Gardening - grace grits and gardening

Winter: Birds Bathing

January 17, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

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!

December 4, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

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

Burning Down the House, Talking Heads

for the birds

December 3, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Boogee (hard “g”) lives around the corner from our Fayetteville cottage. How do you spell your name, I asked? I don’t really know, she laughed. That’s just what everyone calls me.

One corner of Boogee’s dry-stacked rock wall is a shrine to Found Objects—lost or discarded sidewalk treasures discovered and relocated by neighbors strolling with sleepy headed toddlers, dedicated power walkers, Razorbacks headed to English class.

Partially hidden within fall leaves—a like-new pacifier, a purple plastic Easter egg, a man’s red and black striped necktie.

I contributed a red string with tiny black beads found on Dickson Street—nothing fancy or nice— oddly interesting. With my offering, I felt part of the neighborhood.

Near Boogee’s inviting front porch, she grows cotton! A single stalk , a specimen celebrated like a rare Japanese Maple. The cotton hangs white and heavy, ready to be picked. Beyond ready but still soft and beautiful.