—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos
TWITTERPATION
It is the sort of day just made for twitterpation.
A luscious day,
Full of sun and green grass.
Too glorious to tolerate any miffs, tiffs, or conniption fits.
Even the birds, eyebright and fiddle-footed,
Are smitten with the day.
The air is filled with their addlepated twittering,
Their tittering, their chirpings and cheeps.
All at high frequency,
So that the long-suffering dignity of the tree
In the yard is quite scandalized.
The finches and red-breasted robins,
The cardinals and sparrows,
Warblers and purple martins,
All get in on the act,
Quibbling at the feeder for the most toothsome
Of seeds.
They are all fussy eaters.
Nitpicky, finicky, most often persnickety,
Zig-zagging from tree to feeder,
And back again to tree,
Singing loud and clear for their supper.
They are too twitterpated to notice the worm,
As it army-crawls deep in the grass,
Hunkering down to wait it out.
Too twitterpated to take note of the cat on the window ledge,
Twitching his tail,
And licking his chops.
It is the sort of day just made for twitterpation.
A luscious day,
Full of sun and green grass.
Too glorious to tolerate any miffs, tiffs, or conniption fits.
Even the birds, eyebright and fiddle-footed,
Are smitten with the day.
The air is filled with their addlepated twittering,
Their tittering, their chirpings and cheeps.
All at high frequency,
So that the long-suffering dignity of the tree
In the yard is quite scandalized.
The finches and red-breasted robins,
The cardinals and sparrows,
Warblers and purple martins,
All get in on the act,
Quibbling at the feeder for the most toothsome
Of seeds.
They are all fussy eaters.
Nitpicky, finicky, most often persnickety,
Zig-zagging from tree to feeder,
And back again to tree,
Singing loud and clear for their supper.
They are too twitterpated to notice the worm,
As it army-crawls deep in the grass,
Hunkering down to wait it out.
Too twitterpated to take note of the cat on the window ledge,
Twitching his tail,
And licking his chops.
GIRL, POEMING
Little did she know when she started poeming
At the age of forty-five or thereabouts,
That something wonderful would come of it.
She found such joy in writing,
She did it every day,
Sometimes forgetting to sleep,
Forgetting to eat,
Forgetting to watch the news,
Losing track of time.
She was so full of poetry,
She was like a river in spring, full to overflowing.
There were tales to tell of her folk,
And truths about herself,
So that she let the poetry flow and flow
Out onto the paper with ink-stained fingers,
And let the poeming delight her heart.
Little did she know when she started poeming
At the age of forty-five or thereabouts,
That something wonderful would come of it.
She found such joy in writing,
She did it every day,
Sometimes forgetting to sleep,
Forgetting to eat,
Forgetting to watch the news,
Losing track of time.
She was so full of poetry,
She was like a river in spring, full to overflowing.
There were tales to tell of her folk,
And truths about herself,
So that she let the poetry flow and flow
Out onto the paper with ink-stained fingers,
And let the poeming delight her heart.
WEDDING PHOTOGRAPH
1885
Now this here is a picture of ole Jack Patterson and his wife
on their weddin day.
Her name was Missouri Ann but we all called her Zouri.
Lookit, even sittin down, Jack was a big man.
Just lookit the size of them feet.
And them hands, big enough to git the job done.
He cast a long shadow, did ole Jack.
As sturdy and solid as that sycamore you see over yonder
Out the window.
Zouri was as a purty little thing,
winsome as a willow tree.
She would bend in the wind of hard times,
but you couldn’t break her.
Had the pioneer spirit of her Pa and Ma, did Miss Zouri.
She was Jack’s match in every way.
Neither one of ‘em stood for any nonsense,
not when there was work to be done,
and back then, livin on a farm that was all there was,
Was work.
She’s standin just to the right of Jack,
almost beside him, but not quite, with her small hand
on his broad shoulder.
That’s the way it was between ‘em.
They had both feet on the ground and not about to let
the hard life they was just becomin acquainted
with knock ‘em down.
Not even a white silk dress to wear on her special day,
only black homespun with a little fringe of lace at the wrists,
and at the collar with a large white bow wrapped ‘round in front.
Money was scarce as it always was,
Makin bad times worse fer farmers.
Cain’t tell it by this here picture,
but Jack and Zouri got through their share of bad times.
Drought and flood, barn fires, fever, debt and taxes.
They shared a hardness between ‘em that formed
like bark on a tree.
The two of ‘em rose before the sun come up,
dressed by the stove on bitter cold mornins white with hoarfrost.
They’d both huddle over the table after breakfast,
calloused hands wrapped around hot coffee mugs fer warmth,
as if they was huddlin close to the life they’d made together,
close enough not to let the hardness of the times
get between ‘em.
And when old Jack got felled by the pneumonia
one March some years later,
it was like a great tree fallin over to its death.
1885
Now this here is a picture of ole Jack Patterson and his wife
on their weddin day.
Her name was Missouri Ann but we all called her Zouri.
Lookit, even sittin down, Jack was a big man.
Just lookit the size of them feet.
And them hands, big enough to git the job done.
He cast a long shadow, did ole Jack.
As sturdy and solid as that sycamore you see over yonder
Out the window.
Zouri was as a purty little thing,
winsome as a willow tree.
She would bend in the wind of hard times,
but you couldn’t break her.
Had the pioneer spirit of her Pa and Ma, did Miss Zouri.
She was Jack’s match in every way.
Neither one of ‘em stood for any nonsense,
not when there was work to be done,
and back then, livin on a farm that was all there was,
Was work.
She’s standin just to the right of Jack,
almost beside him, but not quite, with her small hand
on his broad shoulder.
That’s the way it was between ‘em.
They had both feet on the ground and not about to let
the hard life they was just becomin acquainted
with knock ‘em down.
Not even a white silk dress to wear on her special day,
only black homespun with a little fringe of lace at the wrists,
and at the collar with a large white bow wrapped ‘round in front.
Money was scarce as it always was,
Makin bad times worse fer farmers.
Cain’t tell it by this here picture,
but Jack and Zouri got through their share of bad times.
Drought and flood, barn fires, fever, debt and taxes.
They shared a hardness between ‘em that formed
like bark on a tree.
The two of ‘em rose before the sun come up,
dressed by the stove on bitter cold mornins white with hoarfrost.
They’d both huddle over the table after breakfast,
calloused hands wrapped around hot coffee mugs fer warmth,
as if they was huddlin close to the life they’d made together,
close enough not to let the hardness of the times
get between ‘em.
And when old Jack got felled by the pneumonia
one March some years later,
it was like a great tree fallin over to its death.
Today’s LittleNip:
I followed in the footsteps
of October
All the way through December.
I waded deep through January snows,
And suffered February’s chilblains,
Til I came to the sheer drop-off of March,
Where the trees stood holding their breath in suspense,
And the wind blew, searching every nook and cranny
For spring,
And filled with the expected thrill of the common flower
Left to bloom alone in the woods,
As if brought to life by a sprinkle of angelblood,
As silver as rain.
I followed in the footsteps
of October
All the way through December.
I waded deep through January snows,
And suffered February’s chilblains,
Til I came to the sheer drop-off of March,
Where the trees stood holding their breath in suspense,
And the wind blew, searching every nook and cranny
For spring,
And filled with the expected thrill of the common flower
Left to bloom alone in the woods,
As if brought to life by a sprinkle of angelblood,
As silver as rain.
______________________
Our thanks to Kimberly Bolton from faraway Missouri for today’s sparkling poems, as we start off the second half of 2021!
Tonight, Thurs. (7/1), 7pm (new time—not 8pm), Poetry Night in Davis will feature Emily Hughes and Charles Halsted IN PERSON, plus open mic, at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/332338015114088/. Host: Andy Jones. (Check out Dr. Andy’s new [free] weekly newsletter at andyjones.substack.com, and please subscribe!)
______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
