My Word of the Month poem for January

Hi everyone,

The birds are out today,
answering the cold. 
Flitty stay-at-homers 
scatter feeder seed over the snow.
Geese practice squadroning 
on the frozen lake, preparing
for a flight they no longer take.
No one living knows the way south.
Only their shadows, like memories
of yesteryears,
walk with the cautious pedestrians,
tiptoeing across the ice.

(c) 2022 David L. Harrison

My Word of the Month poem for December

Hi everyone,

Here’s my poem for December: Eyes.

Randy Bacon at work with David
Eyes

We roam costumed
as though going
to the same masquerade,
our souls exposed
in the pools of our eyes.

Noseless, chinless, mouthless,
we wander past eyes we know
but don’t recognize,
hesitant to dwell
for fear of seeming rude.

This may be the time
to pause more,
seek more,
lean in to read the open books
in the eyes.

(c) 2021 David L. Harrison 

Last Word of the Month for 2021

Hi everyone,

Two girls reciting “It’s a Lollity Popity Day”

Believe it or not, we’ve come to the final poetry exercise of the year. You’ve done a splendid job throughout 2021 and I’ve enjoyed your poems and the many ways in which you’ve found stories in each of our eleven words: yes, replay, time, quarter, now, on, poem, weeds, light, change, and dirt. Jane Yolen, SU HUTCHENS, and SUSAN BICKEL have written a poem each month. Who else has? At the end of each month I add the new word and delete all the previous month’s poems and comments so there’s no way I can go back to see who else has blessed us with eleven new poems this year.

Time now to choose December’s word. Let’s go with EYES and see what we get. Go!

My Word of the Month poem is . . .

Hi everyone,

I finished the poem that began with a scrap of a thought, “I sing a song of dirt, rich and deep.” Remember it? I thought of it, lost it, remembered it, lost it again, and finally wrote it down. Here’s how it turned out. I finally settled on a villanelle.

Dirt Song

I sing a song of dirt, rich and deep,
where roots offer plants straws to drink
and bustling cities of miniature creatures creep.

To dirt I say, where puddles greenly seep,
full of life though we may think they stink.
I sing a song of dirt, rich and deep,

Rabbit-eager foxes pounce and leap,
rabbits pop down tunnels quick as a wink, 
and bustling cities of miniature creatures creep.

Dirt, being dirt, can never sleep.
Fine as dust it finds each crack and chink.
I sing a song of dirt, rich and deep,

Trees sprout on valley walls so steep
because of dirt that clutches to the brink,
where bustling cities of miniature creatures creep.

As gardens grow sweet vegetables to reap,
there’s much more to dirt than we might think.
I sing a song of dirt, rich and deep,
and bustling cities where miniature creatures creep.


(c) 2021 David L. Harrison