Seaside Beauties and two other poems

Mono no Aware

Hello wonderful Toads!  I hope you all are well.  Some of you in different parts of the world are experiencing spring/summer while the rest of us are enjoying (1) the ending of fall and the beginning of winter.  All of us are seeing the year slowly die.  This brings me to a Japanese phrase - mono no aware (moh noh noh ah wah ray) which means, a wistful sadness at the passing of things.  This includes leaves falling, the first frost, the ending of a relationship, the ending of an era, or death.  The Japanese believe in a concept of mujo - change.  All things change and are constantly changing.

I would like you all to write a poem about change - not the full blown depression but the subtle sneaky sadness that hits us sometimes.  The "wistful sadness"...I know I have had times of mono no aware these past two years - when my cousin Billy died recently of cancer I grieved. But there was also the feeling of an end of an era - we were part of a group called the 11/16 Club, a group of people all born on NOvember 16.  I am the last of that group of twenty people.

So write about change - the changing of the seasons, the loss of a lover in your life, the loss of a friend, the loss of a parent or family member or pet.  I want you to write about changing jobs, moving to a different house, moving to a new city.  I want you to write about change (mujo) and the mono no aware that comes with such changes. I recently wrote a haibun in the classic style - meaning 100 or fewer words, not the long rambling modern ones.  This haibun and haiku show the changes in the seasons and the feeling of sadness at the changes.

Haibun -  cherry tree

The cherry tree in my yard is bare now.  Pink blooms festooned the branches. The leaves were green during summer and red during fall. Now at the beginning of winter, the leaves lay in disarray at its base.  Slow rain soaks the fallen leaves.

bare cherry tree

shivers in the rain – 

winter is here

For this challenge, I want you to write about the changes and the sadness around those changes.  I also want you to be brief - no more than 150 words.  Try to write in the Japanese style of brevity and minimal description.  Let the world show your sadness, not your descriptions.  If you can't, don't worry about it.  Just remember, this is about that wistful sadness, not about full out grief.

Post your link on Mr. Linky.  And please - read the submissions of others and comment on them. this is not a requirement but it is only courtesy.

Tuesday Platform: A cup of Poem

Welcome to the Tuesday Platform: A cup of Poem

Another month closes in on itself, - we step towards the last of the last - weeks to go before another calendar year picks up its skirts and bustles itself into the closet.

So here's your chance to dip into your well - the reserve of water - so precious it is, too often wasted -
and offer us a cup of poem:

But first, to quench your thirst this most wonderful taste:


A Late Walk -  by Robert Frost
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.


Now, waste not, want not - choose your poem - and share it here.
Link up directly to the specific poem on your blog that you wish us to read.
Come back within the next few days to visit and share your thoughts with what fellow Toads, friends and travelers have offered to quench our thirst. Remember, in order to receive, you must give - and all comers, including "late to the party" are welcomed.

Weekend Mini Challenge: And the days are not full enough

Welcome to the Weekend Mini Challenge with Kim from Writing in North Norfolk.

I have a little book of 101 Poems That Could Save Your Life, subtitled ‘an anthology of emotional first aid’, edited by Daisy Goodwin, which I turn to from time to time when I need a poem to help me get through a day. It has an emotional index with entries such as ‘Bad Hair Day’, ‘Career Crisis’ and ‘Is This Relationship Going Anywhere?’ There is also one entitled ‘Just Do It’, about seizing the day and getting motivated. It contains just three poems: the first is by Ezra Pound:

Image found on Pinterest

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

        Not shaking the grass.

Ezra Pound

I love the message and how it has been delivered in so few words.

The second poem in this section is ‘Tiger’ by A.D. Hope and the third is ‘The slow starter’ by Louis MacNeice.

Image found on Pinterest

Whether we are tigers who roar, bursting the night and shaking the stars, or slow starters, watching the clock and counting days, we poets make our marks on life. This week I would like you to write about just doing it and leave your imprint in a NEW poem.  You may want to keep it short and sweet, like Ezra Pound, or in a longer poem with a maximum of four stanzas.

Seize the day by clicking on Mister Linky and filling in your name and url – not forgetting to tick the small ‘data’ box. And please remember to read and comment on other toads’ poems – don’t slip by like a field mouse!

Giving Thanks With a Love Poem

This will post on the U.S. holiday of Thanksgiving, which I know only some of you celebrate. 

But even those who do not have the specific holiday of Thanksgiving certainly have times of giving thanks.  And in thinking about what kind of poetry arises with the giving of thanks, my mind came up with a love poem. 

While we don’t always couple thankfulness with love, they seem to me to be closely linked.  Sometimes, the link is obvious--there may be a person whom we love for whom we are deeply thankful. 

But even small, seemingly casual expressions of thanks, when genuine, are little expressions of love.  Love in lozenge form, if you will; mini mints of love which we may give on a daily basis.  

We can debate this. (I’m sure you can come up with instances of persons you have thanked whom you don’t much like.)   I still believe that any moment of genuine thanks is also a little (maybe very little) lozenge of love. 

But let me get to the prompt!

Which is to write a love poem. It may be about love offered in thanks (or not), and it may be about love offered to an object or non-human animal as much as to another human.  It may be about the love that one sometimes feels emanating from the universe or from the memory of your grandmother or from your own heart or your dearest partner, or the love you offer back to these.  

All I ask is that whatever you write is genuine.  (Even if genuinely tongue-in-cheek.) 

Happy Day. 

Manicddaily/Outlawyer, Karin Gustafson here. The pics above are all illustrations from recent (or coming) children’s books of mine--Melanie’s Twinkle, Does Melanie Like Melon?, Good Light Room and Little Dog and a Taste of Adventure; all available on Amazon.  I have recently published Momoir, Maybe, a book occasioned by the death of my mother. 

The Tuesday Platform

Thy fingers make early flowers of 

Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).
~ E.E. Cummings

Welcome to the Tuesday Platform, your unprompted free-range day for sharing poems in the Imaginary Garden. Please look up from your phone and link up a poem. Then be sure to visit the offerings of our fellow writers. 

SHARE * READ * COMMENT * ENJOY 

Wordy Saturday With Wild Woman : the Places That Heal Us

A POEM ON HOPE 

It is hard to have hope. It is harder as you grow old, 
for hope must not depend on feeling good 
and there’s the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight. 
You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality 
of the future, which surely will surprise us, 
and hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction 
anymore than by wishing. But stop dithering. 
The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them? 
Tell them at least what you say to yourself.

Because we have not made our lives to fit 
our places, the forests are ruined, the fields, eroded, 
the streams polluted, the mountains, overturned. Hope 
then to belong to your place by your own knowledge 
of what it is that no other place is, and by 
your caring for it, as you care for no other place, this 
knowledge cannot be taken from you by power or by wealth. 
It will stop your ears to the powerful when they ask 
for your faith, and to the wealthy when they ask for your land
and your work.  Be still and listen to the voices that belong 
to the stream banks and the trees and the open fields.

Find your hope, then, on the ground under your feet. 
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground underfoot. 
The world is no better than its places. Its places at last 
are no better than their people while their people 
continue in them. When the people make 
dark the light within them, the world darkens.

–Wendell Berry

In these gloomy times, when it is difficult to hold onto hope, this poem speaks to us about what is solid beneath our feet: the world, our place in it, where we put our roots down, where our hearts belong.

For your challenge, write a poem about the place or places you love, the places that heal you, the ones that call to you and wrap their arms around you. Where do you go to replenish your stores of hope? What does it sing to you?

Use specifics to make the place come alive for us. It can be a garden, a forest glen, a tree, a porch swing, the shore, or a special room or home that is refuge and sanctuary, where all is safety and warmth - a place where you go to soothe your spirit. Through your words, let us see what you see, feel what you feel while you are there. Show us how you care for this place, and how this caring expands to caring about the survival of all places, all people.

Tell us what you take away with you when you leave, and how your special place on the planet allows you to keep hope alive, for the world and its many creatures. Honour the earth through the celebration of this place.

No rules: use any form you wish. Then link up. And please do visit the offerings of your fellow poets. I look forward to reading some poems of love for this beautiful planet, and the places on it that you love most.

All in November's soaking mist ~

Source

Pablo Neruda was born on 12th July,1904, in Parral, Chile. His poems can be described as subtle and elegant, as well as being vigorous and original which brings focus upon themes such as nature, love, politics, and human condition. As I was going through some of Neruda's poems, I came across one that completely blew me away: 

If You Forget Me 

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Our frame of reference is the title of Neruda's poem. Choose your own form or write in free verse, if preferred. I look forward to reading what you guys come up with. Please do visit others and remember to comment on their poems. Have fun!🌻

A Toad Chat with Kim & Kerry

Hello folks! Here we are:

Kerry

AND

Kim

bringing you our chat. 

What a perfect match up it was for us – both teachers, one from the northern and one from the southern hemispheres and both passionate about passing on a love of poetry and literature to the youth.
Kim kicked off the chat session:
Hi Kerry!

I've been thinking about the three questions I would like to ask you and I thought I'd start with some simple, obvious ones and we can perhaps work on them together, if that's OK with you.

          1. Why is poetry important to you?

          2. How are your poems conceived and born 
             (How does a poem begin; where and how do you write it)?

         3. How did you become possessed by the characters from The Tempest? 
            (The Tempest is one of my favourite Shakespeare plays.)

Such great questions to begin a conversation!

I responded with three of my own:

          1. I believe you are an educator, as am I. 
             Has your career as a teacher influenced your approach to writing poetry? 
             And/Or does being a poet influence the way you teach?

          2. Your poetry often puts me in mind of the English lyricists of the 
              Romantic era. 
              What is it about the bucolic lifestyle that inspires you?

          3. How important is it to have an audience for your poetry, 
              for example online? 

Kim was quick to respond:

Although I retired from high school teaching over four years ago, due to illness and overwork, I couldn’t stay away from education for long. I listen to children reading and am a governor at two local federated infant schools. I also volunteer at local libraries, leading Bounce and Rhyme sessions for parents, carers, babies and toddlers, running a Chatterbooks session for older children to explore and chat about books, including poetry, as well as spreading the word about and helping out in library events for children. I think my career as a teacher has made me more aware of poetic techniques and so has certainly influenced my approach to writing poetry. However, being a poet definitely influenced the way I taught, especially creative writing. I was the only teacher in the English department who encouraged pupils to write poetry and submitted their writing to competitions, magazines and anthologies. I also created and edited the school magazine, which was full of pupils’ writing.

The view from Kim's window

I grew up in London and spent my late teens and early adulthood in Cologne in Germany. It wasn’t until I moved to Ireland that I discovered the joys of the countryside, which has become so much a part of me since moving to Norfolk twenty six years ago. I can think of nothing more beautiful than watching a day unfold on a Norfolk beach, the Broads, on a walk down a lane or across a field. We have such a variety of birds up here, as well as flora and fauna. I was stunned the first time deer visited our garden and speechless when a doe gave birth under the quince tree! I think I only really experienced the seasons once I left the city, and there was no going back.

The Deer Under the Willow Tree

A swathe of freshly rain-washed green

with sunlight spangles in between,

against this backdrop I can see

a deer under the willow tree.

The creature has a languid gait

as if it’s waiting for its mate;

I only hope it can’t see me,

the deer under the willow tree.

Its eyes are pools of blackest jet

in which a diamond light is set;

a woodland child, its life is free,

the deer under the willow tree

Emerging from a clutch of weeds,

covered with bits of twig and seeds,

a newly born, a fawn I see,

underneath the willow tree.

 When I lived in Cologne, I tried a spot of performance poetry, which I found difficult as the response was immediate and I didn’t have time to process it. I gave up on that and stuck to submitting poems to newspapers and magazines, which took ages to give feedback or gave none at all. It wasn’t until I retired that I discovered the online poetry scene, which really appeals to me: not only do people respond in a respectfully critical way but they also interact with each other. I enjoy reading the different styles and the huge variety of prompts and challenges, which get the creative juices flowing. It’s not so much the audience as the feeling of being in it together and, of course, knowing which poems people respond to and which they don’t. 


Reading Kim’s questions and her insightful replies to my own really encouraged me to share my experiences:

I can relate to your experiences in the education system, both with the burnout and the inability to step away completely. I admire your interest in library work; getting children to read is one of the greatest challenges we are facing, especially with Generation Z! I am also the only English teacher in my school who takes the writing of poetry seriously, because it is not part of 'The Syllabus' and, therefore, doesn't count. To answer your first question, poetry is important to me because it is an art form which is falling out of fashion. I always tell my students that what an artist does with paint, a sculptor with stone, so a poet does with words, a far more difficult medium to elevate in the eyes of an audience. Yet poetry has humanity as its source: it may be all that stands between us and complete moral and intellectual decay. Please forgive me, if I that seems over-stated but I am passionate about the value of creative writing.

I have never been a city girl, although I grew up in the suburbs of Durban, South Africa. There were gardens to play in and miles of beaches to explore. Now I live in a small town in countryside of Northern KwaZulu-Natal, close to farmlands and the mountains, so I also appreciate the breathing space and slower pace of life.  You asked me how my poems are conceived and born. I always find this a difficult question to answer, as I tend to write on the spur of the moment, spend very little time on any one piece and seldom edit or rewrite. Sometimes, words start to line themselves up in my mind. When that happens I have to sit down quickly and jot them down, otherwise I forget what I was trying to say. If I have a particular theme or prompt in mind, I sit down with a word document in front of me and I visualize the poem in pictures. Then I describe what I see. I like the way images compliment poetry but I seldom use a picture to write from (unless specifically writing ekphrasis style poetry). If I use a picture when I post my poem, it will be one I found after the poem was written and then I prefer paintings to photographs.

 I began blogging nearly ten years ago, and I was really just creating an online archive of my pieces, working in a complete vacuum until Sherry Blue Sky found me and led me to Poets United. I was so excited about finding a thriving forum for poets to share their work, and in 2010, I became the Creative Manager of our own Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. My hope is that I have made my own contribution to keeping the online community alive because it is so important for writers to receive feedback and to be inspired by the work of others.

You asked me how I came to be possessed by the characters of The Tempest... This came about one year ago, when I was going through a very difficult time in my life, after my health took a turn for the worse and I suffered personal loss in my life. I went through a bout of depression, during which time I felt I had lost my poetic voice. As it happens, I was teaching The Tempest to my Grade 10 class, as I do each year, and I was stirred by dichotomy between Miranda's idealistic view of the world and Caliban's unrepentant anger towards the people and situation he found himself in. Here, I believed, I could explore some of the negativity I was going through, writing in Caliban's voice, and I could find balance by sometimes trying to see things through Miranda's eyes. It helped me to rediscover the brave new world and make peace with all that had happened to me in what remains the worst year of my life. In this regard, I would like to return to your first question, regarding the value of poetry. I believe that on a personal level, poetry can save a person's life, as can poets. I can list several poets I have come to know over the years of our journeying together, who literally kept me afloat, ensuring that I did not give up writing, and that I did not give up on my own life. 

Kim quickly noticed several similarities in our polar opposite worlds!

We are on opposite sides of the world and I can see similarities!
I agree with you that poets paint and sculpt with words; it is not at all over-stated and I think many teachers are passionate about creative writing but the powers that be won’t let us explore it in education.
It’s amazing that you grew up in Durban – a great uncle of mine spent a lot of time in Durban and I have a precious postcard he sent my grandmother before I was born. I love to find out about places I’ve never heard of and your town sounds wonderful.
Another thing we have in common is writing on the spur of the moment, not spending much a time on a poem and seldom editing or rewriting, although I’ve had to do that for submissions that have been accepted in anthologies. I also experience words forming in my mind and need to write them down before they disappear. I’ve even woken up with a fully formed poem or story in my head and leaped out of bed to get it down on paper – not once but several times!
I'm so pleased that Shakespeare saved your life, Kerry.

After this amazing chat, I felt again the sense of joy I get whenever I connect with a poet through this most remarkable space we are so fortunate to share.

In my twenties, I was lucky enough to travel to the UK, Europe and the US. It has now become a goal of mine to travel again. I would love the opportunity to meet some of my poet friends on these journeys.

As for spur of the moment, that is how I write. People often ask me where I get an idea, or what inspired me to write something, and I find it hard to explain a process with almost no structure or planning behind it. 

A gift from
@chelseabednardesign

Lately, I have branched out into what for me is the unknown territory of Instagram. I was inspired to venture into the realm of sharing 'notebook' poetry, which I write with an old-fashioned pen dipped into a bottle of ink, having been a long-time admirer of Magaly's posts. I have discovered a newfound joy in working with some of my older pieces, and writing in ink has forced me to slow down and take my time with a poem. The Instagram platform has renewed my joy in writing, coming at a time when I believed I had written my best and, maybe, final poem. So, for the present, I am still putting pen to paper, and calling myself a poet. 

Find me @skyloverpoetry

This was a conversation which could have gone on indefinitely, and we were both sorry to have to wrap it up, but the best thing about it is that we have more to talk about on another day.

The Tuesday Platform

MEMORY

I had swayed. Nothing else. But suddenly I knew

In the depth of my silence

He was following me. Like my shadow, blameless and light

In the night, a song sobbed…

The Indians lengthened, winding, through the alleys of the town.

A harp and a jacaranda were the music, and the smiling dark-skinned girls

Were the happiness

In the background, behind the “Zócalo,” the river shined

and darkened, like

the moments of my life.

He followed me.

I ended up crying, isolated in the porch of the parish church,

protected by my bolita shawl, drenched with my tears

-Frida Kahlo

Welcome to the Tuesday Platform! This is where you can poem any thoughts or ideas for our eager eyes and ears. Please share a piece of your choice and don't forget to read, comment and even share the writings of your fellow scribes. We're looking forward to this! Please stop by to read the 'Toad Chat' between Kerry and Kim tomorrow!

Fussy Little Forms: Cherita

Good weekend, Toads! Let’s try a new (to me, anyway) form that is so beautiful, I hope we all can really enjoy experimenting with it: CHERITA 

Cherita was created by ai li, and you can read her lovely expression about the form here:

What’s Your Story? Cherita Knowhow

Cherita builds on haiku and tanka, and was inspired by the six-word story, which was inspired by Hemingway, so hey, there is a rich history here. You remember Hemingway’s:

For sale, baby shoes, never worn 

Cherita is a six-line poem in three stanzas. First stanza is one line, second stanza two lines, third stanza three lines. Line length is up to you. The idea is to write a short story in six lines. 

I tried it out and offer this simple tale for an example:

I should rake leaves 

but I decide 
to do something else 

when thinking about leaves 
and wind 
and justice 

photo and cherita poem above by Marian Kent

I wonder if we might try this and even include our handwritten/notebook versions as Kerry inspired us to share a couple weeks back! If you like, no obligation, but it might be a pretty form to share that way. Have fun!

Kerry Says ~ How Does the Story End?

A REAL TOAD QUIZ!

Can you identify the poem by its last line?

1. "And - which is more - you'll be a man, my son!"

2. "Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

3. "And thus they buried Hector, tamer of horses."

4. "So long lives this and this gives life to thee."

5. "sun moon stars rain"

A. anyone lived in a pretty how town - e.e. cummings

B. Iliad - Homer

C. Ode on a Grecian Urn - John Keats

D. Sonnet 18 - William Shakespeare

E. If - Rudyard Kipling

I am sure you all got 5/5... Gold Stars all round!!🌟

Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost
Where title is the final line of the poem.

Often, the hardest part of writing a poem, is the creation of a memorable final line. The value of a strong conclusion is evident, but sometimes it is also elusive, and a poem with a great opening line, fades away at the end, or just comes to a dead stop.

Here are five helpful tips I picked up while browsing a few articles online.

1. Write your last line first. This creates suspense, and is a hook with a thread attached to the theme you will explore in the remainder of the poem. You can circle back to the first line at the end, if you wish, or rephrase it in such a way that it reverberates with the central idea.

2. Ask a question. This involves the audience more actively in the reading process. It also suggests that the poem does not end at that point, it continues in the imagination of the reader, who will ponder the theme more closely.

3. Create a dichotomy. End your poem with a line that contradicts or contrasts, the body of the poem, in mood, tone or imagery. This can create a lot of impact in the reader's mind.

4. Use your title as leverage. The title of your poem is a clue to its subject. Save the reveal for the final line.

5. Choose your best line and repeat it at the end. Repetition is an integral part of poetry. By repeating an essential phrase or line at the end, you reinforce the main idea of your poem.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

For today's challenge, please select one of the above suggestions and write a new poem with a killer last line.

  

The Tuesday Platform

Fair Use

November Evening

Come, for the dusk is our own; 

let us fare forth together,

With a quiet delight in our hearts for the 

ripe, still, autumn weather,

Through the rustling valley and wood and 

over the crisping meadow,

Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist 

and shadow. 

Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far 

hill-gaps showing

Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green 

are glowing;

'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, 

unfettered roaming,

Caring for naught save the charm, elusive 

and swift, of the gloaming. 

Watchful and stirless the fields as if not 

unkindly holding

Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their 

broad bosoms folding

Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly 

keeping,

Thus to be cherished and happed through 

the long months of their sleeping. 

Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs 

than ever are greener,

Nipped by the frost till the tang of their 

loosened balsam is keener;

And one little wind in their boughs, eerily 

swaying and swinging,

Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel 

is singing. 

Beautiful is the year, but not as the 

springlike maiden

Garlanded with her hopes rather the 

woman laden

With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won

through living,

Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of 

praise and thanksgiving. 

Gently the dark comes down over the wild, 

fair places,

The whispering glens in the hills, the open, 

starry spaces;

Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with 

questing and dreaming,

We turn to the dearest of paths where the 

star of the home-light is gleaming. 

- Lucy Maud Montgomery

Welcome to the Tuesday Platform, the weekly open stage for sharing poems in the Imaginary Garden. Please link up a poem, old or new, and spend some time this week visiting the offerings of our fellow writers.

SHARE * READ * COMMENT * ENJOY

Camera FLASH 55!

It is time to strike a pose with our photographic challenge for November.

Bizarre pictures show 19th century photoshopping

This challenge comes with a wide angle and any filter of your choosing.

Literal! Figurative! Reflective! Narrative!


As an added extra to this challenge, you may write a Flash 55 inspired by the photograph, or on a subject of your choice, as we keep the memory of Galen alive, and send our love and support to Hedgewitch, during her time off from hosting.

Bits of Inspiration ~ Día de los Muertos

November 1st, The Day of the Dead (Spanish: Día de Muertos) is a Mexican holiday celebrated throughout Mexico, in particular the Central and South regions, and by people of Mexican heritage elsewhere. The multi-day holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and family members who have died, and help support their spiritual journey.

 “To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths!” —“The Assignation”  ~ Edgar Allan Poe

Today I want to celebrate Dia de los Muertos in the garden. Dear Toads I want you to draw inspiration from your favorite dead poet (s) and write a poem to honor him/her. It can be about the poet, their poetic style, a line from a poem, one of their quotes, etc., go where the suggestion leads you. I only ask you write a new poem and name the poet who inspired it. 

As always please add your poem to Mr Linky and visit your fellow poets to read their poetic offerings.