When I Hear Birds Sing

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I sit amazed that each one knows their tune
Always on pitch they sing from morn till noon.
Perhaps birds love singing only one song;
Unending melody //making her swoon.
But how does a bird hatched out of an egg?
Know what tune to sing on their tiny legs?
And why don’t they try another’s sweet song?
Getting mixed up //and from another begs
I think bird melodies are meant to blend.
Like flutes in a symphony // all join in;
With harmonized beauty they sing their song.
Each plays a part // sweet symphony begins

Today we are experimenting with writing rubaiyats with our d’Verse group. Frank is our host and asked us to write one using the one of the forms suggested.
A single ruba’i is a quatrain, a poem of four lines. If there is a collection of more than one quatrain, it is called a rubaiyat, This is what Edward FitzGerald titled his 1859 translation of Omar Khayyam’s quatrains. The pattern can be AABA or AAAA.
I am using the first pattern in my poem.
Come join us at: https://dversepoets.com

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Photos: Dwight L. Roth

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Relics of the Past

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Covered bridges, built to last, covered may streams and rivers in past generations. Now they are just relics of the past, preserved to be admired by future generations.  The construction of the bridges was amazing. Planks and timbers were cut with precision and fitted together creating both beauty and strength.

I painted this bridge a few years ago to illustrate these great landmarks of the past.

Enduring all kinds

of weather // lasting beauty

Wooden covered bridge

 

Harbinger of Things to Come

 

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There she was // big as life standing before us;
Pasted smile stretch under bright red lipstick.
What she said next was a clear harbinger
Of pending storms coming in with a rush.

“I know something about each one of you!”
“I plan to be around for a long time;
I don’t know about all the rest of you!”
Three bombshell statements from her and we knew…

Life under this school principal brought chains.
Vindictive // demanding //she made life hard;
We complained and fussed with no success;
Nothing remained the same // everything changed.

Half of us left // the rest weathered the storm;
She stayed a few years and then she was gone.

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Photo: Dwight L. Roth

Mind Games

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I’m climbing steep grades
Gets steeper as I go up
No way to go down

Head off back of pillow…

My mind floated through
Struggles from the past // long gone
Woke to a new day

Glad dreams aren’t reality
Reruns seem real while asleep

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Photo: Dwight L. Roth

Today is Quadrille Monday once again and Mish, at d’Verse, asked us to use the word steep as a prompt. That got me dreaming and this poem evolved in my mind! A quadrille of exactly 44 words.
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Noisy Sunday (Haiku)

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The installation of a twelve inch Natural Gas line was an unwelcome wake up call this morning. Track hoes and dozers beeped their way to the wetland just beyond my back yard. Working together, like ants in an ant hill, what they do is amazing. They had one day to open the trench through  the small natural wetland that flows into the woods beyond. By five o’clock the pipes were in, welded together, backfilled and leveled.

Noise all day Sunday
Machines tear through ancient shale
Earth incisions deep
New artery laid
Welded joints // epoxy sealed
Soon pumps natural gas

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Ground water seeps out
Relentless in its flowing
Pumps transfer puddles
Amid invasive
destruction; wetland is saved.
Natural flow continues

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Trenches covered smooth
Beeping machines slink away
Woodland breathes silence

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Photos: Dwight L. Roth

Hollow Winds – Tribute

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hollow winds
my thoughts turn
to firewood
© Rachel Sutcliffe (UK)
Rachael Sutcliffe, another well know haiku poet in the UK, has passed away. Frank Tassone asked us to choose one of her poems and write a follow-up poem in the same manner as her poem, as a tribute to her wonderful poetry. I really liked this one because of the many interpretations one could get from reading it.
Relentless wind blows
inspiration burns within
like logs on the fire
Dwight L. Roth – Photo
Join us at: https://frankjtassone.com/2019/01/26/haikai-challenge-70-1-26-19-rachel-sutcliffe-tribute-haiku-senryu-haibun-tanka-haiga-renga/

 

Recycling Pallets

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My last job, before I retired, was at a vinyl siding company owned by a friend of mine. It was during the downturn in the US economy and sales were slow. When I had free time I  took shipping pallets apart, cleaned out the nails and dressed the oak boards on our table saw. I made the rocker for my friend, Mr. Ed, who drove our pickup truck. Using the old antique rocker as a pattern, I cut the oak boards to match. It turned out really great. The swing below was done the same way. I made three of them in all.  Over the years we made a variety of things, some of which I am still using every day!

Oak shipping pallets

Dressed smooth, cut to size, finished

Special creations

Built three swings and a rocker

Joy for builder and owner

 

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Photos: Dwight L. Roth & Dan Niece

Out in the Cold

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What do birds do on frigid winter nights?
Huddling cold together they shiver and shake;
Snow falling //a million different shapes;
Layers fields with diamonds// all catching light.

When winds howl, I’m snug // asleep in my bed
Birds have no blankets // no warm comfy house
Out in the cold sleeping under pine boughs
No place of protection to lay their heads

We can’t house all the birds in warm delight.
The same true with people, which makes me sad;
Many live in fear // no beds to be had;
While the rest of us live // sleep well at night.

In spite of the cold most birds do survive;
Third world people struggle to stay alive.

Photo: Dwight L. Roth
Today is open link night at d’Verse and Grace reminded us of the loss of a great poet, Mary Oliver, who loved writing poems about her experience in nature. I decided to write this sonnet as a tribute to her love of nature and the questions she might ask.

Join us at: https://dversepoets.com

Athabasca Falls

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When our boys were young, we made a number of trips to the Canadian Rockies and the surrounding areas. One of our stops was at Athabasca Falls. It was a beautiful spot. I took a slide photo of the falls, and when I got home sent it off to get made into a poster. It hung on our upstairs landing until we moved from that house to our present home. It was rather faded but that time but held a lot of sentimental value. I decided to see if I could paint the photo. This was the beginning of my renewed interest in painting. It is now preserved for a lasting memory.

Whitewater roaring
Rocks refuse to wear away
Athabasca Falls

The little fir tree growing in the rocks survived its precarious location. Several years later we visited the falls a second time and it appeared to be about six feet tall!

Painting of Athabasca Falls: Dwight L. Roth

Goat School

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Once upon a time this goat shed held children;
A place for learning where my father taught.
Filled with desks, chairs, and cute Amish youngins’
All eight grades in one room was quite a lot.
King School //a microcosm of learning
Shaped teachers, preachers, and cute farmers’ wives.
For some, eight grades met their need for farming;
Where they worked the land the rest of their lives.
Time moved on and so have all the students;
Who never imagined what was in store.
For their little one room school house wouldn’t
Last forever // in time // would be no more
A shed for goats in the shell that is left;
Sheds no more light on America’s best.

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Photos: Dwight L. Roth

Lillian at d’Verse, asked us to think about the many meanings of the word shed;  and write a poem of our choice. It is sad to see the school where my father started his teaching career turn into a goat shed. I attempted to write a sonnet expressing some of those feelings.

Come join us at: https://dversepoets.com