If you’ve been reading this blog for some time, you may realize that I love to write. Write about anything, actually. Write for children. Write letters. Write articles for this blog. And, maybe, the most pleasant for me is writing poetry.
I came into poetry writing “through the back door.” I never really studied poetry – the reading or the writing in my college days. Well, I did take one class in poetry writing as a masters student. And, the very first poem we studied before beginning to write gave me such a bad taste for metaphor that I now hate metaphor! Poets are supposed to work with metaphor. It is a trademark of a poet. Not me. I’m not much of a “shoulda, coulda, woulda” person.When I write about a tree, it’s because I’m writing about a tree! Or, a chair. Or, any other things that I write about. I’m not putting some secret meaning into that writing.
Everyone who knows me, personally, knows that my hands-down, favorite poet is Ted Kooser – who lives in the Middle Earth of Nebraska. His poetry speaks volumes to me. I understand it. It is about real people, real happenings, real feelings. He told me once that when beginning a poem, he always starts with a metaphor. I don’t see it. I see the people and situations that he’s writing about. I understand those things.
I have a friend who says that he doesn’t like poetry, that it makes little sense to him. I tell him that is because he’s never read any of Ted’s poetry that is completely understandable. Ted has the distinction of being a U.S. Poet Laureate (twice; one of the first poets laureate from the Great Plains), a Pulitzer Prize winner, winning the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry in 2005, as well as other notable achievements. Given the opportunity, I would be a “female” Ted Kooser. I accept this fact – that is never going to happen!
I am pleased to have the opportunity to work with the owners of an on-line, Canadian organization devoted to helping writers of all kinds (novels, short story, poetry, etc.) gain experience and strength in their writing. The owners, Caitlin and Jacob Jans, plan incredibly worthwhile workshops, arrange for speakers for those workshops, and are available to help those of us who are not particularly computer-savvy when needed for the zoom activities.
Their company, Authors Publish, has world-wide participation in their 24-Hours Poetry Marathon every year – 24 hours of writing a poem an hour, to an hourly prompt every hour on the hour, if participants choose. Or, the participants are free to write about their own topics. Every spring and autumn, they have a month-long poetry workshop that is well worth the time and effort of the participant, also worldwide in participation. If you are a writer of any kind, I certainly do recommend getting to know these folks.
For my own poetry, I want my readers to understand what I write. I want them to feel what I feel. I want them to relate what I’m saying to their own, very personal lives.
I particularly like to write haiku, senryu, and haibun. I also write what most people call free verse. I like acrostic. I do not rhyme. What I’ve decided to do with this blog is to share some of my poetry with you. I hope you enjoy this diversion into “my literature.”
For some of the poems, I’ve indicated when and why they were written.
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The Girl I’m Going To Marry
In the college library, needing
some help. He’d been there before,
no help was given, or even offered.
This person was different,
never saw her before,
behind the checkout desk.
How can I help you?
I need help finding
some books.
Let’s check the catalog and get
the numbers from the cards. What do
you know about the Dewey Decimal
system? Nothing? Okay, I can help.
Into the stacks, row after row,
book after book. Here they are,
the books you need.
Check them out. Go to the
student union. Meet friends there.
Guys, I just met the woman
I’m going to marry.
He did.
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2026 AP POETRY MARATHON, JUNE 14, AM 02
Prompt: Write a poem where every line has six words
in it.
Death Cleaning
I learned while working in Texas,
that “Death Cleaning” is really hard.
We looked at so many things
that belonged to my little sister.
I touched things I gave her
so many years in the past.
A political book she really wanted.
A necklace of black and white
with curled snakes at the bottom.
Spools and spools of colored thread.
And, three Bernina sewing machines,
machines for sewing quilt pieces together.
Quilter extraordinaire, she made her own-
and quilted those of many others.
Colors that one can only imagine.
I miss her every single day
that “crusty” little sister of mine.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Time
Second by second
Minute by minute
Hour by hour
Day by day
Week by week
Month by month
Year by year
Decade by decade
Done
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2026 AP POETRY MARATHON, JUNE 13, PM 08
Prompt: Write a poem involving noodles.
Postal Service Solutions – Not Just About Letters
There they sit on the shelf, not getting green with rot,
spiral egg noodles don’t rot, they just sit there looking
back at me when I open the cupboard door. How long
have they been there? Good intentions say, “I’ll make
those some day – soon.” But, time goes by and they are
still there in their red and clear Tuppeware container,
waiting. House helper Rita doesn’t want them, “We
don’t eat that kind of noodle.” Daughter doesn’t want
them, “I have plenty.” To unclutter the cupboard, they
have to go somewhere. The card comes on Saturday, it
proclaims, “We’ll pick up food for the food bank. Put
everything into a paper bag, we’ll pick it up during our
delivery.
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2026 AP POETRY MARATHON, JUNE 13, 7 AM
Prompt: Choose an object (bed for me) and write three things about it
Double Bed
The bed was only double, not king or queen like today,
sleeping with my little sister was all we ever knew, even
when we lived in the house that was ours, completely
ours on East 12th Street, it was the last bed I ever slept
in before going away to college, to turn my life in one
completely different direction, because my parents
thought I’d be going into business like my older sisters
did when they left home, but not for me – I was
determined to be a teacher, a teacher in a country
school just like the one I saw when going with mom
and dad and little sister for a fishing weekend, a country school
with a place to live next door, so off
to college I went to become an educator and teach in
the one-teacher school with eight grades the first
year and six grades the second, getting to do what
I’d dreamed about in that double bed many years ago.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Morning View
Early this morning from my sixth-floor hospital room,
I could see the distant mountains with snow glistening
in the dawn’s light. Mountains that I know so well.
From here to those peaks, the city spreads out – churches,
skyscrapers, homes, nothing keeping these old friends
from me knowing they are there. I can see reflections
of car lights in the windows of the building next door.
Looking again, the mountains are gone, fog steadily
advancing across the land, pulling an opaque curtain,
shutting out my view of those beloved mountains.
The fog comes closer, taking away the skyscrapers,
the cars, trees and bushes. It shutters the glass
of the windows next door. I can’t tell if cars still ply
the streets headed for the center of town. The trees close
by disappear along with the cars in the windows. The fog
is drifting against the window of my hospital room. I surely
know that the sun is shining somewhere, but not for me.
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Enjoy your week!
Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are greatly appreciated.
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