Poetry Friday: Paulann Peterson

Last week, I was blessed with two poet rock stars for Oregon. I wrote about Ursula LeGuin HERE. On Saturday, Paulann Peterson, Oregon Poet Laureate held a free workshop at a local library.

The afternoon was typical Oregon: cold and wet. Inside twenty writers sat at tables for four hours and wrote. Paulann is a great believer in priming the pump as well as using scratch paper for priming. For the priming of our first poem , a “DNA” poem she led us through questions and visual imagery of a favorite place. Here’s my first attempt:

I am the sun sifting through striated clouds.
I am high tide careening toward craggy rocks.
Boughs that creak from the weight of the fog are me.
Salt air blends into wet sand.
I am the well worn path to the sea.

As the afternoon continued I realized that I had perhaps one of my children’s poems:

I am the skip, hop of the hopscotch game.
I am the empty swing in the schoolyard.
Clouds creatures skiffing across the sky are me.
Bullies stand in shadowed corners.
I am the child waiting to be chosen for kickball.

Poetry Friday is at A Year of Reading.
Happy Reading
MsMac

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PAD: Day 10

Written, Thursday, November 10

I Come From

I come from a Scottish grandfather I never met.
He sailed to India in a three-masted schooner.
I lament never meeting him.
I come from mystery and intrigue.

He sailed to India in a three-masted schooner.
He married my grandmother years later.
I come from mystery and intrigue.
Conversations at dinner were lively.

He married my grandmother years later.
I come from my grandmother’s laughter and love of writing.
Conversations at dinner were lively for adults
especially when my grandmother visited.

I come from my grandmother’s laughter and love of writing.
Stories about my grandfather were told,
especially when my grandmother visited.
Self-tattoos in tribal designs, a runaway, and becoming mayor

Stories about my grandfather told.
I come from a Scottish grandfather I never met.
Self-tattoos in tribal designs, a runaway, and becoming mayor
I lament never meeting him.

This poem was started a month ago at the Silver Falls writing retreat. I didn’t get it finished and the threads were waiting to be woven together.

My grandfather was born in 1863.  He left Scotland at 13 and claimed that wherever the British flag flew there was slavery.  My grandmother was 26 years younger than him. He was sixty years old when my father was born.

Poetry Friday: November Poem A Day

Some writers are busy writing for either NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) or NaNoFiMo (National Novel Finishing Month). Then there are the poets who say it’s another opportunity for a poem a day. That’s what I am doing. It’s been quite the drought since June for writing except the work on my novel in verse. I have decided to get back into gear with the hopes that writing a poem a day in November will be welcome rain for the drought.

Here’s today’s attempt:

A ragged envelope
surfaced on the writing desk.
Once used as a coaster
evidenced by the pale brown
coffee stain.
Inside the letter
written by my mother
faded words stated,
“you deserved to be happy.”
I held it close
and whispered
“Yes, I do, yes I am.”

Poetry Friday is Here

Happy reading.
MsMac