Another week vanishes
without plan or purpose.
Winter creeps along muted, hazy,
sometimes dreary. Then crocus blooms
like a song I know by heart.
Winter Blooms
Winter: Birds Bathing
The following poem by Pat Laster won first place in the POETS’ CHOICE category of Missouri State Poetry Society’s Winter contest. The poem is written in cinquain (sin-kane) sequence.
Cinquain is a syllabic poetry form of 5 lines. The syllable count is 2-4-6-8-2. Some cinquains use iambic pentameter.
A sight
for sleepy eyes:
a pair of cardinals
fly to the birdbath. While she bathes,
he whets
his beak
on a nearby
limb of beautyberry.
When she’s finished, she flies away.
His turn.
Facing
toward me (behind
the window), he
dips and flutters, spreading
his tail feathers in a fan, stands,
surveys
the scene.
I don’t count
the repetitions, but
soon enough, a speckle-breasted
thrasher
flies up
wanting a dip.
“Red” moves to the near branch
where the wind ruffles and dries his
feathers.
Cleaning
his bill once more,
he flies home, while the long,
brown bird follows the same bathing
routine.
On this
Martin Luther
King Monday, what a treat
for one who’d just arisen from
a dream.
by Pat Laster
 |
| Me, Pat Laster, Dorothy Johnson Writer’s Colony at Dairy Hollow, Oct ’12 Wine-Thirty |
burning down the house!
Two months ago, our house nearly burned.
In the spirit of fiction writing, I exaggerate a bit, but it was a close call. I was in Arkansas and therefore not responsible nor a suspect. John returned from work to a smoke-filled downstairs. Dallas fire fighters paid us a visit with sirens blaring—it was that bad.
A basket of napkins smoldered atop the microwave, too close to a hot halogen light.
 |
| basket o’ cloth napkins |
What if John had worked late or gone to happy hour?
 |
| bottom of cabinet. nice. |
The underside of our cabinet is extra crispy. Inside the cabinet smells of a rump roast grilling on a Weber. For hours I washed glasses, doors and shelves.
I heated lemon slices which I thought might eliminate the odor.
With the kitchen door ajar and ceiling fan whirring for hours, a swarm of mosquitoes moved into our home, hiding in corners and underneath furniture. Yes, DallasHasMosquitoesYearRound!
I burned my favorite candle to a nub, almost starting another fire.
The citrus and rosemary chicken baked for dinner masked the smell for one episode of Mad Men.
An open sack of Dunkin Donut coffee absorbed a touch of the odor, but smoked my favorite coffee.
I ignored it. I packed my car, locked the back door and drove to Dairy Hollow for a writer’s retreat. I became a witch for Eureka Springs’ Halloween, the streets filled with zombies and ghosts. Real or imagined?
In Fayetteville, purple and orange pansies grow where weeds once lived. I painted the last louver door! Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law’s—I only baked a pecan pie and potato casserole, a major departure for me.
Fearlessly, I wrote in the Ozarks, making new friends, thinking fresh thoughts.
Never once did I think about my Dallas kitchen, 350 miles southwest, smelling of forest fire mixed with Pine Sol. Yet,
ItStillStinks.
I suppose I shall be forced to paint. Ideas, anyone? anyone?
talya
