poetpotter

Deep in winter, when everything is frozen hard, you'll know the feeling, I'm sure, of bundling up to keep warm when you do have to go out. Scarf, hat and mittens. When the trees are coated and the rooftops are layered with snow. Here's how it feels... The Cold Creaks Buildings creak and groan, it’s so cold; snow crunches under boots, shoes and tires,   hard-packed freezes words as they are spoken all that warm air escaping into the ether —frozen ether People hurry up the wind-scoured street wearing hats of fur, fleece and fabric hands in mitts, hands in pockets, scarves around neck, nose and mouth catching all that warm air to breathe back in but some brave the bitter cold foolishly with coat unbuttoned, unzipped no scarf, hat or mittens to keep them warm Will the cold wind whistle in their ears, freeze their fingers, freeze their nose, and frost their hair? will their breath turn to icicles— no scar

Even though we had a light snowfall this week, there are still many leaves to shuffle through as we walk down a street or sidewalk, as friends and I did in Paris, Ontario, this past Sunday. Fall, or autumn, as it's also called, takes us from summer to winter in a relatively short space of time, it seems. And so, as I think of the leaves, I'll share this poem I wrote in a poetry challenge with Poetic Bloomings Leaf Falls Softly No imprint when you land on grass and sidewalk or when blown about by wind and sodden by rain there’s a forgiving softness in your landing a hush before winter’s coming The only time you make a sound is crunching crispy under people’s feet and children’s play in piles of leaves. Enjoy the colours, the sound of leaves and pull out your warm jackets, hats and mittens. Boots too. Enjoy the outdoors as you're able.  Announcing my poetry collection, Travelling Light . A light-hearted look a

An early piece of art from a grandchild I encountered a poem line from Emily Dickinson ( 1830–1886) that intrigued me. We play at paste Till qualified for pearl Her poetry often shows a simplicity at first that goes deeper. As I read her lines, I thought of the progression of a child at play, the way they socialize or don't, the way they draw and paint as they learn. From there I imagined the ways we adults succeed and fail at those same things. This is the poem I wrote: We Play at Paste Starting out we cut awkwardly and uneven hands and fingers learning the task we paste odd shapes to paper paint wide berths across the page nothing anyone could recognize We fall at play knock over others' towers and mess up at social play We grow up, make shapes that people recognize turn our brushes to furniture and homes decorate and build things that last and most of the time we can laugh in all the right places and work side by side but sometimes

In our one-room school house, all the grades had music together. In my private piano lessons I was learning about quarter notes and whole notes, rests and tempo, so much of what we learned at school, I was already learning in my piano lessons. Sometimes at school we pushed our desks together. This poem was a memory about those times when I sat with my friend who was even smaller for her years than I was. Picture this in your mind. The music lessons the teacher tells us about half notes     quarter notes rests and tempo in my bumper-to-bumper desk fit tight to yours we beat out patterns on aging wood our feet barely touching the floor   treble clef                  the lacy clef that our mothers sing bass    the big “C”              the notes our daddies sing   andantino it’s dancing music legato and I whisper “slowly now” The teacher’s fingers dance across   the blacks and whites an octave would be too much for your sm