One Single Impression -- One Word

In December 1981 I wrote the following:

I was instructed once
that great poems never
use the word "love"
but must always
speak of it.
Only in a silent room
may the nuances of
the heart be heard.

Unfortunately for the young man I was dating at the time (and quite a few others before him) my poetry was much wiser than I was. Obsessed with that one word, I was blind to loving actions, and drowned more than one potential relationship in a torrent of demands.

one word--
a trophy sought;
relentless hunger
consuming all
who came too close;
blinded
to the silent gestures,
the evidence of love
unspoken.

©sgreerpitt
April 18, 2009

for other wonderful poems on this prompt see One Single Impression.

"spring is busting out all over"

As a child I learned that the birth stone for February was the amethyst and that the flower was the violet. Growing up in California the only violets I saw were the African violets that my mother grew in pots in the kitchen. It wasn't until I left home for college in Ohio that I saw violets growing wild in lawns and meadows.

When I moved to Lexington, Kentucky for graduate school, I would go on spring time violet hunts through the older neighborhoods of town. There were dozens of places where lawns turned into thick carpets of the purple blossoms in April.

One of my greatest joys is that my very own yard has a great abundance of violets each spring. Now that I've convinced my husband to leave unmown islands around our large maples, the violets (and other wildflowers) are thicker than ever.

One Single Impression -- Live Water

Live Water

the creek flute dances
a natural accompaniment
'neath work and sleep;
its liquid silver ballet
skips stones, bends grasses,
to wind slender fingers
through my day;
live water
embraces the hours
with subliminal music.

©sgreerpitt
April 6, 2009



In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (Bantam Books 1974), poet Annie Dillard writes “Live water heals memories.” It is from Dillard that I first learned how to view the world through both the eyes of a naturalist and a poet. This book is a treasure to be savored, the perfect accompaniment to a summer’s day, especially one spent near creeks and woods.

For other wonderful poems on the theme "Live Water" go to One Single Impression.
Photos are by sgreerpitt April 11, 2009, the creek running near our yard in Letcher County, Kentucky.

the unexpected colors of spring

The brilliant color in the tree above is not flowers but leaves. Red leafed trees dot the hillsides of spring. The tiny, tender leaves of many trees -- but especially of the maples that turn brilliantly red in fall -- are also rosy red in spring.

Photos ©sgreerpitt, April 11, 2009. Taken in my neighborhood in Letcher County, Kentucky.

Not yet after all

This time, it seems, Charlie changed his mind. Instead of moving Dad, they're going to try -- one more time -- a new night-time care taker. The advantages of this are obvious. The cost of doing this is only a fraction of the cost of a move to a group home, keeps Dad in a familiar place, and keeps my parents together.

There are potential pitfalls with this, however. My mother readily acknowledges that she can no longer cope if my father needs to get up in the night. But, she does not like the idea of a stranger in the house while she sleeps, and considers it a waste of money to have some one there all the time. So in the recent past she has manufactured crises to drive off the night-time care giver.

Mom claimed that the most recent night-time care giver was sneaking people into the house while she slept. She would try to "catch" them, but never could, Mom said because "she would hear me coming and sneak them out of the door fast." Mom kept jumping out at the care-giver in the middle of the night and yelling at her, drove the poor young woman nuts, and understandably she quit.

In the same conversation, my mother will whimper about not being able to cope at night with Dad, and then a few sentences later complain that she can't see any reason why they have to have someone in the house with them at night.

So we shall have to see how long this new arrangement works.

changes, perhaps

My brother Charlie's research into group homes for one or both of my parents may have born some fruit. A small group home, about two blocks from my parent's house, came well recommended and has one opening that should suit my father (now 97) well. My mother, who is physically able to walk, dress and feed herself, would remain in her home with the continued support of her current well-liked daytime care giver, Jennifer.

As of yesterday afternoon, my mother was -- surprisingly -- very enthusiastic about the idea. Whether she will continue to support the move is yet to be seen. Over the past two years it is not at all unusual for my mother to "think about" things and come to an opposite opinion within twenty-four hours. In recent years, my mother's version of "thinking about things" has often involved some very complex and convoluted conspiracy theories that are works of fiction.

In yesterday's conversation, however, Mom was enthusiastic about this group home, because it was so close and because one of the night time staff is a woman (Elizabeth) that had worked with them in their home for several months. This latter point is somewhat surprising because although Mom recognized this caregiver as capable and competent, she did not get along well with her. I will be very curious to see what she has to say on the topic in this evening's call.

One Single Impression -- Listening

night listening

ears open in the dark
strain to hear water dripping
--is it rain or pipes?

*****
soft snores, man and dog,
punctuates peepers chorus,
spring night symphony.

©sgreerpitt
April 5, 2009

Yet anothe take on the prompt added at 3:00 PM April 2009

Quiet mind.
Still memory.
Create silence.
Then wait.

Life cannot speak
over the roar
of the past.

©sgreerpitt
April 5, 2009

For more poems on the theme "listening" see One Single Impression.
Photo of John and Rosie taken 2008.

spring observations

The lovely weather is appreciated by the ducks in the North Fork of the Kentucky River flowing by my office/classroom building. The view from my office window inspired this little haiku.

bottoms up

wiggling tail feathers,
teal heads, dunk, dunk, scooping food
from muddy bottom.

©sgreerpitt
April 1, 2009