Walking in the Fog

Walking in the Fog

By Rebecca Klamert

moisture laden air drops

press against my eyes

closing me in

a fresh water tear

forms on my lashes

my vision blurs

As the Season Changes

As the Season Changes

Rebecca Klamert

Leaves in yellows, reds, oranges

await the arrival of the indigo buntings,

lacking only their brilliant blue feathers.

Ruby throated hummingbirds

no longer guest at our dinner table,

their favorite flowers wilted in the wind.

A hairy woodpecker,

a stripe of red on his head,

pecks at the peanut suet.

His intention to intimidate

various sparrows who ignore

and toss to the ground

half of the suet they peck.

I stand between the lines of laundry

swaying in the brisk breeze.

All have flown away

except the black capped chickadee

who shares my company.

Evening

Evening

By Rebecca Klamert

An electric burner

glows low in the sky, playing,

embers and flames dance

A glimmer and glare

stare at chanting birds and skirt

the shadows of weathered wood

Haiku poems

We were out on a boat yesterday evening and I took advantage of the beautiful weather and scenery to try writing a few Haiku poems something I hadn't really done before.  So here are four Haiku poems that I wrote.

The Willow Tree

Yellow-green glowing

flows to be one with the water.

A child hides beneath.

Honk Honk

In concert they soar

inches atop the surface.

Fish scurry below.

The Kayak

Orange flecks reflect sun,

parting the water, propelling

through the shade and breeze.

On the Dock

Bobbing and swaying,

rolling waves wash over the rocks.

The sun warms my face.

My Client, a Survivor

Below are some revisions of a poem I brought to my poetry class for critique.

The first version sticks with the original form of the poem with revisions suggested by my classmates and teacher.

The second version is my first attempt at writing a pantoum which was the suggest of my teacher, Margaret Rozga.  A pantoum repeats certain lines in the poem.  You can read more about it here.

My Client, a Survivor By Rebecca Klamert

Her voice suddenly quiet,
she hesitates.
It’s her second call today.
Each resembles the last.

They all start the same:
a timid voice speaks my name;
a force of energy upon knowing its me;
a need to explain, doubtful I’ll believe.

This time she hopes
for a different response.

They all end the same:
after an intense conversation,
a hesitation,
and the soft whisper of goodbye.
 
My Client, a Survivor By Rebecca Klamert

Her voice suddenly quiet,
she hesitates.
It’s her second call today.
Each resembles the last.

She hesitates.
They all start the same.
Each resembles the last.
A timid voice speaks my name.

They all start the same;
a need to explain, doubtful I’ll believe,
a timid voice speaks my name,
a force of energy upon knowing it’s me.

A need to explain, doubtful I’ll believe,
This time she hopes for a different response.
A force of energy upon knowing it’s me
before a soft whisper of goodbye,

this time she hoped for a different response.
It was her second call today
After a soft whisper of goodbye,
her voice suddenly grew quiet.

An Emily Dickinson Poem

Here is a beautiful poem written by Emily Dickenson:

 

Hope is the Thing with Feathers
”Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

A Poem from a Novel

I'm currently reading Distant Dreams by Judith Pella and Tracie Peterson which is really good.  It is  about a young woman in the 1830s who is at the age of her coming out but is much more interested in railroads and other topics considered only suitable for men.

Here is the poem at the beginning of Part IV:

We surely live in a very fast age;
We've traveled by ox-teams, and then by stage
But when such conveyance is all done away
We'll travel in steam cars upon the railway!

By James Crane

I like it's simplicity and how it reflects the time so well.  It also really fits with the book well.

Poetry class

I've started a poetry class which has been really great.  It is run like a workshop and so far I have gotten some great feedback on two of my poems.  Here is the first one that I shared with edits from my classmates' suggestions.

The Hangover

By Rebecca Klamert

the dog howls on

a slow whine morphs

into a cry of a fallen

coconut on an empty island

the dog howls on

the whack of a tennis ball

volleys back and forth

echoing

between my ears

the dog howls on

the screen flashes

in front of me

covered in swahili

as my eyes blink closed

the dog is quiet

A Good Story and a Poem

So yesterday morning, we were sitting at the dealership working out a deal on a car. I thought it a perfect experience to write a poem about and so I brought my notebook with and while we sat there waiting and negotiating, I wrote.

At one point the salesman asked, "What are you writing?"  I simply told him "a poem."  He let it be for the moment but later when my husband was reading it over he asked, "You aren't writing about me are you?"  When I said, "yes" he appeared quite shocked and said, "no seriously!"  I went on to explain that I was comparing negotiating a deal to a dance.  He still seemed taken a back even after my husband explained it could be about any salesperson.  I can only imagine what he must have been thinking.  Anyway, my husband and I had a good laugh about it later.

Here is the poem:

The Dance at the Dealer
By Rebecca Klamert

Adorned in suit and tie
he looks out of place.
He follows the arc of the arrow
seeing us from his perch.

Asked to dance we follow
his lead as he lures us in.
Relinquishing the power,
momentarily.  He listens.

He leans back scoffing
at what he finds ridiculous.
He is then quiet, reflective
and leans forward.

We lean back unimpressed,
holding our breath, as he steps
away to an enclosed glass room.
He returns a smile on his face

and slides across the table
numbers in dark blue ink,
piercing the paper.  Again
he disappears in the glass room,

returning he remarks confidently
“We’ve got a deal” grasping
our hands firmly;
as the music fades.