Haiku by Kobayashi Issa

Napped half the day;
no one
punished me!

"Dear Reader," by James Tate

Dear Reader

I am trying to pry open your casket
with this burning snowflake.

I'll give up my sleep for you.
This freezing sleet keeps coming down
and I can barely see.

If this trick works we can rub our hands
together, maybe

start a little fire
with our idenification papers.
I don't know but I keep working, working

half hating you,
half eaten by the moon.

Taken from this sweet-deal page listing poems about poets and their craft.

Happy Halloween!

Today, for some inexplicable reason, was the best Halloween I have ever had. Maybe it was the weather. A drizzle which drew me outdoors so I could feel some moisture on my skin. Maybe it was my walk, a brisk one, and a stop over by the train tracks which revealed a host of colorful trees looking warmly over the cold, black steel of the tracks. Maybe it was my laundry finally getting done after weeks of piling up, and my scalp getting a good wash, and my hair getting twisted into good, clean braids. Maybe it was the phone call to my Mom, and the way she always makes me feel smarter, prettier, and wiser than I can honestly take credit for. Maybe it was the chocolate she sent me, and the little lighted ceramic pumpkins she sent for her grandchildren, which made us smile in the dark. Maybe it was the ribs and chicken my brother barbecued, standing outside in the rain with his red grill that sits on stilt-like legs. He rubbed the meats with delightful Spanish and African herbs from the Whole Foods Market. He served it all up with baked sweet potatoes. Yes, maybe it was the sweet potatoes that made me happy--orange, buttery sweet yams, hinting at Thanksgiving. Ah...maybe it is my heart that made this day happy. The way my heart is so thankful tonight. So tranquil and so thankful.

Chasing a purple sunset at 6 months old

Today, my little nephew turned 6 months. Hard to believe that he was born not so long ago, that he fit his body into the open palms of his father's hands. He was born early and tiny and soon after his birth he stopped breathing and could have died. "He was turning blue!" his father says, but Daddy came to the rescue and called a nurse and the little guy was soon breathing again. He is now big and strong. He also is now firmly my own. We eat and sing and talk and stroll together. We take naps together. I am his nanny and I watch him as if God himself were here supervising my duties. I make mistakes, sometimes. Like the day I put him in his chair and he wiggled his way out of it and fell on his bottom and rolled and hit his head. Lucky for both of us, his chair sits very close to the ground, so the fall was a minor one. But most days are uneventful and predictable. We start with his feeding, diaper changing, napping, and move on to the great outdoors, where I show him leaves and trees and squirrels. He chatters as we move along. The day continues in a repetition of these activities. We often take an afternoon walk and then an evening walk. Yesterday, on our evening stroll, him in his stroller, me pushing him with a smile on my face, we came across the most brilliant sunset I have ever seen. The sun was a ball of orange fire in the sky. The clouds made way for it, and we could see the sun clearly. It lit up the day-after-rain sky and made it purple. I had my camera with me, and I whipped it out. I sped the stroller forward, screeching around bends in the roads of our residential area. I found a good spot and took a photo, the baby keeping his eyes glued to the sun. Tall houses obscured our view and so did branches of trees--my photos could not do justice to the amazing color of sun and sky. But we were happy for the excitement, happy for the moment. So unexpected. A sweet surprise at the end of our day.

"Garb of Beauty," by Anhilaire

I am fascinated by fall, not only
by nature's rare spectacle of beauty
but that the trees dress up
in a resplendent garb of beauty,
then undress, in preparation
for the showers of snow, until they
can afford the garbs of spring again.
While we pile up layers and layers of clothes
in preparation for winter, the trees take off theirs.
Glory be to God!

~~~~~
Praise God for the gift of Poetry! Special thanks to A.N.H. for adding a new level to my poem "Red is the color of autumn in Maryland." I like collective poems. They bring a richness to images and insights that one person cannot achieve alone. I think I want to do this more often. Anyone interested in making a collective poem? Please let me know. You can suggest a topic/theme or start the poem, and I'll pick up where you leave off. Or I can start. Post a comment here, if you'd like to participate. I'm waiting and already thinking up some ideas. :-)

Red is the color of autumn in Maryland

The trees in Maryland are lovely. They are lovely Ladies dressed in Red. And thanks to them, Maryland is a Lady in Red. I want this color for myself. I want to be bold. I want to be like the trees, knowing precisely when and how to change my colors, how to transform myself, how to change my clothes, how to dress properly for every occasion that life brings. So here I am. In America. In Maryland. Missing Cameroon, longing for it, but knowing it will be so very long before I return there. Here I am and I must love this place in which I find myself. Love it deeply and live in it. And the trees are here to help me. Their color is here to cheer me. I drink deeply of their hues. The liquid blood-reds. The fiery oranges. The soft, shimmery yellows. Leaves flutter in the wind and glitter like sequins, and high up in the branches of trees, the dress of autumn starts to fall. Here are the leaves on the ground. Spread everywhere like crisp pools of water after the rain. Here are millions of leaves. Still red. Still gold. Still alive. And...here I am. Picking up the leaves. Placing them on my coat. Clasping them in my hands. Clutching them to my chest. Wearing this beautiful gown that nature is giving me.

A proud nanny to my nephew

BamendaBabe Makes Pizza in Maryland

Fingers and hands and holding on

My nephew is 5 months old. He is a very charming, easygoing baby. He eats, sleeps, shits, and pees a lot. He tries to talk, makes many new sounds, daily. He is learning to reach for things and hold on to them, with his long, slender fingers. His hands are soft, but don't be fooled. His grip is firm and confident. I spend my days looking after him and he is a joy to be around. I think I understand what people mean when they say kids have grownups wrapped around their little fingers.

Making Pepper Soup in Maryland

Today, after more than a month of not touching my Cameroonian spices, I got some njangsa out and put it to my nose. My heart began to thud. Loudly. I felt dizzy. Eager to do more than just smell this miraculous spice. As the sun set over Maryland, I put my fear aside--my fear of not being able to cook a favorite Cameroonian dish. I began cooking, quick as possible, before doubt set in. I called up a more or less "made-up" process of making pepper soup, since I can't remember exactly how it is prepared by gifted Cameroonian women. I boiled some potatoes that I had cut into small cubes. I sliced two long carrots, a handful of white mushrooms, a half of an onion, and 3 cloves of garlic. I shredded some already-cooked chicken that I had on hand. I fried the sliced onion in a little olive oil, threw in the carrots and pieces of chicken, added 2 cups of water. I allowed this to simmer; it gave me a light chicken broth. I added about 2 tablespoons of the ground njangsa from Bamenda. I added the boiled potatoes, unstrained, all liquid included. I then added the mushrooms, the garlic, and 1 teaspoon of ground crayfish. I added salt to taste and a sprinkle of black pepper. I let the soup cook for 30 minutes. It filled the house with the powerful and satisfying smell of njangsa. Not long ago, I ate two bowls of the soup. Hot and steaming. I feel...fine. My soup tastes a little lighter--much more mild in flavor--than pepper soup made in Cameroon. I guess I still have to work at it. But I think I did ok. Yes, I did ok. I ate two bowls, and I feel fine. I feel full. Satisfied. Sleepy. Happy.