STILL LIFE WITH DAFFODILS, NUMBER 2

Monday morning, before dawn.

The only sounds are forced air through vents,

the cat crying from room to room

wanting me to play with him,

and in the distance, traffic on the interstate.

On the table, my tie, which I probably won’t wear,

a turkey and cheese sandwich, an apple,

The Decay of the Angel by Mishima,

my briefcase in which to carry all this.

For breakfast, a glass of orange juice,

oatmeal and dried cranberries—the usual.

And, daffodils rising like the sun.

STILL LIFE WITH DAFFODILS

Wind blows hard against the house,
rattles windows and the door.

Turned the garden this morning
anticipating warmer days.

Lunch of cheese and crackers,
celery, a glass of water.

Bask in the afternoon sun.
Nine daffodils in a jar mid-table.

LENTEN RAIN

Lenten rain washes away
the last vestiges of snow.
I should see it as a sign
of renewal and regrowth,
but it only brings thoughts
of cherry blossoms that will fall
before I walk with her again.

Harrison and Mildred

Now that the poems about John and Mary Ratcliff's lives are going to be published (Finishing Line Press, sometime in 2016), I think it's time to focus on the next phase of the Skimino Cycle.  Harrison and Mildred Ratcliff present two compelling individuals.  Mildred was a Quaker prophetess and minister who traveled fairly widely in her ministry and visitations with other Quakers.  She was well-known among Quaker circles in the 1810s and 1820s, and was vocal during the schisms that rocked Quakers in the early 1800s.  Her Memoranda and Correspondence were published after her death.  She led a public life.

I know less about Harrison.  For a time, he and Mildred lived in the Lynchburg, VA area, which suggests to me that he might have taken on running of the family's farm in that location.  Middle and upper income Virginia farming families typically had farms in Tidewater, the Piedmont, and out in the mountains.  I know that Harrison's father, William, owned land in York County (Tidewater) and Hanover County (Piedmont) as Quaker records list him in both locations at various times.  But, back to Harrison.  He was the first postmaster of Leesburg, OH in the early 1800s, which means he and Mildred were early migrants to Ohio.  When his uncle, William Harrison, decided it was time to move the extended family to Ohio in 1817, Harrison Ratcliff (then in his 50s) was sent to find suitable land to purchase and on which to settle.  In his obituary, Harrison is described as having a "fractious" personality.

Mildred was not a Quaker when she and Harrison married and, even though she attended Meeting with him, she questioned Quaker's beliefs (she was raised Baptist).  Harrison had lost his membership for marrying outside the faith, but apparently still attended meeting.  Mildred's conversion to Quakerism came in part after reading John Woolman's Journal, a copy of which Harrison owned.  Coming from a prominent Quaker extended family, Harrison probably had met John Woolman as he traveled among the meetings in the South.  I don't know much else about Harrison and Mildred.  I assume they were childless-- there is no mention of children in Mildred's writings or in either of their obituaries.  They both seem to have been strong-minded and strong-willed individualists.  Mildred certainly wasn't afraid to express her thoughts and opinions, and I imagine the labeling of Harrison as "fractious" suggests a certain penchant for going his own way as well.  There's also no mention of Harrison traveling with Mildred in her writings, which suggests openness, respect, and trust between them, and agreement that each should be able to pursue interests.

Mildred's life is "out there" to some extent through her published writings and the writing of others.  Harrison is less known, but as the husband and man behind the prophetess, just as interesting.  I think it's worth exploring and imagining his personality and life. 

February goes out with a fox: Day 28 sound poem prompt-- red fox barking

If March is coming in like a lion this year, then perhaps we should say that February went out with a fox-- the bark of a red fox, that is.  That was the sound clip for Day 28 in the sound poetry series hosted by Laura Shovan over at Author Amok.  My poem was just a little wordplay prompted by the bark and thinking about foxes.

Red Fox

Run, red fox, run.

The chase is on.

Riders in red pursue,

but cannot hear your cries

over blaring horns

and galloping hooves.

Go to ground, red fox,

go to ground. 

The hounds will clamor

at the entrance to your den,

while you, ever the clever one,

slip quietly out the back.

Day 27 Sound Poem: Flowing Lava

The sound (and video) for Day 27 was flowing lava.  Pahoehoe lava, to be specific.  And, I knew that mainly because my oldest son, Zach, was obsessed with volcanos when he was younger.  As he learned, we learned, and in the process came to know a lot about volcanos.  Which led to this poem:

A Mind Like Pahoehoe

When his grandfather gave him a video

about the eruption of Mt. St. Helen’s,

he memorized it right down

to the inflection and flow

of the narrator’s voice.

He threw himself into volcanos,

their names becoming household words:

Etna, Vesuvius, Kilauea,

Coatepeque and Arenal,

Pinatubo, Sakurajima,

and the nearly unpronounceable

Icelandic volcanos, whose names

he could rattle off with ease.

We learned the different shapes,

which he would model

in the infield during T-ball games,

till I moved him to right field

(for safety’s sake),

and the different types of lava:

comfortable-sounding pillow,

rough a‘a (useful in Scrabble),

smooth, fun-to-say pahoehoe.

We delved into tectonics

and subduction zones until

the Ring of Fire was more

than just a song, and in my mind,

Johnny Cash forever walks a line

around the Pacific Rim.

It’s been like this with everything

on which he’s fixed his gaze.

His mind is like pahoehoe,

relentlessly flowing,

consuming all in his path.

The poems keep a-rollin'... Days 24-26

I missed day 24.  The sound was that of a diver while videoing a green sea turtle.  I struggled with that one, drafted a few poems that never felt right, and reached the end of the day with nothing that I wanted to send in.  Ah well, one cannot be creative every day.

Day 25's sound was a Ugandan folk tune.  It was a frenetic song, played on panpipes.  I actually couldn't listen to the whole song.  But, in the bit to which I did listen, I heard sounds and rhythms similar to jigs and reels.  That led me to think about the commonality of music around the world, yielding this poem:

Listening to a Ugandan Folk Tune

In the panpipes' whirl of this Ugandan tune,
I see dervishes dancing to ecstasy.
I hear the frenzy of a jig or reel,
the familiar skirl of Highland pipes,
the atonality of an Asian song.

When our ancestors left the heartland,
did they carry a common tune,
whistled and hummed,
sung from band to clan
as they moved across the land,
carried down the ages,
coursing through our souls?


Day 26's sounds were from trains or subway cars.  I wrote a short poem, thinking of spring, open windows at night, and the sound of a train off in the distance:

Good Sleeping Weather

Spring peepers singing out back,

and in the distance,

a freight train's steady rhythm.