Merely Day By Day

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Endings are really just beginnings. Let all the words collected, settle deep inside you. Take all that you have learned, tuck it in your notebook, and begin again. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023 

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Today's Golden Shovel is inspired by a line from Naomi Shihab Nye's poem:  You Know Who You Are (Words Under Words, p. 22).

   It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  It's Poetry Friday! It is also the last Friday of National Poetry Month. Today's roundup is hosted by Ruth at " There is No Such Thing as a God-forsaken Town ." (True confessions: I didn't quite make the Friday night deadline so I'm posting this on Saturday morning. Since I'm late, I did not link to the roundup, but I'd suggest you stop by to see all this community has been accomplishing this month.)  Here's "today's" poem: When You're Two  Life when you're two is full of joy.  We hop around the living room, you giggle as we move in circles, hop, hop, hop. Again , you say. We sing songs in the kitchen, dancing and acting out the words, do, da, do. Again , you shout. We twirl endlessly in circles, falling down on queue, boom, boom, boom. Again , y...

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy. 

  It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  secret gardener sows small seeds: clouds of perfume. today's sweet surprise. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

  It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy. 

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Today seemed a good day to try a Golden Shovel poem.  "the past is the past, and the present is what your life is, and you are capable"     - Mary Oliver, from Mornings at Blackwater (Devotions, p. 102) I'm still learning the lessons taught by the past. The noise is deafening, the missteps of  past days replaying over and over until the day we step fully into the present, both feet planted firmly. This is the day we decide what matters, when the noise in our  head turns to song. Life begins in this moment. It is here we fly and trust our steps moving steadily forward. You have been ready all your life. You are capable. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023 

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Nothing Stands nothing stands.  no black top to burn our feet, no window to place an order, no sidewalk to wait in line. nothing but emptiness and memories of long summer days,  from a life so long ago. another life; where our biggest decision was which kind of ice cream to get or if we should save our change for another day. where we only worried about returning to the pool, before the whistle blew, before the next swim period began. there once was a place  where laughter lingered in the lazy sun, now in this place nothing stands.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

Today is Poetry Friday!!! I'm joining the Poetry Friday Community to spread a little poetry love. Karen Edmiston* is hosting this week's celebration. (Thanks, Karen.) Stop by for your daily dose of poetry.  It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Ken Thomas, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons morning. dove wakes the earth, a melancholy song, serene lament of seasons past; mourning. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  ...nonets are hard.  if you aren't careful you'll lose yourself, in a world that drowns out reason, in shouting that hides wisdom, in moments that distract. days are fast, yet slow: draw your own lines, close your eyes, center, breathe. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  A Peep's Plead They've placed the peeps     near the front of the store. They're staring at you      as you walk in the door. Their eyes look so sad     as they beg and they plead, "You came for some milk,     but we're what you need." "Look at us waiting here     blue, yellow and pink, we could be of good use     if you just stop and think." Poor peeps, I did think     to myself walking by, no new home for Easter,     I let out a sigh. The poor little chicks     no basket that day, no children to watch,     no moments of play. Instead here they sit     hoping today it will be,  the day they are chosen     to come home with me.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Emily P. Freeman 's podcast, The Next Right Thing , has become one of my favorites. This week she shared a blessing about friendship. I hope you'll stop over and listen to it. It had such beautiful words that I thought it might make a good found poem.  Friendship Friendship:     abundance,          gift. ebbs and flows,     breathes, like water falling     from the sky. JOY. respite. steady. strong. connection. comfort. presence. the generosity of water,     the steadiness of trees,          the harmony of starlings. Friendship.  A found poem from A Blessing for Friendship , written by Emily P. Freeman at the Next Right Thing.  Freeman, Emily P. (Host). (2023, April 18.) A Blessing For Friendship (No. 271). [Aud...

     I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  It's International Poetry Day . What should I post? A haiku, of course. 

    I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Well, we're over the halfway point so it seems a perfect time for a spine poem - and a reminder to "Keep Going."  Your idea starts here, Hungry Hearts. Keep Going! [Remember] The power of moments: wade in the water, light the dark. [Recall] What you know by heart... sailing alone around the room. A velocity of being. 

   I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  dandelions pop, today's sunshine on the ground, tomorrow's wish. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

  I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  It's also Poetry Friday. Today's Poetry Friday roundup is hosted by Jone Rush MacCulloch .  ...a tricube attempt. Unruly please forgive my lateness, poet friends. words refused to be caged on paper. resisting, lines, order - to be tamed. © Cathy L. Mere

  It's  National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  For National Poetry Month, Mary Lee Hahn has been writing a cherita poem each day on her blog:  Poetrepository . I've been intrigued and decided it was time to give one a try. It seems to me, Mary Lee most often begins with her "pop" right at the beginning of her poem. I love the way the truth is right there from the start.  My "pop" seems to come a bit more at the end of my poem. I'm still playing, but this was a fun form to try. Thanks, Mary Lee.  Self-Employed "Occupation?" the form asked.  I began to write self-employed instead of retired.  Retired denotes ceased to work, but every day I am here with pen in hand.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Working 9-5 Everyday I work from 9-5, chasing mice, entertaining customers, purring. I saunter here, pitter-patter there, rove the aisles  when I'm bored to see if there's  any mischief. It pays the bills. I have a roof over my head, food in my bowl, the occasional catnip.  It's a living.  It's a sweet gig: flexible hours, a safe work environment that allows me to save my  other eight lives for  retirement.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Canva Image The Wisdom of Ages Night - bright stars held by trees, branches reaching toward the dark sky. the stars twinkling brightly carrying secrets not told, filled with wisdom of the ages. we gaze in wonder at the beauty, searching for answers in the deep dark night.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023 

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.    Happy Monday Mondays felt different  not long ago, when I set an alarm, and to work I would go. The darkness would taunt me, my eyes still asleep, as I raced out the door, a schedule to keep.  Dinner in the crock pot, coffee in hand, I'd begin the week  with everything planned. By the end of the day, life would all be off course, I'd be sure the week, couldn't get any worse. Now on Mondays I rise after the sun; I still make some coffee, but I don't have to run. I just open my book and watch the sunrise. Monday is a day I no longer despise.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Canva Image As if by magic, tiny buds dot leafless branches. I watch, enchanted. As the earth, caught in Spring's spell, captivates its audience. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  In yesterday's Poetry Friday roundup , Lou Piccolo shared a triolet poem. I must admit, I was intrigued. Today, in poetry desperation, I asked Google, "What is an eight-line poem?" (It's the 8th day of the challenge.) When Google said it was a triolet, I felt I had to give one a try. I still have a lot to learn about this form of poetry (and maybe I broke at least one rule when giving it a try today). Thanks, Lou, for the inspiration.  Sometimes we must walk away,  closing the door behind us. Though next steps are hard to weigh, sometimes we must walk away so as not unto our heart betray, an act that is quite gracious. Sometimes we must walk away, closing the door behind us. © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  It's Poetry Friday - and National Poetry Month - so I'm trying to jump back into pressing publish on this blog each day this month. Each Friday, I hope to join the Poetry Friday Community, where I've been lurking quite often as they're always inspiring. Make sure you stop by Reflections on the Teche where Margaret Simon is kindly hosting today. Today's poem was inspired by Major Jackson from The Slowdown Show . Each day, Jackson shares a poem on the podcast after sharing a short essay. I enjoy listening to the way poetry pushes us to think about life and the complexities of living. In Jackson's essay on the poem Future Me by Lena Moses-Schmitt, he asserts, "Occasionally, writing poetry is also an offering to the future: poem as a container of time, whose language signifies th...

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Photo by Doug Morris on Unsplash Pink Moon In early hours of morning, you sneak into the blue of sky watching pansies pop, phlox flower, daffodils dance. Soon you will spring into the ebony sky, illuminating the darkness, waking the night. You carry many names: Pink Moon, Paschal Full Moon, Breaking Ice Moon, Frog Moon, When the Ducks Come Back Moon. Today you watch with curiosity, listening to a feathered chorus, calling you into the night, in song.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023 

It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy. Yeah, it's probably a little early in this challenge for a quick haiku, but here we are....  

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.   Image via Wikimedia Commons: User mdf Rules for Robins Dear Orange-Breasted Robin,  it's great to see you back. I saw you bobbing in the yard, searching for a snack.  You know you're always welcome, I look forward to your songs, as the sun rises in the morning, throughout summer days so long.  I see you busily gather some items for your nest. I know your days are busy, without much time to rest.  However, I must insist  on a few rules for your stay, some ways of being neighborly, to keep problems at bay.  Please don't fly into windows and give me such a fright,  not only is this a bad for you, it truly isn't right.  Please build your home away from ours, not in the sidewalk bush, where you fly out unexpectedly, in a frightened, hurried whoosh.  Please do not use ou...

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Columbus Dispatch Article 4.3.23                      The Lie We Live  I sit with my coffee, pouring over poetry, the warmth of both soothing the soul. The coffee- shop, full of chatter, suddenly quiets as a man, g*n at his side, enters. He pushes the glass door open like the men in the wild west shows I once watched sitting on my grandma's sofa, when I thought I was born into a world that  had learned the value of humanity and practiced solving problems with words instead of w*#pons; the naivety of childhood, a gift no longer given. The chatter quiets to a silence as everyone notes his arrival. Is this the day we all become A  HEADLINE? I glance at my poetry, pretending  this might not be the day, but noting every exit and planning every mo...

I t's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  Spring Walk  daffodils dance, horses prance,  robins search, cardinals perch, grasses sway, deer play, birds talk, spring walk.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023

  It's National Poetry Month. I will be posting a poem each day. No theme. I'm just going to follow the spark each day, wherever I might find it. It's bound to be messy.  The Road to Poetry I've forgotten how to get to poetry. I tried to sit in a room in silence; it wasn't there. I listened to the trees whisper, but their messages were coded.  I pulled out a map - though I looked near mountains, lakes,  and roads less traveled - routes did not lead me there. I called the experts, "How do you get to poetry?"  I inquired with curiosity. The poets only laughed. The way to poetry, once deep in my bones, eludes me; weeds covering the way.  There is nothing left to do, but pick up my favorite pen, grab my notebook, and begin again.  © Cathy L. Mere, 2023