Category Archives: Poetry

Forgiveness

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Please welcome guest blogger, Dina Corcoran, whose poem, Forgiveness, offers a surprising glance into the subject. Dina is a memoirist, poet and survivor of the 2017 Tubbs Fire. She has won awards two years running in the Jessamyn West Literary contest.

Forgiveness

 

In friends I like a cheerful nature
And honesty enriches the deal.

 

I’d sooner sit with realness
Than suffer the pretentious.

 

Wanda, with her southern accent and fake genteel manner,
 Asks “Why is it you don’t like me?”

 

Gently I caress her hand.
It’s not her nature to understand.

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The Pain That Dogs my Heels

harrietbeecherstowe1Forgiveness isn’t for the perpetrator of our hurt, it’s for our own peace and happiness. Not letting go of hurt, pain, resentment, or anger harms us far more than it harms your sister, boyfriend, mother, boss, wife, friend. It frees us to live in the present without anger, contempt or seeking revenge. In fact, it doesn’t only free us from negative feelings and actions, it reduces depression and stress, allowing us to embrace peace, hope and self confidence. Forgiveness is a balm of healing for hurt, grievance and guilt; it is not acceptance of wrongs done to you or wrongs you have done to others. And it isn’t quick and easy—it’s a practice.

In the coming posts, writers will express what forgiveness means to them.

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Forgiveness  by Ana Manwaring

Time, that yoke, that feckless lover,
a raptor flying ever forward
into the mythical land of yet to be;
might time bring forgiveness?
Perhaps with time comes peace.
 
Maybe peace is here now
            and now
                        and now
                                    and—walking our paths with us.
 
Maybe now I can forgive.
Maybe this is the lesson in letting go
I learn anew each moment.
 
This, the pain that dogs my heels,
a village cur, a half-wolf, half-dog,
lapping up scraps from my middens.
            He nips at my ankles,
            my outstretched fingers.
            He growls and jealously guards his prize.
 
How his tiny sharp teeth gleam
in the dull morning light.
 
I lay open my heart;
my blessings release
to whirl the clouds.
 
The pack howls in the distance.

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Stay tuned! And thanks to BrainyQuote.com for these excellent memes.

 

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Filed under Inspiration, Poetry

Open Your Heart to Compassion

Poet Theresa Ortez re-joins us today with her wisdom in the wake of the October fires.

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Open Your Heart to Compassion

 

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Napa Valley Fire

Our valley filled with smoke

Hearts with love

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Tomorrow is promised to no one

Bringing joy, sometimes sorrow

At times you may cry

Like a beautiful cloud

Life passes in the blink of an eye

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Shelters filled: men, women, children

Animals running for their lives

No safe place in sight

Flames and smoke in sky

 

Saying prayers for all who died

For those who have lost all

My tears fall

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Open up your hearts and feel compassion

Love and prayers for all

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Filed under Fire Season, Poetry, Students

THE WHOLE WORLD IS A TELEPHONE BOOTH

 

This week, poet, Dominic “Nick” Triglia, shares his unique experience of the October firestorm.

Nick says this about himself:

I was born a “blue baby” in 1950 at the old hospital on Spring St. in Calistoga.  The owners of the hospital always told me I was the last baby born there.  When I found out they were wrong, I changed it to: I was the last good lookin baby born in the hospital.

I wore the blue uniform of the Postal Service for 34 years. I love blue skies, the deep blue sea, blue movies, listening to the blues, and drinking red wine.

Nick is also a producer of poetry events in the Upper Napa Valley

 

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atlasobscura.com

The Whole World Is a Telephone Booth

15 items or less

express lane

in heavy traffic

woman shares

answers to questions

near the

National Enquirer rack

 

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“We packed the RV

then unpacked

got another advisory

my brother in the urn

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put back in the house”

Mom takes him back

to the RV

can’t decide

to take him or not

Dad said to leave him

“he’s only ashes anyway”

Mom said, “yeah

but that’s all I’ve got

of him, he’s goin.”

 

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khan.com

 

 

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Message Machine

She left his message

of not being home

“to leave a message”

on the phone

seven years

since his passing

his voice lets you know

that he and she

are not at home.

Evacuated

she calls their number

hears his voice

calls five times a day

said  “if he answers

I know our home

is safe from the fire”

Each time she listens

to his recorded voice

she kisses the receiver.

 

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greifhealingblog.com

 

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Smoke over the Napa Valley October 2017.       Marina Torres

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Filed under Commentary, Fire Season, Poetry, Students

From Hell

Prolific Napa Valley novelist, poet and memoirist, Nathaniel R. Bob Winters,  shares his impressions from the night of fire. Bob’s second book of poetry, Another Revolution, is now available.

 

From Hell

Nathaniel R. Bob Winters

Flames surround us

here in Saint Helena

north in Calistoga and over

the redwood pass in Santa Rosa

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Flames surrounds us

south in the vineyard hills above Napa

southwest in the Valley of the Moon

smoke is suffocating thick as syrup

 

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Flames surround us

the land I love my Eden is on fire

Should we stay or should we go?

Electric power, phones, internet is out

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Flames from hell surrounds us

We pack one car—leave the other

What to take–what to leave?

Whatever—we flee to San Francisco

 

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Flames over Napa Valley October 9, 2017   Photo by Cathy Carsell katiyakarma@yahoo.com

Thanks to all the photographers who documented the devastation and the outpouring of love  and helping hands.    ~AM

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The Empty Bee Box

I’m worried. What will happen when Global Warming, Big AG and the pharmaceutical companies kill our pollinators? Here’s my sextina in protest.images-2

 

The sun a spotlight on my metal chair warming
my face tilted up to soak the afternoon’s silence
as sun and land secretly conspire to riotous disorder
sprouting and blooming and bringing forth bees
and ants, gopher snakes and the pair of crows to forage
to mate; my garden their abundant future.
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Yet politicians scupper Earth’s viable future
the creatures too busy living to anticipate global warming
as habitats shrink and humans mismanage the forage
and the crops, poisoning for profit the natural world to silence,
unconcerned with topics of little interest like bees
and their Honey Bee Colony Collapse Disorder.
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pbs.org

Children of Earth—all affected by this disorder.
Without our pollinators we have no future.
With every bite of dinner remember the bees
industrious from blossom to flower that teem in the warming
spring after the sluicing winter, their tiny buzzing silence
shrinking, a muted reminder of loss of nutritious forage.
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Honey bee in blooming blackberry

Incomprehensible and cruel this throwing off of forage
this dismissal of reality as Earth spirals to disorder.
The presidential request of scientists’ silence,
the denial we have nothing but a bright future
making America great as global warming
dries farmlands to dust and starving the bees,
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nytimes.com

already confused by neonicotinoids, bees
losing their way, unable to fly from forage
to hive. Monsanto, Dow, Bayer aiding the warming
with aggressive pesticides that cause disorder
to the natural cycle. Only super viruses survive the future
as Varroa, the destructor parasite sends bees to silence.
We must tabulate the evidence and fill the silence
with the real news. Gone the clover, the alfalfa. Our bees
are starving and the almond crop is dwindling. In our future:
the memory of honey and butter spread on hot toast as we forage
the cupboard for a remnant of natural food, but find disorder
of empty plastic containers, the leavings of the Earth’s warming.

 

I offer the other beings my acre of forage.
My bees and I are saving seed for the coming disorder.
To plant a field of wildflowers—my policy of warming.

 

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When Will We Ever Learn?

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Novelist Nathaniel Robert Winters shares a poem today. Find his work at Amazon.

 

 

 

Custer Died For Our Sins

Western train throws a loud whistle

but bison won’t be moved

car screeches to a whiplash halt

 

Buffalo hunters emerge

bringing down great beasts

too many to count

a hole appears

showing the endless tracks beyond

 

Locomotive belches black cloud

starts slowly, picking up speed

white way west

 

Lakota Nation weeps

 

One hundred fifty years later

it is not tracks that scar Dakota land

but a pipeline

oil way south

 

Lakota Nation still weeps

 

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Green Grass, Yellow Mustard

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Thank you 123rf.com

 

Now and again I like to showcase the wonderful writings of my Upper Napa Valley writing workshop attendees. The following poem is by Theresa Cordova Ortez, a member of our Napa Valley College class, Autobiographical Writing, held at Rianda House, St. Helena’s Senior Center. Theresa writes Flash Memoir, scenes of her life and family. This is her first poem and it captures the beauty I’m blessed to experience every  day as I drive to work. I hope Theresa’s poem inspires you to visit the Napa Valley this spring.

The Cycle

Blue skies

Sunny days

Yellow mustard swaying in the fields

Grassy green hills

Beautiful grape vines stripped of their fruit

Standing tall in tidy rows, waiting for their time

When once again they will bear grapes

The color of deep purple and gold

the color of sun

This world-renowned jewel that sparkles like a diamond

This beautiful Napa Valley, which we are so fortunate to have

To visit, to work, and for me

To call home

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Thanks Abe K. via Flickr

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Piece Me Together

images-1I’m the proverbial chicken without a head—running thither and yon, trying to catch up while I’m on semester break everything that has fallen behind. Do I have too many directions, activities, pursuits—hats? Sometimes I feel like a mosaic. Fit the pieces together and I might be surprised to find—me.

The following is a poem by Sonia Milton read in our Autobiographical Writing class at Rianda House this past semester. Apparently I’m not the only fragmented soul wishing for time and cohesion. I hope you enjoy it!

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Slices

I live in the slices
Segmented blocks of time and space
That come in-between the interactions
Actually, I get a lot done in my slices,
It’s part of the waiting
Waiting for someone: Hal, Lauren, Peter
          To show up
                       Finish
                              Be ready
                                            Call
Come over
         Meet with me
                  Demand of me…
And I must be ready.
All the edges cleaned up
Starched and available
All the crumbs swept up, even if under the rug
READY
Heaven forbid I’m caught up in
               my own life
                            my own process
                                       my own becoming
And caught off-guard
What if someone catches me at THAT?
What if someone else SEES?
What if I see?
I want the whole orange, the entire pie, the whole loaf
Ah, now that would be a wonderful piece of time!
I would
                breathe fully
                            stretch completely
                                           sigh contentedly
I would have room to read the entire book, fantasize an entire dream
I would have room and time to be ME

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Sonya Milton grew up in New York and Miami and has lived in Napa Valley 20 years. She’s particularly interested in the inner journey and has written her memoirs intermittently over the past couple of decades. Partly retired, she spends time with her 4-year-old great nephew and making lunch for her husband.

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Want Some?

By Dina Corcoran

 

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Her name was always Blossom.

But the young lad had a tricky tongue,

When he spoke her name he garbled it,

So it became “Want some.”

 

He lived in a castle, hardly squalor,

Where he ate watermelon with his thumb.

One day she swayed by; it made him starry-eyed,

He called out, “Want some?”

 

A trickle of hope arose in his heart

As the red juice dripped down his chin.

“I’ll volunteer,” she said on a whim,

Going out on a limb, holding back a grin.

 

 

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thanks to coetail.com

 

Prompt: from the (printed) list pick 10 words at random and fashion a poem, memoir or fiction.

“garble, squalor, always, volunteer, sway, trickle, watermelon, starry,

tongue, blossom”

 

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