The story begins with a very hungry caterpillar
hatching from an egg.
The caterpillar stuffs itself with leaves,
growing plumper and longer
One day, the caterpillar stops eating,
hangs upside down from a twig or leaf
spins itself a silky cocoon
How does a caterpillar rearrange itself into a butterfly?
First, the caterpillar digests itself,
enzymes dissolve all of its tissues.
If you cut open a cocoon at just the right time,
caterpillar soup would ooze out.
A group of cells known as imaginal discs
survive the digestive process.
A disc for each of the adult body parts
Some caterpillars walk around with tiny rudimentary wings
tucked inside their bodies,
though you would never know it by looking at them.
Once a caterpillar has disintegrated all of its tissues
the discs use the protein-rich soup all around them
to fuel rapid cell division required to form
wings, antennae, legs, eyes,
Certain caterpillar muscles are preserved in the adult butterfly.
Moths remember what they learned
in later stages of their lives as caterpillars.
Getting a look at this metamorphosis as it happens is difficult;
disturbing a caterpillar inside its cocoon
risks botching the transformation.
A Tussah silkmoth failed to spin a cocoon
see the delicate, translucent jade wings, antennae and legs
a glimpse of what usually remains concealed.
Piles of clothing on the bed
some new, like today new,
some old and worn.
What to pack?
An enigma, quandary
Long lunch with a lovely friend,
talk turns to sweet smelling toilet facilities
Let’s bottle koala farts
that would do the trick!
Birds busy at the feeders;
table full of blackbirds kicking seed,
variety of tits on nuts.
And a rabbit
Where does he fit in?
shepherds delighted all across the county.
Under the stairs
a window on the world beyond
it’s hot out there!
Red juice slow drips
Gin soaked raspberries
Muslin stains in its work
While I relish the results.
Today’s work is pulling thistles
Feels like I am pulling up my roots
Scotland is far far away
Nail guns sound
I need to beat a retreat.
In the dying daylight I go out
in the dusk to put hedgehog food
in the bowl, the rustling wind
In the trees reminds me I am
in the moment, listening.
casually read the news
a growing sense of abhorrence.
Above the line all gold medals
honour and smiles.
Below, horror, rape and terror
relegated into silver.
A box is opened today
packed in a previous life
revealing lost treasures
suddenly it is 1991
and I am marrying
for the first time
Cloud watching from the hammock
on this humid afternoon
a cheetah running
followed by an ice skate
more swirling and it turns
into a suit of armour
a bolt of black and white
the sheepdog bounds
chasing the carriages
beats on the windows
of my glass house
Summer feels like autumn
days are colder, shorter
Busy days but not much present
I stop to breathe and catch the time
waiting for me to notice
The neatness of my packed suitcase
contradicts the chaos in my head.
Yesterday all about travelling,
stop, start, stop, stop
mostly stop on the M25
Overnight we have turned French
And we are stopped again
much happier this time!
Ruth must know something!
The healing power of waves
and a family rift is flowing closed
I will return from this time on the water
A sister once again
The murmuring shush of the sea
softens the burbling banter
of the biddies
as we await the ferry
Me: I went into the ladies and there was a male steward handling an orchid.
Husband: That’s a small stone right there!