Poem - Ode To Sarah

In the vein of today's earlier blog post of the poem,

The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams,

I've come up with my own version

Ode To Sarah

by Kathy Schanding

so much depends

upon

a tortoise-shell

kitty

eyes closed tight

in sleep

curled on the

yarn tote

I think I could win a Pulitzer for that one!

Whaddaya think?! LOL

Take care everyone, and have a great rest

of the Wednesday evening.

From Kathy in KY.

A Favorite Poem - The Red Wheelbarrow

Back in the Fall of 2004, I went back to college, and got a minor in English, studying mainly poetry. Here is one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets. It's a well known poem, I think, and is often quoted in poetry circles because of its simplicity.

The Red Wheelbarrow

by William Carlos Williams

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

Have a great Wednesday everyone!

Take care, from KY.

Poem for Sarah - My Tortoise-shell Queen B Kitty

This is my oldest cat, Sarah. She is 16 this year.

I picked her up at a shelter the day after Thanksgiving

in 1994. She was about 8 weeks old then.

In the Summer and Fall of 2005, I was in a Master of Fine Arts

Creative Writing program at a university here in KY.

One of my assignments was to write a rhyming poem.

And I chose to write about Sarah, and the dreams she has

while she is sleeping. She will cry and twitch.

And sometimes she will wake up with a start,

and hiss at things that aren't there.

So I wrote the following poem for her.

It's not that great as rhyming

is not one of my strong points,

but maybe you'll find it cute, anyway.

Poem for a Diluted Tortoise-shell Cat

Sarah, rest your tired head,

Jump up on my lap.

Dream is not a thing to dread,

And you can take a nap.

On your back, paws in the air,

Waking with a hiss.

Jolted up, you rise and stare.

Calm down, little miss.

Scared, my kitty lie again,

Once more go to sleep.

I will stroke away your pain,

And this promise keep.

Take care all. And have a great week.

Shavuot: A Poem - giving of first fruits and the Torah

I wrote this poem in 2005, to commemorate the Jewish Holiday of Shavuot which occurs 50 days after Passover. The first day of Shavuot was yesterday. It is a 2-day holiday. I practiced Judaism for 10 yrs after converting in 1995, but am now a Christian (again) after having been raised Catholic. On Shavuot, Jews would bring their first harvested fruits as a sacrifice to God to the Temple in Jerusalem. When their fruits were first growing, they would tie a string to the first fruits on the trees and plants so that they could bring those for their sacrifice. Shavuot also celebrates the giving of the Torah, or the first 5 books of the Bible, known as the Books of Moses, that were given on Mt Sinai. In the Jewish faith, it is believed that every Jew, past, present, and future was present at the giving of the Torah at Mt Sinai. After wandering in the desert for 40 yrs they came to the Jordan River to cross to the Promised Land, and Joshua read the 5 Books of Moses to the people before crossing the river. You can also read about a modern-day celebration of Shavuot on a farm at the website/blog of Margaret Hathaway and Karl Schatz here Ten Apple Farm I hope you enjoy this poem. It was fun to write, and reading it again takes me back to those times of learning about Judaism, and tying me to my Christian roots.

Deuteronomy 5:3-4 It was not with our fathers that the Lord made this covenant, but with us, the living, every one of us who is here today. Face to face the Lord spoke to you on the mountain out of fire.


Revelation
after the song I Remember You . . . by Rabbi Joe Black and Deuteronomy 5

The Sages and Rabbis said
every Jew, alive, dead,
and yet to be,
stood at Mt. Sinai.
All Jewish souls were present there.

I remember you . . .
standing at the base
of that mountain,
covered in soot
from the heat of the fire
and smoky cloud.

We stood side by side
cowering from the shofar blast,
covering our eyes and ears.
He gave us laws and rules to live by
through the hand of Moses,
a covenant with us
not Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob,
our fathers.

We’ve gone our separate ways,
you look so foreign to me
and I know you think me strange.
But we are bound
by what happened that day
when God spoke face to face.

After forty years of wandering
we hear these words again
on the steppes of Moab,
at the Jordan, near Jericho.
There is a moment of surprise,
of recognition, and awe,
as we remember
how we stood together
at the foot of that mountain
so long ago.

Doppelganger - a poem to share

The word doppelganger comes from German folklore. There were legends and stories that say each person has a ghost-like doppelganger, which is an exact copy of the person. In the legends, doppelgangers are usually invisible. Sometimes, they make themselves seen, and that is a sign of bad luck. Luckily, those are just legends! Usually when people say doppelganger today, it just means a coincidental look-alike. http://www.whyzz.com/

Doppelganger - written Fall 2004

She is my muse,
my double goer,
for my eyes only,
inspiration.
My alter ego,
she is the me who loses
control,
gets me to write what's on her mind.
My brash, unabashed other self.

At times I stray
from her watchful presence
to create alone.
Then with malicious mischief
she comes up from behind
and maligns my being.
I return to her
wounded,
ready again for the absorption
of her wisdom.

I am forever the prodigal,
she, the Doppelganger.

Poem To Share - Spring Burial

Spring Burial
The gray feather from the table
reminded me—
the silver maple in our parents’ backyard,
from a spring storm a wind blown nest,
a baby robin, its downless body
lifeless on the ground.

We tucked the bird inside
an empty gelatin box
and said our prayers for its soul.
We buried it in a shallow grave
where no one walked
between Jeanette’s white picket fence
and the carport.

Poem To Share - Flight II

Flight II
The wind came up
and so did you
bald eagle kite.
Wings flapping in the breeze,
up and down you pitched
with each gust
as I watched outside
of the café.

My past months have been you,
day to day undulating
from one episode to the next.
I whirled in the chaos,
buffeted by the flurry.
Finally I’d had enough.

So, I hang like you
from my beak
in dead air.

Poem To Share - Nelsonville Dust Bowl

Nelsonville Dust Bowl
The day began early—
running, winded, walking,
I saw great dust balls roll
along the tree line,
heaving translucent spheres
round with the smell
of plowed earth,
whirling,
illuminated orbs.

The prairie swelled
in my mind,
grit
rising and falling
with each gust.

Cars continued on their way,
headlights mixing with the trees.
I stood still.

A Poem to Share - Cobbler's Knob

Cobbler’s Knob
The knob was full
of stinging nettle
and bitter dock
with its heart-shaped leaves.
In the clearing I saw the blue flowers
of chicory
whose roots the Indians
would grind to make a drink
like coffee.
I crouched on the path.

I could hear the chick-a-dee-dee-dee
of the black-capped chickadees
and the peter-peter-peter call
of the tufted titmice
in the oaks and hickories.
We regarded each other peaceably
as dusk came.

A breeze rose
out of the valley
bringing a night-hawk
flapping its thin wings.
I walked to the edge
of the trees, sat on the ground
and stilled myself to let
the wild ones
come near.
　

A Poem to Share - Barn Dance

This is something I wrote a number of years ago about an old flame.

Barn Dance

A Dobro played on the radio;
we held each other in the weathered barn,
barely moving to the slow songs.
Suffolk ewes with their lambs
scattered
then returned
to catch a whiff of us two-legged creatures.
They breathed in rhythm.
Drifting through the boards of the barn
sun flickered over us,
while dust danced
in the streaming light.

A cloudy day,
I walk to the barn
and pour the cracked corn
into the feeder.
The sheep gather
in silence.
We breathe as one.

A Poem To Share - Ghost House

Ghost House
There’s a house near the river:
Windows stare vacant,
ragged curtains swell
in a south wind.
Paint peels
from the lopsided gate.
The barn is empty
except for a rusty three-bottom plow.
Door is off its hinges,
gangly weeds throttle
bare flower beds,
rangy grasses grow
in a once trim yard.

I had lunch on this back porch
in spring and danced
in the front room
on warm nights.
I canned in the summer kitchen
while clean sheets were whipped crisp
in the sun.
Starched shirts were pressed
on a wooden board,
and breezes whistled
through screen door holes
as big as my fist.

Today, the front steps creak
as I make my way
to the car,
walking by the chicken coop—
silence.
I drive to the highway
leaving the house behind:
windows stare vacant
ragged curtains swell
in a south wind.


I wrote this poem after driving by some abandoned farm houses that I could see from I-64 near Frankfort, KY. Now those houses are gone. They were torn down to make room for a clothing store and a Starbucks.

Bummer!