Thursday, July 18, 2019

Blue Columbine blog post #346
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Well, it happened again. Last week my post received 3133 hits in a single day… all from Israel. For the past few years, this has occurred about twice yearly. I’ve examined the key words for the blogs posted each time this happens and find no rhyme or reason for attracting such concentrated interest. On top of that, I’m lousy with key words.

In the past twelve months, I’ve had 1,000 hits in a single day from Russia, Vietnam, Brazil, India, and the Philippines, but these are more random. Someone suggested the Russian hits might be bots… but a thousand spies in a single day?

Let’s face it, I do not understand this world I live in today.

Enough of that. Today, something every out of the ordinary for me. Some regular readers know that a fellow by the name of Dennis Kastendiek and I mentor the Wordwright Writing Class each Monday from 1:30 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. at the North Domingo Baca Multigeneration Center here in Albuquerque. We spend the first thirty minutes talking about writing topics in general and the following hour and a half reading our members’ own works. We have everything from published writers to rank beginners, fiction and non-fiction, poets and essayists. We are an eclectic group.

The point of all of the above is that when we make class comments on poetry, I always preface my remarks with “I’m not a poet, but….” Guess what? Today’s post is a poem I wrote. I’m certain I broke every rule in the book, but on the other hand, I’m beginning to think there are no rules for poetry. (Poets everywhere: please don’t take me to task for that remark.)

Without further ado, here’s my effort. Let me know how you like it.


I chance upon you in the shelter of a towering ponderosa.
Robbed of breath by your blue beauty, I pause to
glory in your flawless fives: sepals, petals, pistils.

I know you, Aquilegia alpina… a perennial, food for ancient aboriginals,
poison for fools who sample your seeds.
Your blossom, tall and handsome beyond reason, captures my eye,
and I snap you from your stem to closer study nature’s perfection.

I carry you, little dove—pocketed close to my heart—on my return home to
marvel at your secret shades:
sky blue with shadows of lavender, hints of cobalt, and wisps of teal.

Alas, you wither and wilt before your time, despite sips from a crystal urn.
Unable to let go, I press you between leaves of the Bard’s sonnets.
Days later, you hold traces of your prior majesty, but the comparison is spare.
To some, columbine means innocence; to others, foolishness.
Sadly, my latter has robbed you of your former.

Another season I tread that trail, anxious to see if you replenished yourself.
There, beneath the lofty pine, I find your offspring.
And once again, a single stalwart flower demands attention.
Wiser now, I forego the plucking of it,
preferring to tarry and drink my fill while still it lives.

Having learned not to hold so tightly, so selfishly, so stiflingly,
I walk the path often to witness your progeny prosper.
Far better to share that special bloom’s radiance with other passersby.
Until one day I find it gone, ripped from its stem by some admirer not
yet privy to the greatest lesson of love.


That’s it… and it was harder than writing a book. I probably changed every one of the poem’s 265 words at least 5 times. How do I know it’s a poem since it doesn’t rhyme? Because it’s centered in the middle of the page, doesn’t follow any of the formatting rules, and uses punctuation not recognizable to prose writers. So it has to be a poem.

Seriously, I’m interested in your reaction to my effort.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:

See you next week.


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

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