jillypoet: mom trying to write

Each day I wish I had invented waterproof sticky notes (for shower inspiration) or pen-friendly diapers to get down all my quirky thoughts that I am sure are relevant and publishable. And so God (actually another writer-mommy) sent me The Blog.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Poetry Gong - Poem 17

Still Life: Umbrella Blown Inside Out

At night, the Perfect Rain becomes Rain that Lets the Farmer Sleep Deeply, knowing that the good work is done, and that tomorrow brings rest because the fields will be drinking deeply.
..............................- - - Chris Blanchard, Rock Spring Farm, Iowa

The wind whistles through chinks
in our armor. Not one of us can carry


Every once in a while a poem arrives with no return address, no note from weary relatives saying, "Please take this poem in and give it a home," no luggage, no name tag. Nothing. It just shows up. And I guess it is to me to make sense of it.

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Anonymous Dave said...

Wow. You've really outdone yourself here. Talk about something that invites re-reading...

10:48 PM  
Anonymous Nathan said...

Yes, this is truly great. You have such a talent for the surreal.

9:26 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

so just how many of these poems show up unattended? enough to share?

i love the first lines of this: "The wind whistles through chinks
in our armor. Not one of us can carry
a tune. "

11:28 AM  
Anonymous Michelle said...

Fantastic dreamlike work, Jill.

You're up for the next quatrain at the PoCo. The philtre awaits ...

3:06 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

haunting in all the right ways...like the wind, the poem deposits words like dust on my skin

12:40 PM  

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