Friday, March 27, 2015

Perfect Day



Perfect Day




Clothes colored dirt
hair blown like hay
hands in the birth bed
where laboring lays,
easing and turning
crumbling and pushing
life from old life,
broken as an eggshell
by tireless pecking,
face to the wind;
a scatterer of seed
gatherer of water,
an eater of flowers
blind
to which meal
is 
the last.



~March 2015














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Challenge:...An Old Man's Fancy
Corey Rowley (Mexican Radio) asks us to visualize the perfect spring day; therefore I have forced myself not to write about anything ominous, shadowy, dark or painful, so enjoy it while you can. 









Photos copyright joyannjones 2015




21 comments:

  1. What a sensual poem! I can just smell the earthiness. Daffodils are my favorite flower too!

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  2. I can imagine you hard at work in your garden, reveling in the gracious promise of another Spring.

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  3. I feel spring as that period when everything moves past at a brilliant speed.. I love how you connect it to the soil and the growing.. actually the eater of flowers makes me think of spring as both birth and death happening so rapidly.. love the pace of the poem.

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  4. hands in the birth bed
    where laboring lays,
    easing and turning
    crumbling and pushing
    life from old life... can't wait for that here. Not safe till May though.

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  5. Exactly, Hedge! That is, if our backs can hold out.

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  6. Ha! Very lovely and renewing! I love the metaphor of the birth bed here--it sure sounds a lot better than the other kind, but you manage to use the same words so very well here the laboring and pushing--very clever--a lovely earthy sensuality here--at the opening lines especially but all lines. k.

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    1. Thanks, k. Just a short spur of the moment one--always nice to turn one of those out and not feel it sucks. ;_)

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  7. I couldn't help but feel like the closing was the embodiment of an earthworm...though I may be wrong but any way...I just love the rich organic rawness of this, Hedge!

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  8. There is something wonderful about pressing fingers through the humus of the soil--just in time for the renewal of the soul I think--at least that is how this made me feel

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  9. I do enjoy it! And I see you in your garden and flower beds....

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    1. Thanks, Mark. I tend to live there this time of year--we are trying to grow more food crops this year--have planted fruit trees, grapes and blackberries--and hoping it will be possible to go all summer with minimal grocery store produce. We are already egg-independent. ;_)

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  10. This is your time of year, I think it was made for you. I love all the pictures you post of the gardens around your place. Makes me nostalgic for the days when I lived on acreage that could support those activities in a larger fashion. Of course as a kid, I just called that kind of work chores...lol.

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    1. As a kid, it *is* chores. Thanks, Corey.

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  11. A perfect verse for a perfect day

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  12. Those flowers are so pretty, and can just picture you hard at work--but enjoying yourself--in your garden. Time well spent, and my vicarious joy.

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  13. Can it get any more content that that, in contempt of green ardors, working the manure further down and back? Here in Florida we miss the rawness of early spring, how cold and bleak it is working outside at the earliest opportunity; it's all in this poem. Reading this comforted me the way Williams' "Spring and All" prepare the work to grip down. I can't help think of the immanent April verse-factory (you're going to write a poem a day for it, aren't you), and sense the spade-work here is essential. 'Course, we don't know when that next poem won't get written, so this one must suffice. Fine work.

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    1. I've been debating it, as it is terribly draining in some ways, but I probably will. I don't have that many Aprils left to dick around. Glad you felt some of the cool of the temperate zone here,B.--saw your weather report yesterday I think 81 degrees and 100% rain--venereal conditions, for sure.

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  14. The smell of the earth, the feel of the dirt, the taste of the petals and the sight of the daffodils- a feast for my senses in this.

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  15. Now I have an intense need to go outside and start turning the soil (in my pots). The soul knows that the circle is about to turn... Life is about to come, and it feeds on what is now dead.

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  16. fed the worms today. we keep a worm bin. gives 'spooning' an entirely different meaning. :) ~

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  17. Oh may I please have that day...

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg