Mainely Write

I hardly know what day it is any more. We spent three days in Arkansas last week, returning on Monday just before midnight (well, actually by the time we drove home from the airport it was just beginning Tuesday).  So that's the day I started my week.  Along with being retired, so not having to make a daily calendar in the morning with first graders, I get lost in my days easily. We attended the wedding of my niece.  I'm hoping that my parents (her grandparents) could see it well from their front row seats in heaven.  Arkansas was too hot and humid, though.  I don't think I'll ever be able to move out of Maine to a warmer climate.  I will just stay here and pull on another sweater and throw another log on the fire. This past Saturday, my siblings and I worked at my brother's antique auction.  My parents used to run the store and have auctions there.  I'm pretty sure they watch over us as we work together there, continuing the work they started many years ago

I have a few poems about clouds that I've written...one that I wrote AGES ago, I'm not even sure I can find.  It is somewhere in my house, I'm pretty sure.  After we had fire damage and were out of the house for 11 months, I lost track of a few important items.  Some of my writing was included in that.  I think it is still there, just misplaced for the time being.  I really need to go through some stuff and find it again! So anyway, having just gone on a plane down to Arkansas for my niece's wedding, and going through the clouds, it reminded me then of a question I'd asked my mom when I was a little girl. Today's prompt to write about clouds at Poetry Jam was perfect timing for me.  And then this image of Brooke Shaden's worked perfectly...the prompt at dVerse (my first link here) - to use one of her photos in her gallery .  I chose her beautiful image of "floating on clouds". "floating on clouds" by Brooke Shaden Logic

Potato House Abandoned potato house in winter Russets, Mountains, many more Katahdins, Kennebecs by the score picked and tossed from stretching field into barrels wood and steel hands with dirt too deep for cleaning bones and back so stiff from leaning trucks rolled in and barrels rumbled kept them moving never grumbled child and man worked side by side harvest was their family pride. © Donna JT Smith, all rights reserved Spring on the farm Another Day into wooden barrels too large to carry children off school pickers for a month to help bring in the harvest trucks full of potato barrels rumbling up to the potato house to drop off their starchy treasure white gold in brown dirt the barns are empty and cave in for lack of need metal and motors do the job of hands and wood new steel buildings replace the old stone and wood and I am sad when I can’t find a potato house to take a memory photo ©Donna JT Smith, a

Today I would like to refer to my post for Wednesday, but I don't want you to have to look back. So I am copying and pasting it here again. It was done for the prompt at Poetry Jam this week, which was to write about the sea. Coincidentally, it is my favorite thing to see, hear, taste, feel and smell, and also coincidentally was the topic of a poem that Lilian Moore wrote and Laura Purdie Salas shared this past week... not so coincidentally, I purchased Lilian Moore's book of poems "Something new begins" - a signed first edition, no less!  I was tickled to find "Go Wind" in it.  I had forgotten it was by Lilian Moore!  I've used that poem many years in April for our month of poetry in first grade. And here's my re-posting (with apologies for reposting and not writing something new) of my sea poem, "Sea Senses", which can also be found on this past Wednesday's post - also shared here for Poetry Friday: Sea Senses T

Poetry Jam today would have us think of the sea and write about it.  I have so, so many ocean poems.  It's my favorite place to be, smell, see, taste, feel, hear.  I wrote a new one for today, though.  So one more for my collection... Sea Senses The day I moved away inland I heard its hissing cries Of angry, sad and crashing waves; I saw its lowery eyes. Time passed and one day I awoke, I heard it calling me, Wailing, whining, pleading, "O, please, come back to sea!" Miles before it came in view, I smelled its salty tears; It missed me while I'd lived away For, oh, those many years! Sand in my shoes, I tossed them And sprinted up the dune; Those smells and sounds meant It was near, I'd see it very soon! Atop the crest the vision Spreading out so wide I could not see it all at once My eyes scanned side to side The water gleamed before me With twinkly eyes of blue; Rolling fingers beckoned me To taste its salty brew. I tumbled down t

From Poetry Jam , comes the challenge: " This week write a poem about jeans: someone who looks good in jeans, tattered jeans, jeans that you have to lie down to button up, comfortable jeans, stinky jeans." "BONUS- Write a poem small enough to fit in the pocket of jeans. 20 lines or less." I have written a poem small enough to fit in most pockets of jeans.  It is 20 lines or less.  However, I don't know if it would still be able to fit in a pocket of my poem jeans.  There wasn't much extra room...the late 60's early 70's weren't "big on" baggy jeans! I remember when I wore my authentic surplus store, real sailor, Navy blue, deepest ocean cobalt hue, bell-bottomed, tight, lean, hip-hugging me favorite jeans.          Groovy. ©2014, Donna JT Smith I don't own any jeans now.  But I do have an incredibly comfy jean skirt with awesome pockets!