When we moved here
to the house where
the former owner
died in her bed
just short of 100,
there was a flag,
a wind catching
flag saying “Adams
Park.” No dead
dogs face. No chain
link fence.
Only the leaves wave now.
This poem was a response to one I received.
My oldest daughter dropped
by for tea. “Should
I make a pot?” my husband
asked. “Why not?” I said.
We often have tea with
daughters, but rarely from
the teapot. He picked a
hibiscus for the table. It
was a pop up tea party.
The 2 in my address
is peeling away
All through August
the postcards still
found me.
Last week a volunteer
Rose of Sharon Bloomed
by the curb. Celebration.
I remember the summer we
stayed with Nanny and Poppy.
We used to walk our mother around the
corner to the bus stop. On the way back we
stopped and picked up the hibiscus blossoms to
mix into our mud pies.
One terribly stormy afternoon our grandparents
made us sit on the couch, no lights, no television,
no radio. The lightening flashed through the lace
curtains. There was thunder, wind and pouring
rain. When our mother came home, jumping over
downed wires, we cried.
Evenings after dinner my sister and I sat around the
kitchen table with Poppy. We ate Ritz crackers with
grated cheese and played Sorry while
Poppy drank his nightly glass of buttermilk.
The cars pull away from
the house. I watch them
leave. The air is warm
and thick. The street
lights come on and I
walk down the brick
path. One last firefly
flickers in the gathering
dusk. Birthday celebration
over. Seventy years gone.
It’s hard to believe
the August Poetry
is almost over and
I still haven’t
received my card
from Bukouski.
So disappointing.
So unexpected.
Maybe next year.
I don’t remember my sister Pearl
in her blue organdy
Christmas dress.
Or my three year old self
twirling and swirling in the
parsonage backyard
Years later, when I thought of
moving to Idlewild, I saw
myself in my minds eye,
arms outstretched, head
thrown back, eyes closed, twirling.
the grass, the woods, the lake
swirling around me.
The yellow butterfly
lands on one of
the red throated
white hibiscus.
A small blue
grey snake
slithers out of
the weeds and across my doorstep.
This was my 4th year participating in the August Postcard Poetry Fest and I think it was my best one yet. Although I seemed to take longer to get into the groove of writing the poems. By the end of August it seemed to come more easily and I was still writing and sending out extra poems. Altogether, I sent 40 cards, 31 to people in my group and 9 to people in other groups. I made several photographic collages and used quite a few of my own photographs, printing them on these blank postcards. I also used up some of the postcards I had on had leftover from previous August fests. I found those the least satisfactory this year. As I post my poems from August I am using some of my photographs to replace those pictures that do not fit with the poem.
I received 37 cards, 30 from the 31 people in my group and 7 cards from those in other groups. The postcards were spread out over more time – some coming as early as July and still trickling in during September. More people made their own cards, at least some of them this year. There were watercolors, collages, drawings and photographs. Even the “regular” postcard pictures seemed to be less repetitious than last year when several of us used the same cards from Pomegranate.
The Facebook group was quite lively and built a sense of community among those who participated. For those interested in participating next year, keep an eye on Paul Nelson’s blog. He keeps a countdown going and organizes the fest each year. You can read his after word at this link Paul Nelson’s Afterward.
I am enjoying comments on the poems I post, most of which come on Facebook. And also reading the poems that others are sharing on their websites. I’m thinking about 2017. I plan to use my own photos and collages again. Not sure how to match spontaneity in writing with making cards that match up with the poem. In the mean time I plan to write more poetry.
Last night I dreamed
of driving to a distant
city alone. A road trip.
Of dinner outside
with family living
and gone.
Of babies and phone
calls. Of voices no longer
heard.
