Nov 1 2021

The November Word of the Month is…

Hi everyone,

As I say every month, and mean it every month, “Where did this past month go?” And, “Thank you for all your poems!”

We started Word of the Month Poetry Challenge in October 2009 so at 12 months per year times 12 years, we’ve completed 144 months of poems. A handful of you have followed the blog that long and some have contributed a poem in almost every month since the beginning. My heartful gratitude for your longtime support and friendship.

Also, as I do each month, I open the beautiful booklet arranged and published by Cory Corrado in 2018, to remind me of all the words we’ve every used as I choose the new one. Cory, I can’t thank you enough for this wonderful gift.

Before Cory came to my rescue, I had inadvertently used the same word twice on six occasions — water, promise, sour, window, may, and renew. For November, for the first time, I’m intentionally choosing a word prompt we’ve used before. The first Word of the Month word, back in October 2009, was DIRT. It turned out to be a lucky choice. We had a number of excellent poems to help kick of what has now become a traditional part of this blog.

I’ll write a new dirt poem this month, but for now here’s the one I did for the original episode of Word of the Month. I’m seldom so wordy. Oh well. And to think that my book that came out in August, THE DIRT BOOK, might have already been fermenting twelve years ago.

DOWN AND DIRTY

I liked you the first time we met,
at least I thought I would like you
if I got to know you,
except for your nails.
I couldn’t help noticing
the foul moon-rims of grime
clutching at your cuticles.

The thought occurred that dirt,
which you like enough
to pack at your fingertips,
might have a poem buried in it.

Honestly, I had little hope for my subject.
It’s hard to hold something in high esteem
that one tracks in on one’s shoes.
Only my respect for you kept me going.

Turns out there’s more
than meets the eye with dirt.
Roots slow-motionly wriggling down
like moles in the dark after water
prize off tiny flecks of bedrock.
Mix enough rock parts with humus
and you’re getting somewhere, dirt-wise.

Humus is a dry gumbo,
the handiwork of dentrivores,
a multiracial gang of ruffians, mostly
fungi, worms, bacteria, mites, and insects –
mercenary goblins that dine on decay,
slurping dead plants and animals
till you could easily mistake diner for dinner.

Thanks to dentrivores, not all dirt
tastes the same. But considering
the supply you keep on hand,
I may not be telling you something
you don’t know.

When you think about dirt,
and I can’t seem to stop,
dirt provides lodging for a zoo
of creatures that grub, grope, and burrow
through its gritty underworld.

Mixed with water dirt fortifies bird nests and
helps mud daubers stick their homes
in annoying places such as
above my garage door.

By contrast, dust courts the corporate crowd.
Swirling like a truant genie,
dust grants wishes to carwash owners
and supports entire industries
of polish, soap, and facial tissue makers,

but I digress. The thing is, I was right
about liking you in spite of your nails
crammed with limestone powder, worm goo,
and the odd molecule of bee leg or roach
(all in a day’s work for humus).

But I can’t resist suggesting that dirt
should stick with dirt and you might consider
returning your private stash to the garden
or perhaps to a trash sack headed to
the dump. Then, I believe,
at least I hope very much, that
I can put down this thing about dirt
and wipe it off of my worry list.