If I Were a Bear — a poem for a winter morning

If I Were A Bear

If I were a bear
I would pay no never-mind
to the rolls of fat around my middle,
to the graying, un-ruly hairs upon my head
or the wiry, scratchy ones sprouting
on my legs and beneath my arms.

No, if I were a bear
I’d snuffle out a place
warm and cozy, full of all the smells
that bring me joy and comfort,
and then I’d wrap my heart in pictures
of those I cherish so that my dreams
would be nothing but sweet.

And, if I were a bear
I’d stay snuggled down
inside my little cocoon until
the green smells of Spring tickled
my nose and my winter-claws
could no longer scratch through the matted
fur on my sun-starved hide.

If I were a bear
I’d emerge, blinking
into the bright sunlight of promise
and I’d go snorting and snuffing
looking for news of all those I left behind
while I slumbered and grew sleek
and hungry for life to return.

If I were a bear.

 

©Kathy Larson 2012
All rights reserved

Wednesday

It looks like it’s going to be a lovely day here in Bon Accord.

And so inspired, I offer this:

Some Thoughts on Summer, or, A Simple Ode to Summer

©KLarson 2011

The sun was shining at 6:30 this morning.  A rarity these days, when rain and clouds, or, rainclouds have been the norm.
No rolling angry booms of thunder to shake the eaves or flashes of sheet lightning to bruise the morning sky.
It’s a clear day, with a beautiful sky, a mild breeze that just might help dry up the puddles in the road.
(Wouldn’t that be nice?)

“Summer’ is half over and we’ve barely had any.  Temps in the high teens and low 20’s on those days the sun prevailed.
Still, we’ve made the best of it — we’ve camped, festivaled, ate greasy side-cart food and even
gone motor-biking (in the rain, of course).  The gardens should be lush, but with no heat
they’re simply water-logged.

The chickweed, though, is healthy.  Were I intrepid enough to make a salad!  Perhaps if I had planted some nasturtiums?
To see the positive in this rape of our shortest, our most favorite of seasons is at times, at best, difficult.
So, it’s shorts and sandals, pretty summer dresses, hair tied up loosely in imagination.
(Sweat tickling the back of a bared neck.)

The overhead fans are on in protest against humidity and venetians clatter wildly in patio doors flung stubbornly wide.
I will have summer!  I will pad naked through the darkness for a glass of cool water and then, shivering
dive back under the warmth of my down duvet only slightly grateful that here, at the end of July
we are not sweltering and sticky in our sheets.

Wind chimes play melodically in the constant breeze and lilies nod their heads in pretty unison.  The colours of summer;
and the sounds, too, are present.  Hammers and saws — the building of trellises and  decks, roofs being re-shingled
(in fits and starts these projects take two and three times as long) — thanks, always, to the rain.
Today, though, we’ll bless the sun.

And sit outside with a cold beer in a lounge chair and kick off our sandals and turn our faces to the full glare of the sun
beaming in defiance of UV rays and the possiblility of skin cancer.  We deserve this bit of warmth, this bit of
risky business.  In no time at all the trees will be turning reminding us that cold, real cold, is returning.
But not yet, not this day.

This is a SUMMER day and we will revel in it we will soak it up like medicine like memory like music like poetry like love.
It will be the spark that ignites the rest of the days we have left into a glorious bonfire around which we will dance
in our barefeet and, delirious in our joy, pretend our joy will not and can not ever end.
That is the magic of summer.

The bruised and darkened morning sky -- summer in July.

View from the Side’s weekend challenge — January 22, 2011

My contribution to The Challenge this weekend:

 

©Kathy Larson
All rights reserved

 

No Pity

 

I am a very proudful person, she said

So much so, that I have lost my sight.

Now, as I stumble in the darkness

I wonder: what good is this silly pride

I cling to?  The bruises on my heart

and on my body are not badges

Of honour, they mark me as a fool.

I, who would not bend

Am broken.  Had only my hearing

also been taken I would

Not have to suffer your pity.

 

Heather wants the rain to come

Heather, my walking partner, was really, really wishing that we get some rain for her gardens today.  So, this is for her:

Heather wants the rain to come;
For the ground to be drenched,
For the leaves to sing a muted
city-dwelling forest song
as water cascades and drips
and dribbles to the earth
off their green and slender backs.
For the rain to seep and soak
and expand the rich black dirt
that holds this years plantings
of leeks and onions and chard.
Not to forget the tomatoes
. . . and pumpkins and corn!
So, gather the dark clouds
like  an umbrella of hope reversed
and bring on the blessing of rain.

Sunshine morning

my little primrose
I awoke to the sun shining in my window this morning.  I can’t tell you the feeling of joy that gave me.  Two solid weeks of cool, cloudy, rainy days had begun to take its toll.

Probably a big part of my problem yesterday.  There’s only so much gloom a girl can take.

So, in celebration, a little free verse:

What first catches my eye,
chiffon-yellow primrose
opened like a lover to the warm
breathless kiss of the sun.

Then, a finch trilling
a welcome to the day,
the sound of sunlight,
liquid gold pouring from his throat.

The trees are greener, gayer
branches swaying softly
brushing up against the blue
teasing the sun as it dances out of reach.