Tuesday, April 22, 2014

On Earth Day...

To Our Children We Bequeath

Listen children to the story I share,
Pay attention as I tell you my tale,
We've entrusted you with the task to repair,
What we've abysmally failed.

The earth was ours for the taking,
The fruits of her garden were grand,
Once rich with life in the making,
Unspoiled and pristine was the land.

Children, are you listening to me?
This is important, take heed,
Take a breath and a moment to see,
We have to stop all this greed.

The planet used to be healthy,
Lush, green and freely growing.
We harvested her and grew wealthy,
Reaped the rewards she was sowing.

But, alas, we took her for granted,
Grew self assured and arrogant,
We developed more than we planted,
Ignored the dire warnings she sent,

Filled her air with soot and debris,
Culled her species to extinction,
Poured our waste products into her seas,
Children, I speak with distinction.

Its unfair, to be sure, what we ask,
Your generation has debts to be paid,
We bequeath you the challenging task,
To clean up the mess that we made.

-Laura Freeman-
April 22, 2014

Monday, April 21, 2014

A Rondeau

Sidebar before I share my poem for the day: 

I've always admired people's craft rooms.  When I was growing up, my Mom had the neatest sewing room (not neat in "tidy" but neat in colourful and welcoming) and she spent a lot of time there creating beautiful works of arts like quilts and clothing and ultimately my wedding dress. She tried teaching me to sew, but I wasn't very good at it. But I did learn to love crafts from an early age and she's still my best crafting buddy (we're a bad influence on one another). We discovered scrapbooking back in '98 after Mom and I went to a workshop, my freshly developed wedding photos in hand. I've guess I've been trying to subconsciously replicate that 'sewing room' mentality ever since.  It started out with a closet in our apartment, then a bedroom in our house which shifted to a shared computer room when Alex was born and my craft space became his baby room. Then we moved to Vanderhoof (to a smaller house) and my craft supplies shared the computer room again.  Then Connor joined our family, and then shortly after, Kirstin.  After that my space became a closet, then some shelves in the living room, then finally the storage room in the basement, which served me well but I avoided the dark, dinginess regardless. After Brooklynn was born and we (belatedly) realized that our house was too small to raise four children in, we moved to this bigger, brighter house and now I have the most wonderful space to call mine.  It is a constant work in progress.  I don't craft and create nearly as often as I would like to, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to do so at all and go months on end avoiding it.  But when I do come in here, late at night, in the quiet bedtime hours, I sit down and feel this immense, indescribable peace fill me.  And then I stay up way too late indulging my creative side.  And in this upstairs, brightly lit, colourful, cluttered, inviting, inspirational space, I know that I love this house.

So, here's my poem, a "rondeau"  {A very famous rondeau, btw, is Flander's Fields]

"The rondeau’s form is not difficult to recognize: as it is known and practiced today, it is composed of fifteen lines, eight to ten syllables each, divided stanzaically into a quintet, a quatrain, and a sestet. The rentrement consists of the first few words or the entire first line of the first stanza, and it recurs as the last line of both the second and third stanzas. Two rhymes guide the music of the rondeau, whose rhyme scheme is as follows (R representing the refrain): aabba aabR aabbaR."

My Craft Room

Within my home, there exists a place
Where quietly slows life's chaotic pace
A place that brings me great tranquility
When I lose myself in creativity
Peace overwhelms me with her calming grace



As I cut and paste in my crafting space
Or when I write my stories, and lose the race
Lost in the fiction that lulls with reverie
Within my home there exists a place


An organized mind is a shameful waste
If imagination has no space
To blossom and create such grand beauty
A room with no walls for my children and me
Where quietly slows life's chaotic pace

Within my home there exists a place

-Laura Freeman-
April 21, 2014

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Lily's Tanka

Happy Easter!  I hope your day was a nice as ours.  As a result of the company we had all day, its 11:00 and I'm just sitting down to write my daily poem... so, it's going to be another short one again!

"And now for our (optional) prompt. Today I challenge you to write a poem in the voice of a member of your family. This can be a good way to try to distance yourself from your own experience, without reaching so far away from your own life that it’s hard to come up with specific, realistic details. But watch out! This type of exercise can also dredge up a lot of feelings. So if you think writing in the voice of your grandfather will be too heavy, maybe try the voice of your four-year-old niece. Four-year-old problems might be a little lighter in scope."

Lily's Tanka

They keep me captive
Feed me dry food and water
Call me abject names
But I will tolerate them
Cats will someday rule the world

-Laura Freeman-
April 20, 2014

Saturday, April 19, 2014

She Sells Seashells


Whilst out on the board walk, and facing the shore,
With her strawberry top and Peruvian hat,
She calls to the men, invites them to adore,
Her snout otter clam, what do they think of that?



She stretches out on the beach, with her leather donax,
They come in droves at her profession of love,
For the incised moon; Her patrons stop in their tracks,
When she bats her eyes, innocent as the sparse dove.



They stroke her shuttlecock volva, sun-warmed and kept neat,
Her false cups and saucers, entice them further,
Her heavy bonnet on display, she smiles so sweet,
For she knows it makes the sale worthier.



They fondle her prized striped engina, and meet
Her Lazarus jewel box which is tempting and open,
They greedily handle her unequal bittersweet,
No piece of hers is off limits to them.



After a day at the sea, peddling pleasures,
For a dollar or two, in exchange for herself
What eventually becomes of her priceless treasures?
Forgotten trinkets on some sun-seeker's shelf.



-Laura Freeman -

April 19, 2014


The prompt for today is a bit of a spoiler, so I decided to post it after the poem.  This one was fun to write!  Much more fun that my usual Saturday laundry regimen... :)

And now for today’s (optional) prmpt. This is a bit silly, but it’s Saturday. I recently got a large illustrated guide to sea shells. There are some pretty wild names for sea shells. Today I challenge you to take a look at the list of actual sea shell names below, and to use one or more of them to write a poem. You poem doesn’t have to be about sea shells at all — just inspired by one or more of the names.
Peruvian Hat
Snout Otter Clam
Strawberry Top
Incised Moon
Sparse Dove
False Cup-and-Saucer
Leather Donax
Shuttlecock Volva
Striped Engina
Tricolor Niso
Triangular Nutmeg
Shoulderblade Sea Cat
Woody Canoebubble
Ghastly Miter
Heavy Bonnet
Tuberculate Emarginula
Lazarus Jewel Box
Unequal Bittersweet
Atlantic Turkey Wing
Happy writing!

Friday, April 18, 2014

A Ruba'i

"And now for our prompt (optional, as always). Today I challenge you to write a ruba’i. What’s that? Well, it’s a Persian form — multiple stanzas in the ruba’i form are a rubaiyat, as in The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Basically, a ruba’i is a four-line stanza, with a rhyme scheme of AABA. Robert Frost’s famous poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening uses this rhyme scheme. You can write a poem composed of one ruba’i, or try your hand at more, for a rubaiyat. Happy writing!"

[Although one could argue this is also almost a limerick, here is my attempt to write a ruba'i stanza]


Good Friday

Why do they call it Good Friday today?
My curious children want me to say,
So I tell them why, today Jesus died,
Instead, they decide to call it Bad Friday.

-Laura Freeman-
April 18, 2014

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Lights out - some Senryus

a quiet humming
bisects the silence rudely
the computer sings

whispers down the hall
interrupt concentration
children still awake

the fridge murmurs
steadily it's icy tune
the kitchen buzzes

a cough, a hush
the artificial silence
disturbing the peace

she craves the quiet
but gets instead night time noise
the house is alive

-Laura Freeman-
April 17, 2014

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Mommy Lies

"And now for today’s prompt (optional, as always). After yesterday’s form-based prompt, today’s will hopefully be somewhat easier to get into. This prompt is from Daisy Fried, and the basic idea is to write a ten-line poem in which each line is a lie. "

Mommy Lies

Yes, that tutu looks good atop your pants,
Yes, I would like to see your made-up dance,

I like the lovely mug you made with clay,
I'll take it to work and use it every day,

I'm not annoyed,, that stain will wash right out,
It barely shows, I didn't mean to shout,

Yes, I would love to read that book once more,
And play with your toys for hours on the floor

Yes, of course Santa brought you that teddy bear,
Yes, he also brought the socks and underwear!

It isn't gross, it's special, just try it please,
It's orange and white because it's giraffe cheese,

The tooth fairy didn't forget to come last night,
She couldn't break a twenty, give it up, alright?

Don't sit so close to the t.v. or you'll go blind,
Too many video games will rot your growing mind,

I don't know how that baby got in my tummy,
She just decided that I would be her Mommy,

You ask so many questions, and that's not bad,
But Mommy doesn't know, so please go ask your Dad!

-Laura Freeman-
April 16, 2014