LINDA DICKMAN went to check the June Poems of the Month and discovered that there are none there, including her own poem that she posted earlier.
I have no idea how this whole page could be wiped clean. For me it’s slow work done one poem or comment at a time when I wipe the slate clean at the end of each month to make way for the new series of poems, . For this to happen on it’s own? I haven’t a clue! I’ll seek help from Word Press. It’s all I know to do. Meantime, if you still have your poem, please repost it and we’ll do the best we can to reconstructive this months showing of your work. I am so sorry!
You know, of course, that tomorrow it will be too late to post your contribution to Word of the Month Poetry Challenge for May? Right? Robin, I know you have a poem about ready. Kim? Sometimes you come in at the wire? I thought someone would write about the joys/anguish of mowing the yard (I thought I would) or moles or armadillos or the different kinds of grasses or the grasses tall enough to hide a hunting tiger or what’s below the grass or any number of other possibilities. Here’s a sample of the what’s-below-the-grass variety. It comes from THE DIRT BOOK.
At the Root of Things
Scraggly twisted clusters
in crooked slants,
for their plants.
they do their work
through earthy murk,
give plants strength
(c) 2021 David L. Harrison, from THE DIRT BOOK
I’m happy to add my effort for May inspired by GRASS. My thanks to all who have already posted their poems, and shamey shamey on all who have not yet posted theirs. See how holier than thou I get after I’ve finished mine? Kind of like how you smile after getting your teeth cleaned.
The grass enfolds secrets in green silence,
lies like a hug where children play,
is a witness to worms meeting bird-fate
and spiders doomed to feed wasp babies.
The grass offers privacy to roots nursing plants,
a roof over homeless beetles,
a refuge for small white moths on hot days,
an invitation to dogs on leashes.
The grass heals itself from mower wounds,
returns each year to carry in spring,
nurtures dandelions and small wild berries.
The grass caresses bare feet, and lovers.
(c) 2022 David L. Harrison
I thought legs would be a good word for April but I don’t think we had as many posts as usual. I suppose I could make May’s word neck or toe or something, but I think I’ll move away from body parts and try something else for this month.
How about something more seasonal? How about GRASS? I like it. You like it? Then let’s do it!I may not get a chance to remove April poems and comments for a few days. Forgive me if that confuses you.
Here’s a poem for legs. Remember, this month I said you can post as many poems as you wish.
Alas on the day they passed out legs
and the worm crawled out of his hole,
supplies were gone, poor soul,
down to the flimsiest off-size peg.
“Gone? Gone? Not a leg to be had?”
The worm cried, “What can I do?”
The snake had missed out too!
They crawled off legless, wingless, and sad.
In time the worm crawled out of sight
and learned to live with his fate.
The snake, who was also late,
instead of adjusting, decided to bite.
(c) 2022 David L. Harrison