Ode to A Summer Storm

ODE TO A SUMMER STORM

The wooden rocker chair held a man, calmly at best, with white waved hair a pencil in hand.

Worst scenario, it seems, no best reason to scream or even whimper.

We had a grand box seat. Set on concrete. Screened well to keep flying and other pests at more than arms reach.

This man was enjoying nature’s retreat – The blue sky darkened at near and spotty afar. To the left was East and thus facing South of east nature was presenting a feast. A concert of percussion instruments for sure from off the Atlantic with burst of light, rumblings and booms all set neatly on yonder vista pleasing the eye, the ear and the senses unbound.

The wind the rain the noise (sound) was profound and erased other humans from the scene.

Now high in the air a sea gull he did see and knew for now

The show the scenery to retreat – the high storm clouds creeping slowly Northwest – while the mid distant grey shattered clouds galloped Southeast – and there further south the sky once again scattered puff balls with one a “chimney man” serene.

Forty minutes and the downpour slowed to a drizzle, its drops wetting the rear seat golf cart of returned other humans.

To recap this storm. The lighting , the background, all props full of delight. The cacophony symphony off set by the jagged streams of flying electrons burning their imprint in the mind – the Thunder hands out did each other with several chiseled on the ear drums tape. The anvil pinging oft into dusk. But wait there was one thundering roll air slam felt as a puff to his Tshirt.

High praise to Thee – the show, the actors, lightning the booming background rates 5 Stars. Wow!

The after time from the storm punched the senses in flight. With the orb in the West blooming forth with yellow light providing the verdant vista highlights. Especially the nearby live oak and the pine across the lake.

And oft! Those clouds cover with patches of blues anew amid the greys the whites the mixed hues. Those tardy flashes of the skies bowling and throwing puffy fluffy froth over the heights.

Folderol you say, to me a bedlam of views dancing mites all with good news.

Good night.!    Oh! Its raining again.

The following dawning came into view

Sky overcast to a dusky blue

The lakes water a musky green

Quiet with nary a ripple a mirrored sheen.

 

©johnwitkowski08042014

Port Charlotte, FL

A Writers Wish

WRITERS WISH

Here again I sit

My knee and “boil” having a fit

But overall a peace

Has decided to exist at least.

 

Wouldn’t want you to not clap your hands

Stomp your feet

Rejoice in the day

And be relieved.

 

Around and around

Health peace abound

Will you join with me

Open your voice and be.

 

Back to basics with pen

Let you know my wish

Will remain gently open

As the door to mind goes swish.

©jwitkowskijne212013

SPRINKLED WITH BOOKS

 

Before my oldest child was born, my book club hosted a baby shower for me that I’ll never forget.

Each member gave me a copy of her favorite children’s book. The collection became my son’s first library.

I was touched by the stories each person told as I unwrapped the books, and my friends shared why each gift was a favorite.

The collection remains on our shelves today, even though my son is graduating middle school.

Once in a while, when he’s searching for something to read, he’ll see “Guess How Much I Love You” by Sam McBratney, “Thump, Thump, Rat-a-Tat-Tat” by Gene Kaer, “Good-night Gorilla” by Peggy Rathmann or “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?” by Bill Martin Jr.

“I remember that board book,” he’ll say, selecting one off the shelf.

To this day, reading “Love You Forever” by Robert N. Munsch still makes me cry.

I feel a wave of gratefulness when I see my son spontaneously reading Marianna Mayer’s “Pegasus” or A.A. Milne’s “When We Were Very Young.” I credit his love of reading to my book club. Their kindness gave him a great head start.

But the book club didn’t just shower me with gifts for my son. They also copied their favorite poems about motherhood and compiled them elegantly inside two pieces of lavender tulle tied with a grape satin ribbon.

The collection includes “My Mother” by Jane Taylor, “Lines and Squares” and “Halfway Down” by A.A. Milne, “The Reading Mother” by Strickland Gillilan, “The Children’s Hour” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Misnomer” by Eve Merriam and “The Swing” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I like to read their favorite poems on Mother’s Day as my son and his younger brother prepare me breakfast in bed. The gift and their friendship truly is a treasure. And so are my sons.

-- cawk

SMALL PRINT

During baseball season, I get a lot of reading done.

While my sons practice their batting and fielding, I walk a couple of loops through the park and then settle in the car or on a bench, depending on the weather, with a good book to read.

Unlike at home, I feel no guilt turning the pages instead of folding laundry. No telephone rings or computer dings interrupt me in the middle of chapters. The coaches keep my children occupied, and my favorite authors keep me engrossed.

Yesterday, I grabbed a paperback book of short stories by Stephen Crane on my way out the door. When we arrived at the park, one of my sons headed toward the baseball diamond while his older brother remained in the back seat. He had about a half hour to wait until his practice started.

He mumbled something about not having anything to do because he left his electronics at home.

“Well, I brought my book,” I boasted with a bit of an attitude.

But when I turned the front cover and opened the book, I couldn’t read the pages. The words were all blurry.

“I can’t see!” I said with alarm. “The print is too small! I can’t see.”

“Mom, you have on your glasses,” my son said.

“I know. Can you believe that? I can’t see, even with my glasses on,” I was so disturbed.

“No, Mom. You have on your sunglasses,” he said.

And so I did. Gracefully, I switched them with my reading glasses and the words on the page came into focus.

The first time I read “The Blue Hotel” by Stephen Crane was in high school in the 1980s. I think the book I read had the same cover as the volume I was trying to read at the park. I checked the front pages and found the copyright date of 1970. The words had to be 8 point type. They were so small!

“If I had my electronic reader with me, you could download the book and make the type any size you want,” my son said.

What a blessing that would be not to have to squint and maneuver the page at certain angles to read the words.

“I’d like to try that,” I said.

 

Let's hope the change is as easy as switching glasses.

--cawk

 

POCKET POEMS

 

Tomorrow’s holiday is not on the calendar, but it’s an occasion everyone can celebrate.

April 18 is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

People are encouraged to carry poems in their pocket to share with friends and family throughout the day.

I read about the event at www.poets.org, a website sponsored by the Academy of American Poets.

This will be my first year participating.

To prepare, I’ve been searching for a poem that makes me happy. But as I’m looking at tomorrow’s schedule, I’ve decided that I also want to find poems that will make other people happy.

I’ll need a children’s poem about music for my son’s band carpool; an inspirational poem for my Faithbook scrapbook club; maybe a poem about butterflies for my sister, baseball for my sons and cooking for my friend. I’ll put a poem or two in the mail today for my mom and dad to receive. I also can send poetry by email to a few close friends.

What I like about this holiday is that poetry is easy to find, and it’s free. I can share my own original poems or choose verses written by someone else.

The biggest obstacle tomorrow will not be the search for poems. It will be finding an outfit with big enough pockets. I may have to fudge a little and celebrate "Poem in Your Pocketbook" instead.

-- cawk

POETRY SEARCH

My son in middle school spends a lot of time searching for Major League Baseball information on the internet. But recently I found him searching for poetry.

He was looking for a poem by Maya Angelou to recite in literature class for extra credit. I was thrilled.

“Maya Angelou read a poem at President Bill Clinton’s inauguration. Are you going to read that one?” I asked.

He settled on “The Lesson,” a much shorter poem which points out that as we live and endure hardships, we are also dying. But because life is so sweet, we want to stay alive and continue living. At least, that was our lesson from reading the poem.

“How did it go?” I asked him the next day.

“They thought it was depressing,” he said of his classmates.

“Well, what did the other kids read – the inaugural poem ‘On the Pulse of Morning’?” I asked.

“No.”

“’Still I Rise’?” I guessed.

“I don’t remember,” he answered.

It turns out that only a handful of kids in his class recited poems.

I couldn’t believe it! All they had to do was Google Maya Angelou, print out one of her poems and read it aloud to add points to their grades.

My surprise turned to hope when my son said, “Mom, listen to this. I’m going to rap her poem, ‘Phenomenal Woman.’”

My son started reciting the brag poem like it was a rap song. He was smiling and having fun. I wondered what Maya Angelou would think.

By the end of the night, he had re-written some of the lines in her poem and titled his new version, “Phenomenal Man.”

“I want to rap this for the class tomorrow,” he said.

Poetry is a challenge to write and must be difficult to teach. I applaud my son’s instructors for exposing their students to Maya Angelou’s words and presenting them in a form that speaks to teen-agers. Young people need more exposure to poetry.

Stopping to look at the words of a poet can reveal many principles in life just like viewing the veins of a leaf under a microscope. Poems teach and entertain. They make readers think and see the world from different points of view. They can be serious, romantic, humorous and dark. They can be as short as tweets or written in more complicated patterns.

Many students see reading poetry as a struggle. After nursery rhymes, they barely glance at poetry until they are deciphering Shakespearean sonnets or Homer’s “Odyssey,” which can seem like an odyssey in itself.

Another obstacle is the idea that poetry is “for girls.” When my son was in second grade, he wanted to attend Poetry Night at his school. Before agreeing to take him, I hesitated, worrying that only girls would show up with their parents. To my delight, the poetry that night was recited by the principal, a police officer, the mayor, other dignitaries and teachers. All were male, and my son was not the only little boy in the audience.

Last week, hundreds of boys and girls were gathered with their parents, coaches and friends in the outfield at our local park for Little League Opening Day ceremonies. For the first time, someone read a poem at the event, which kicks off spring baseball and softball.

I expected to hear the classic “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Thayer. But the poem was called “Just a Little Boy,” written by Chaplain Bob Fox. The words were a gentle reminder that the fine young athletes committed to playing ball are kids, something easy to forget in the throes of competition.

I was struck by what a firm and strong message such a “light” piece of poetry could provide. I wonder how it sounds in rap.

-- cawk

“DREAMT” AND OTHER WORD ODDITIES IN ENGLISH

There are two words in the English language that have all five vowels in order: "ABSTEMIOUS” and "FACETIOUS.”

“DREAMT” is the only English word that ends in the letters "MT".

There are only four words in the English language which end in "dous": TREMENDOUS,  HORRENDOUS, STUPENDOUS, and HAZARDOUS.

The words 'KAYAK’, 'LEVEL’, and 'RACECAR,’  are the same whether they are read left to right or right to left (palindromes).

"LOLLIPOP” is the longest word typed with your right hand.

No word in the English language rhymes with MONTH, ORANGE, PURPLE, or SILVER.

“STEWARDESSES” is the longest word typed with only the left hand.

TYPEWRITER is the longest word that can be made using the letters only on one row of the keyboard.

Compiled by John Witkowsky. Edited and rearranged by A Muhammad Ma`ruf.