Walking sticks, June bugs, Bumble bee, Wooly Bears all came out to play and when the streetlights at last were lit the fireflies lit the way. The June bugs, in droves, in whispering swarms slapped against our chests emerald green-backed and shining, the airborne jewels in summer vests.
Where have all the June bugs gone?
Wooly Bears sauntered by one-by-one we didn’t touch them as they rolled laborious slow and steady, with hiding faces, these solitary mysteries unfold.
Oh Wooly Bear, please come out to play once more.
Walking sticks, box turtle, sage-shaded mantis and the creepy-singing “whooo whooo whooo” that rose from the woods behind us telling secrets that sailed out over the garden plump with cucumber, tomato, corn stalks, melon.
Daddy Long legs often skittered by climbing on spindly silent legs, with tiny black dot bulbous eyes they crept on silent dregs. Now, sadly gathered elsewhere on distant dream, searching for more of their kind.
Perhaps the June-bugs hide there too in this grassy hidden plane where creatures gather to speak of when their numbers had not yet begun to wane. They worry over summers that no longer look the same, of the children no longer twirling in grass with magical dreams.
Bumble bee, I beg you, do not go away. I plant my flowers one-by-one enticing you to stay. Our earth is not the same for you but your plump colors light our way I miss you singing nectar-dreams., oh please Forgive us, we have lost our way.
Thank you for reading Nectar Dreams, a poem inspired by my love for the tiny creatures and the joy they brought to my childhood. I hope you will read more of my poetry!
A poem — to immortalize a love worth telling and a house that carries their memories in its heart
Nestled… in the dappled Spring sunlight peeking through oaks, maples, and Tulip poplar is a country house with pale-yellow siding. Across a corner of the weathered wooden-slatted front porch, a vine lazily stretches to find a spot in the sun.
Inside, the navy-blue carpet runner slinks up the beautiful wooden stairs that Pop built with bony-knuckled, work-deep hands. He’d have worked quietly, smiling as he thought of the lovely young lady with the yellow flower behind her ear, that caught him by the heart some fifty years past. At the wane of her she rang the bell, a silver tinkling call. He shuffled to her bedside, leaned close. “Pop, will you hold my hand?”
The front parlor is very much the same; an old-fashioned sitting room with milk-cream white, antique furniture, perched on mahogany clawed feet, elegance immutable, unmoved. A portrait of my young mother hangs there on the wall in ornate frame, her eyes the foremothers to mine.
Arising there, a China cabinet, its gifts enclosed in a hug. Atop a pedestal table, hand-sanded and love-stained, Mom’s Christmas cactus trails and cascades in forest greens awaiting pink-winged petals, alighting in season, a crescendo of bloom framed in autumn-light meandering through remembrance like a dream. Mamaw’s spirit lingers there, her high-bubbled laugh carrying on like a song, her quiet dignity still holding together the air that holds up this house. In the kitchen she makes her list, there at oval table; the names of all the children she loves. Do you see her sitting there?
There are so many children here now. Pop would have snagged them one by one with a devilish grin, with navy-socked feet smelling of sweat and dust, and of the garden where his watermelons juiced and plumped on the vine. Wriggling, giggling children were no match for the snare of Pop’s feet. His tender chuckle rolls quietly by on the wind.
Presently, titmouse and chickadee swoop down from the trees to gather black sunflower seeds, meal worm, and millet; their warbling chatter and brief staccato chirps a cacophony of tales wrapping a yellow house in Iredell County with enduring melodic memory. At night, a yellow house sleeps with a smile.
Thank you for reading A Yellow House in Iredell County.
In the Spring, God brings forth life Cottonwood drifts by on the wind. We water our gardens with tears for we have lost a dear friend.
Her kindness grew like tulips Proud and colorful and tall Her compassion, a vine reaching our lives and touching us all.
Our beloved Beverly was so Warm-hearted, sweet, and caring Loved her family with all her soul Though cancer, in the end, unsparing.
A kind and quiet woman who grew like the flowers and paled into silence in her last waning hours.
Her Spring was cut short, Her candle burned low, in God’s precious time she knew she must go.
Though it’s hard for us in this bountiful spring we let go and know God’s given her wings.
I was asked to write a poem for my son to read at his Step-mother’s funeral next week.
He is to speak at the funeral, at which time he will read the above poem, no doubt through shaky nerves (to my knowledge this will be his first “public speaking” engagement), and through a heavy wall of emotion. He is with-holding so much emotion about this whole thing.
As a mother, my heart is breaking for him. He has no memories of his life prior to her entering it. It is a terrible loss. How in the world do you honor that in a poem? Yet, this is the task I was given.
To make it simple enough for the country-folk family members to be able to appreciate, make it rhyme so it sounds to them like a poem, make it personal enough that it touches their hearts, Christian enough and reassuring enough so that they are comforted in their time of sorrow.
What an arduous task, but I wanted to do something. And this is what I do–so I hope you have enjoyed reading Cottonwood Wings. I am honored to have written it for my son. (I think it will mean a lot to him.)
(In Memoriam, Beverly Mullis; wife, mother, sister, daughter, grandmother, friend)
a poem about the beautiful Mandarin duck and the not-so-beautiful Muscovy duck
On Dappling Pond
White, crisp half-moon,
the blue crested melt
to ruddy hind swoop.
Tawny wings tucked under,
belted by royal blue.
Sleek chest, brazen
blue as ocean-deep.
Neck ringed in
maple majesty lace. Enlightened,
All nature’s paintbrushes! Were they hog hair or badger? Were they rinsed clean in muddy waters encircled by sawgrass; sandy-fawn stippled?
The Mandarin navigates, whisper-smooth and waggle, the Carolina grasswort; rising variegated greens wind-bent and skyward.
Mucsovy regards the radiant fowl, disturbed at such reckless abuse of color… for one dappling duck? Pinkish beak dipped under, up with a snail? Asnail! Vexed, perturbed, Muscovy waddles, plops with a splash and a glide, nature’s sculptor’s pride, its gnarly head held high.
I hope you enjoyed On Dappling Pond (I am quite fond of this one) and will stick around to read some more of my poetry. I have made it easy to find ones you may like and you can find links to poems on the poetry tab, or use the navigation menu and search features on the homepage. Thank you again…what did you think of On Dappling Pond?
(That’s what I call my writer friends these days–out there nurturing your dreams and rising in the sun!)
If you are interested in promoting your poetry, your articles, your photography, then this is the post for you.
Where have I been lately? I have been on Medium, making a little money for my poetry and getting some exposure for my writing.
Medium allows me to post my poetry into “publications” which are like online magazines, which have one or many editors that approve your posts. Several of my poems have been published this way in the month I have been on Medium, and since I am in the Partner Program, I make a little money while I am at it. THANK GOODNESS.
Check these out! You may be impressed with the clean interface and impressive presentation of my poems as published on these Medium Publications:
***note that P.S. I Love You has over 120K followers!
So what to do first? Here’s what to do if you want to get involved with this and get your work moving, out there, seen…
Join Medium — I know, it costs. 5.00 a month. If you are worried about it then spend about 5 days on Medium just reading through things. (You will be limited on how much you can read if you are not a member.) Then you will most likely want to join.
Of course create a profile. This is a given.
Look for publications on the Medium homepage that have articles in your “lane” of writing–you are welcome to use the ones I listed above. they are great!
Join publications (follow them) and if you want to write for them be accepted as a writer for their publication. Look around the publication for “submission guidelines” and you will likely see the process you need to follow to become a writer with that publication. (I now write for 16 different publications!)
Next, study the format of other stories that are highly successful on Medium. Pay attention to length, spacing, use of white space, and by all means NO ERRORS in your work helps your article or poem to be approved.
And–FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS on the publication for submission. Otherwise they will reject your story.
If you have any interest in promoting your writing, by no means do you have to leave your beloved WordPress blog, which gives you a lot of control over the appearance and design of your blog, but I would suggest, strongly, that you take a look at Medium as a lucrative income stream and avenue for self-promotion. I joined the site (for $5.00 a month) which gives unlimited readership and it has been well-spent. I spent much of my online reading time perusing articles, clapping for other readers, highlighting crafty sentences and phrasing that just speaks to me in some beautiful way, or shocks my soul into motion. I try to comment on as much poetry as possible and support other poets as well.
Come on over…the Medium water’s fun!
I’ll be back on soon when I am feeling better to post about my experiences with another acute-pain flare up this week. this one landed me at Duke University for an overnight stay and a bunch of tests and electrodes and…well, it was miserable. But the scary part is passed and I am on the mend. Doing a LOT of resting and a little writing today. Thanks for reading and I hope you have a wonderful day!
May your footprints in the moss leave whispers of good memories.–Christina
I am rising, unfolding A fiddlehead taking my place In the lower vascular canopy. Can you feel my presence? Alive. I am alive. I cradle my thoughts, Tiny spores lined up In patterns beneath me, Vowels waiting To be released. I share them With the sun. Can you hear my rising?
The name Fiddleheads & Floss has a meaning that is twofold, as the name suggests. Both are symbolic.
The first, deals with self.
As a poet, of course I had to choose something symbolic; but it had to appeal to the self, meaning — YOU.
Have you ever heard of a fiddlehead? In nature, this is a fern, curling in on itself at night, and then unfurling and rising with the sun in the morning. The vision is truly symbolic if you think of it. Think of folding in on yourself, turning inward, hugging–if you will–that which you have to give the world, all that you were blessed with, nurturing it, growing it, creating, designing—rising—unfurling–releasing—
The fiddlehead is symbol for the creative process, the healing process, the process of becoming the person you are meant to be, living in your truth, honoring yourself…fill in the blank for yourself…The fiddlehead is a symbol for being YOUR TRUEST SELF and GIVING your truest self to the world.
There are things deep inside of you that have been there since you were a child, that you have carried in your heart. Perhaps it was not nurtured. Perhaps it was discouraged. Perhaps a dream you thought was unworthy of following because the “world” tells you it was silly or unimportant or of little value.
It has value. YOU have value.
I am here to tell you that these seeds all have value. They are planted within us with a purpose and intention that only come to fruition when WE grow them .
Your seeds, your gifts, your inner contribution to the world is not meant to be kept folded under, kept subdued, despondent, oppressed, dismissed! These tiny seeds wish to germinate, take root, grow, flourish, and bloom into beautiful things in your life.
Your gifts, YOU BEAUTIFUL FIDDLEHEAD YOU, are meant to be shared with the world. So RISE, unfurl, stand in the sun, and share your creative spirit with those around you and BE YOUR TRUEST SELF!
So let’s get to that second part; FLOSS. What’s THAT about? Community. That’s the US part.
What connects us? It’s simple…
Very simple. And very delicate. Like floss.
We’ve already talked about a nature theme/symbol (one of my favorite things is nature) and now a cross stitching theme (also a favorite) is the embroidery floss, which is quite delicate sewing floss that comes in all kinds of beautiful colors and textures.
Think of all the different people of the world. All the communities and cultures of this wide and varied and fantastic planet we live on…the connectivity we all share is…well…delicate.
Our connectivity as humans is sometimes fragile and difficult for us to keep at the center of our focus …but it is always there.
The floss part of the name came from wanting to honor my love for a life long interest in cross stitiching but also ended up being very symbolic in a community kind of way.
Combine the two images, throw in some alliteration with f + f to satisfy my poetic mind (I also carried this over to Twitter and Medium with @Fnfwriter of Twitter, @Fnfwriter on Medium and Fiddleheads & Floss Poetry Publication on Medium) and there you have the birth of Fiddleheads & Floss; a name which I intend to have trademarked as soon as I am financially able. (I have already had someone threaten to use it—for the record. NO. I have been using this name since 2008.
I wanted to write something truly beautiful to wish you a happy Easter, and to honor the rising of my Savior, but nothing, nothing I could ever write could touch the magnificence of Easter morning. I feel humble.
Small. Inadequate. Undeserving.
Oh Jesus, my knees are quite clean this while I think on you in Gethsemane praying hard on what you knew you must do I know how oft I’ve forgotten to pray to you
I can’t bear to think of the violence of the cross the thorns in your flesh, the blood that was lost In the Philippines today, nails in bloody penance Whipping their backs with bamboo, disturbing images
How can people rip the flesh of other human beings and hail the God that created the whales in the sea? Great grays that swoon and scoop plankton and sing? Creator of eagles that laugh, carry wind on their wing?
How can a God love humans who behead, bring war? Humans stoop to such evil, then lower still more? Yet, Christ kneeled in Gethsemane, for all humanity Knees in the dirt, heart to the sky, and pleaded for me?
To Creator of the worm of the earth, the soil and sky for all races and tongues, for all things that fly for all genders and generations, for mother earth for every living thing to have in Him a New Birth.
God doesn’t ask that we bloody our backs or pierce our limbs only that we remember to pray and accept and honor Him. The cross still stands on a hill, blood-free. Jesus was there, but he rose for me.
This Easter, I hope you know it too. From Christina here at Fiddleheads & Floss, Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate this Christian holiday. If you are not a Christian, please disregard respectfully and have a wonderful day. I appreciate all of you!