How have we weathered bad presidents? It has really poured on some people Like Andrew Jackson and the "trail of tears" The Cherokee Nation did not weather a bad president
It has really poured on some people 4000 of 16000 died on the "trail of tears" The Cherokee Nation did not weather a bad president We weathered Ronald Reagan...didn't we?
4000 of 16000 died on the "trail of tears" Why did it happen, it was so sad We weathered Ronald Reagan...didn't we? He, so afraid of anti gays, he sat back and watched
Why did it happen, it was so sad Reagan watched as 650,000 Americans died of Aids He, so afraid of anti gays, he sat back an watched Did we weather Reagan, can we weather Trump?
Reagan watched as 650,000 Americans died of Aids He didn't lift a finger to help Did we weather Reagan, who will weather Trump? People who have never had to be afraid of the storm
He didn't lift a finger to help like Andrew Jackson and the "trail of tears" People who have never had to be afraid of the storm How have we weathered bad presidents?
Yes, yes, yes!!! Time for political poems. And of course the repetition of presidents totally fits a pantoum. My only problem is with the line "He, so afraid of anti gays," It should just be "He, so afraid of gays," He wasn't afraid of the people who were against gays, he was homophobic.
He wants to be a weather man he wants to be a child psychologist Austin goes to college while going to high school he thinks he's gay but, he's a virgin
He wants to be a child psychologist but he studies the weather and watches for storms He thinks he's gay but, he's a virgin he has storms in his head when he tries to decide
but he studies the weather and watches for storms and studies children who have come to harm He has storms in his head when he tries to decide so much confusion causes a tornado in his brain
and studies children who have come to harm because of the rape he experienced as a child so much confusion causes a tornado in his brain he rains tears for others like himself
because of the rape he experienced as a child and before mom died he watched the weather all the time he rains tears for others like himself so confused in the drought of years to come
and before mom died he watched the weather all the time Austin goes to college while going to high school so confused in the drought of years to come He wants to be a weather man.
I liked the first poem, especially, and the second one aroused my sympathy for the young man, especially with the repetition which emphasizes his dilemma. The first one, echoes what my husband says, we have weathered bad presidents before and we will again because this is a great country above all.
Yes, I guess we have had some other bad presidents. I didn't know that history. I was glad to read your poem, Linda. I love the repetition of the pantoum form.
Linda - following up on what I wrote down below. I like both of these poems very much. They do some good things. But each line is a thought unit. That's one way of composing a line, but it's not the only way. Look at Victoria's pantoum, for example. She has a line like
wheezes through my open window. The air conditioner
which has no complete thought units. It has the end of one unit, then it stops, then it starts a new thought unit but doesn't finish it.
my escape into worlds where redheaded girls were heroes.
is a complete thought unit.
like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain. A wet smell
has a complete thought unit in the middle of it. But when she repeats the line
like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain, the wet smell
it doesn't. So the line has a whole different feeling.
I went looking for this poem, which was my VERY FIRST EVER PANTOUM about 15 years ago, after contemplating the form for a few months. But in my search I discovered that I apparently have written a LOT of poems involving rain. I may post a few more as well as try a weather poem that may, or may not, have anything to do with rain. LOL
DROUGHT
I wait for rain. Heat rises to my 3rd floor apartment, wheezes through my open window. The air conditioner upstairs condenses water. Dripdrips. Drip. Dripdripdrips. Drips like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain. A wet smell
wheezes through my open window. The air conditioner does not break my cloudy mood, make me feel fresh, release me like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain, the wet smell fills my senses with memories of other summer days.
My cloudy mood does not break. Release me. Make me feel fresh. Drip, dripdrip, drip drip dripdripdrip dripdrip drip drip. White noise fills my senses. Memories of other summer days on the porch deep into my library book. The background
dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip, white noise, my escape into worlds where redheaded girls were heroes. On the porch deep into my library book, the background raised voices, broken glass, fist against flesh silenced. I made
my escape into worlds where redheaded girls were heroes, lived their lives happily ever after without bruises of raised voices, broken glass, fist against flesh. Silenced, I made own life, never was a hero, never was the one who
lived my life happily ever after, without bruises. Upstairs, water condenses, drips. Drip dripdrip dripdripdrips my life. Never was a hero, never was the one who… I wait for rain. Heat rises to my 3rd floor apartment.
I love this!!!! I remember the third floor apartment. This poem is so deep and sad. I loved the repetition of the word "drip" I can almost hear it!! The imagery of the broken glass and the raised voices and the fist against flesh really added dimension. Great pantoum
Linda, Actually this was a different 3rd floor apartment, in the Colt building in Hartford. It was a former gun factory converted into an artists' community. My then poetry publishing company got me in. If you look at the picture here, my apartment was the one with the a/c in the window. I know it looks like the 2nd floor but there's a basement level you can only kind of see. http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get2/I0000M1dVNAZmS3w/fit=1000x750/AB-020608-M19-Colt-Building.jpg
This one involves a bunch of different weather, so it even fits the prompt better. The strange part is that the DROUGHT poem was written in CT, and now there is drought here in TN.
HARD RAIN a 5/4 poem
The pond overflows again, gravel, scatters down to the road. We wonder how high the grass will
grow before Karl can mow the yard again. The places I live seem to bring cliches to life.
In Texas, summer sun, relentless, literally beat down, my shoulders and back bent with the weight.
Up north in Connecticut I could not see past my headlights in fog thick as pea soup.
Here in Tennessee we watch because a hard rain's gonna fall today, fall again tomorrow.
Weather is so diversified all over the country. I can picture the pond over flowing and the grass getting so flooded that you couldn't mow and I've lived in the Texas sun....you described it well!!! And fog as thick as pea soup is around here from time to time. Now you are in Tennessee with the rains. It rains in Oregon, too. I mean all winter. Ask Joe about the rains. lol Very vivid poem.
Linda and I have been to so many states that we have experienced all types of weather. Your poem does a good job of expressing some of them. I liked this poem a lot.
Yes, I love the 5/4 form. It's been one of my favorite forms since you invented it. Gives the feel of free verse while actually being in a strict form.
Ah, a sad poem fitting a sad situation, except that it's not sad that you re still with us! So glad of that. This oovely poem is so you, thanks for the sharing.
sad but lovely villanelle. It's my birthday today and supposed to go up to 70* but then we're getting hit with snow....you know Erie. Shorts one day and Parkas the next. LOL.
this poem is so sad. I see that it's called a villanelle. Linda is going to teach me all the form poetry she knows. She is going to start with the pantoum. I can't wait.
This is from a sequence about a young woman, the daughter of a modestly successful jazz musician, who has left her husband and is trying to figure out who she is, mostly using jazz as a conduit to her inner self. When I went to find this one, I realized that weather actually plays a part in a couple of the others, but I'll go with this:
THE WEATHER CHANNEL
A front of warm air reached our region around noon today. During the afternoon, it will ooze on in, probe with sticky, eighty degree fingers, so that, she supposes, she could drive in and out between yesterday’s clammy cold and the oozing certainty of muggy heat, like a county with local option on daylight saving, or the sound from her rain-drenched speakers, a few bars of Hank Mobley’s reassuring bebop, then silence. She imagines the missing solo, how Wynton Kelly might have picked it up, brought it to where the sound kicks in again. Lee Morgan is a harder read. Lost, she moves inside to the weather channel. The front is squatting now, threatening impossibly heavy storms—or did he say possibly heavy storms? A guy calls, she met him last week. He just wants to make sure she has candles on hand. Hurricane lanterns are better. She asks him if he could fill in the missing parts of a Hank Mobley solo. Sure, he says. How about Lee Morgan? Sure, he says. Him too. No, you couldn’t, she says.
And if anyone is interested, this poem is contained in a new chapbook, SHE TOOK OFF HER DRESS: Poems inspired by jazz and eros, with drawings by Nancy Ostrovsky.
Free form is as hard for me as form style poetry. I have my own way of writing free form. But yours is so professional. I realize you were a teacher of college level poetry. I have tried to write like you but it always reverts back to my own version of free form. Yours tell full stories and connect so well. I will figure it out.
Knowing Tad, I will be there is some sort of form to the poem. He is the one who taught me that writing a poem with no form is like building a house with no plans. The form may be something totally off the wall or whatever, but a form.
This really is free verse -- or what I call accentual free verse. Accentual verse counts the number of accented syllables in a line, but it doesn't have regular metric units, like iambics -- da-DA. So the line feels sort of regular, but not exactly regular. When I write a poem like this one, I'm not really counting anything, but most of the lines have three accented syllables. But all of them...actually, the lines probably vary between three and five stresses. So you can either say it's a free verse line, or an accentual line with some variations.
It would be pretty hard to read "probe with sticky, eighty degree fingers" as a three-stress line. It has four or five stressed syllables, at least. Well, let's look at a few -- this process is sort of instinctive, and I don't actually count stresses when I'm writing.
A FRONT of warm AIR reached our REgion around NOON toDAY. DURing the afterNOON, it will OOZE on IN, probe with STICKy, EIGHTy degREE FINgers, so THAT, she supPOSes, she could DRIVE in and OUT between YESsterday’s CLAMmy COLD and the OOZing CERTainty of MUGgy HEAT,
So that's 3,3,3,4,3,4,4 - and that's just the way I'm hearing it. Because it's not a regular meter, there's no exact way of counting it.
Here are a few suggestions for writing free verse, and they're just suggestions - everyone finds her/his own way.
Write complete sentences -- fragments tend to make the poem fall apart.
Have a general feeling about how long the line should be. If it feels clunky, maybe go back and count the accented syllables in the line -- or your sense of the accented syllables -- and think about whether the line would be better with an accent less, or an accent more (generally less).
Make sure you don't fall into regular meter. You want to keep that looseness and that unexpected quality to your line.
Remember that a free verse poem can have two kinds of units - the line and the grammatical (or ungrammatical) sentence. Balance the two. Don't make every line a complete sentence, but don't make every line a fragment, either.
If none of these ideas work for you, don't use any of them. They're just suggestions, like prompts.
After a storm the heart is soft for a while, is tender. Weathering toughens the outside as it softens the inside— is this paradox created by love to improve our tolerance?
We weather the crisis, the suicide, the long dying the loss of love, the doom of expectations and we grow more patient and more kind because we know how it feels, how it all feels.
We discover compassion and the love that keeps on giving; when we don't feel sorry for ourselves we discover a well that draws not from self, but from never ending Source and slakes the thirst of those who come to drink
Those who have weathered many storms do not need a safe harbor. They face wind and rain with the knowledge that all is well. In some way that cannot logically be explained, they know life will go on, grief dwindle with time; and the sorrow that does not pass becomes more tolerable as it becomes a source of strength.
Though this is not a new poem, I felt it deserved publishing here because it asked me to, to be honest. In addition I will post a fresh one as well, however this one wanted to be here so...
How have we weathered bad presidents?
ReplyDeleteIt has really poured on some people
Like Andrew Jackson and the "trail of tears"
The Cherokee Nation did not weather a bad president
It has really poured on some people
4000 of 16000 died on the "trail of tears"
The Cherokee Nation did not weather a bad president
We weathered Ronald Reagan...didn't we?
4000 of 16000 died on the "trail of tears"
Why did it happen, it was so sad
We weathered Ronald Reagan...didn't we?
He, so afraid of anti gays, he sat back and watched
Why did it happen, it was so sad
Reagan watched as 650,000 Americans died of Aids
He, so afraid of anti gays, he sat back an watched
Did we weather Reagan, can we weather Trump?
Reagan watched as 650,000 Americans died of Aids
He didn't lift a finger to help
Did we weather Reagan, who will weather Trump?
People who have never had to be afraid of the storm
He didn't lift a finger to help
like Andrew Jackson and the "trail of tears"
People who have never had to be afraid of the storm
How have we weathered bad presidents?
Yes, yes, yes!!! Time for political poems. And of course the repetition of presidents totally fits a pantoum. My only problem is with the line "He, so afraid of anti gays," It should just be "He, so afraid of gays," He wasn't afraid of the people who were against gays, he was homophobic.
DeleteHe wants to be a weather man
Deletehe wants to be a child psychologist
Austin goes to college while going to high school
he thinks he's gay but, he's a virgin
He wants to be a child psychologist
but he studies the weather and watches for storms
He thinks he's gay but, he's a virgin
he has storms in his head when he tries to decide
but he studies the weather and watches for storms
and studies children who have come to harm
He has storms in his head when he tries to decide
so much confusion causes a tornado in his brain
and studies children who have come to harm
because of the rape he experienced as a child
so much confusion causes a tornado in his brain
he rains tears for others like himself
because of the rape he experienced as a child
and before mom died he watched the weather all the time
he rains tears for others like himself
so confused in the drought of years to come
and before mom died he watched the weather all the time
Austin goes to college while going to high school
so confused in the drought of years to come
He wants to be a weather man.
I liked the first poem, especially, and the second one aroused my sympathy for the young man, especially with the repetition which emphasizes his dilemma. The first one, echoes what my husband says, we have weathered bad presidents before and we will again because this is a great country above all.
DeleteYes, I guess we have had some other bad presidents. I didn't know that history. I was glad to read your poem, Linda. I love the repetition of the pantoum form.
DeleteAustin will make something of his life. He is really trying hard and he will eventually weather his storm and make his decisions. Super poem.
DeleteI liked this too, and I sort of think Linda had it right -- the fear of offending a pressure group.
DeleteLinda - following up on what I wrote down below. I like both of these poems very much. They do some good things. But each line is a thought unit. That's one way of composing a line, but it's not the only way. Look at Victoria's pantoum, for example. She has a line like
Deletewheezes through my open window. The air conditioner
which has no complete thought units. It has the end of one unit, then it stops, then it starts a new thought unit but doesn't finish it.
my escape into worlds where redheaded girls were heroes.
is a complete thought unit.
like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain. A wet smell
has a complete thought unit in the middle of it. But when she repeats the line
like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain, the wet smell
it doesn't. So the line has a whole different feeling.
I went looking for this poem, which was my VERY FIRST EVER PANTOUM about 15 years ago, after contemplating the form for a few months. But in my search I discovered that I apparently have written a LOT of poems involving rain. I may post a few more as well as try a weather poem that may, or may not, have anything to do with rain. LOL
ReplyDeleteDROUGHT
I wait for rain. Heat rises to my 3rd floor apartment,
wheezes through my open window. The air conditioner
upstairs condenses water. Dripdrips. Drip. Dripdripdrips. Drips
like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain. A wet smell
wheezes through my open window. The air conditioner
does not break my cloudy mood, make me feel fresh, release me
like rain. Or more like some gross pretense of rain, the wet smell
fills my senses with memories of other summer days.
My cloudy mood does not break. Release me. Make me feel fresh.
Drip, dripdrip, drip drip dripdripdrip dripdrip drip drip. White noise
fills my senses. Memories of other summer days
on the porch deep into my library book. The background
dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip dripdrip, white noise,
my escape into worlds where redheaded girls were heroes.
On the porch deep into my library book, the background
raised voices, broken glass, fist against flesh silenced. I made
my escape into worlds where redheaded girls were heroes,
lived their lives happily ever after without bruises
of raised voices, broken glass, fist against flesh. Silenced, I made
own life, never was a hero, never was the one who
lived my life happily ever after, without bruises.
Upstairs, water condenses, drips. Drip dripdrip dripdripdrips
my life. Never was a hero, never was the one who…
I wait for rain. Heat rises to my 3rd floor apartment.
I love this!!!! I remember the third floor apartment. This poem is so deep and sad. I loved the repetition of the word "drip" I can almost hear it!! The imagery of the broken glass and the raised voices and the fist against flesh really added dimension. Great pantoum
DeleteMost interesting how it all comes together and the repetition surely fits the subject!
DeleteLinda, Actually this was a different 3rd floor apartment, in the Colt building in Hartford. It was a former gun factory converted into an artists' community. My then poetry publishing company got me in. If you look at the picture here, my apartment was the one with the a/c in the window. I know it looks like the 2nd floor but there's a basement level you can only kind of see. http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get2/I0000M1dVNAZmS3w/fit=1000x750/AB-020608-M19-Colt-Building.jpg
DeleteIf this was your "very first ever pantoum" then I would say bravo!!! I really liked it a lot! I'm still too timid to try it. But someday...
DeletePaul, I should have said "very first ever FINISHED pantoum." I did try several that failed and ended up in the recycle bin.
DeleteI love this poem, and always have.
DeleteThis one involves a bunch of different weather, so it even fits the prompt better. The strange part is that the DROUGHT poem was written in CT, and now there is drought here in TN.
ReplyDeleteHARD RAIN
a 5/4 poem
The pond overflows
again, gravel,
scatters down to the road.
We wonder
how high the grass will
grow before Karl
can mow the yard again.
The places
I live seem to bring
cliches to life.
In Texas, summer sun,
relentless,
literally beat
down, my shoulders
and back bent with the weight.
Up north in
Connecticut I
could not see past
my headlights in fog thick
as pea soup.
Here in Tennessee
we watch because
a hard rain's gonna fall
today, fall
again tomorrow.
Weather is so diversified all over the country. I can picture the pond over flowing and the grass getting so flooded that you couldn't mow and I've lived in the Texas sun....you described it well!!! And fog as thick as pea soup is around here from time to time. Now you are in Tennessee with the rains. It rains in Oregon, too. I mean all winter. Ask Joe about the rains. lol Very vivid poem.
DeleteI really liked the feeling this poem gave me, and I felt as though I was experiencing what you experienced as I read it. Thanks!
DeleteLinda and I have been to so many states that we have experienced all types of weather. Your poem does a good job of expressing some of them. I liked this poem a lot.
DeleteIs this a 5/4 syllabic poem? Neat.
DeleteYes, I love the 5/4 form. It's been one of my favorite forms since you invented it. Gives the feel of free verse while actually being in a strict form.
DeleteSometimes it's stormy,
ReplyDeletewhether we like it or not.
You have to live with it,
'cuz it's all we've got.
Sometimes it's nice
and others its bad.
But, it's not the end all,
for that I'm glad.
We have a choice,
to stand in the rain,
or step inside,
to relieve our pain.
Sometimes you want to,
feel that it's through.
Really the choice,
is all up to you.
I love the good weather,
but it's not always nice.
Even on hot days,
your heart can feel like ice.
Whether you're pleasant,
or if you're mean.
Or if you're pure,
or act obscene.
Sometimes weather's your choice,
you can let your mind free.
In the final analysis,
it's up to you and me.
Maybe I'm right,
maybe I'm wrong.
I can always write it down,
in a heart felt song.
It's your choice,
and that's OK.
My wish for all of you,
is to have a happy day!
LOL. I wish we could control the weather. I'd like to see you expand your horizons poetry-wise and try some of those forms you keep commenting on.
Deleteseasons...
ReplyDeletethey tell me it's cold outside
the weather is changing
it's turned into fall
no change of seasons
inside the room I call home
they tell me it's cold outside
as they come in with sweaters on
long sleeves as the seasons change
it's turned into fall
no leaf changes in my room
autumn center pieces are on the tables
they tell me it's cold outside
the room feels chilly at times
I pull my covers up
it's turned into fall
my roommate is always cold
even when the summer sun warms the room
they tell me it's cold outside
yet the sun still shines
the leaves are still green
it's turned into fall
but the seasons are all the same
inside the building - inside the room
it's turned into fall
they tell me it's cold outside
Ah, a sad poem fitting a sad situation, except that it's not sad that you re still with us! So glad of that. This oovely poem is so you, thanks for the sharing.
Deletesad but lovely villanelle. It's my birthday today and supposed to go up to 70* but then we're getting hit with snow....you know Erie. Shorts one day and Parkas the next. LOL.
ReplyDeletethis poem is so sad. I see that it's called a villanelle. Linda is going to teach me all the form poetry she knows. She is going to start with the pantoum. I can't wait.
ReplyDeleteLook for this book. "Rules for the Dance" by Mary Oliver. The best book on form I have ever read.
DeleteI agree.
DeleteThis is from a sequence about a young woman, the daughter of a modestly successful jazz musician, who has left her husband and is trying to figure out who she is, mostly using jazz as a conduit to her inner self. When I went to find this one, I realized that weather actually plays a part in a couple of the others, but I'll go with this:
ReplyDeleteTHE WEATHER CHANNEL
A front of warm air reached our region
around noon today. During
the afternoon, it will ooze on in,
probe with sticky, eighty degree fingers,
so that, she supposes, she could drive
in and out between yesterday’s clammy cold
and the oozing certainty of muggy heat,
like a county with local option on daylight saving,
or the sound from her rain-drenched speakers,
a few bars of Hank Mobley’s reassuring bebop,
then silence. She imagines the missing solo,
how Wynton Kelly might have picked it up,
brought it to where the sound kicks in again.
Lee Morgan is a harder read. Lost,
she moves inside to the weather channel.
The front is squatting now, threatening
impossibly heavy storms—or did he say
possibly heavy storms? A guy calls,
she met him last week. He just wants
to make sure she has candles on hand.
Hurricane lanterns are better. She asks him if
he could fill in the missing parts of a Hank Mobley solo.
Sure, he says. How about Lee Morgan?
Sure, he says. Him too.
No, you couldn’t, she says.
And if anyone is interested, this poem is contained in a new chapbook, SHE TOOK OFF HER DRESS: Poems inspired by jazz and eros, with drawings by Nancy Ostrovsky.
Free form is as hard for me as form style poetry. I have my own way of writing free form. But yours is so professional. I realize you were a teacher of college level poetry. I have tried to write like you but it always reverts back to my own version of free form. Yours tell full stories and connect so well. I will figure it out.
DeleteKnowing Tad, I will be there is some sort of form to the poem. He is the one who taught me that writing a poem with no form is like building a house with no plans. The form may be something totally off the wall or whatever, but a form.
DeleteThis really is free verse -- or what I call accentual free verse. Accentual verse counts the number of accented syllables in a line, but it doesn't have regular metric units, like iambics -- da-DA. So the line feels sort of regular, but not exactly regular. When I write a poem like this one, I'm not really counting anything, but most of the lines have three accented syllables. But all of them...actually, the lines probably vary between three and five stresses. So you can either say it's a free verse line, or an accentual line with some variations.
DeleteIt would be pretty hard to read "probe with sticky, eighty degree fingers" as a three-stress line. It has four or five stressed syllables, at least. Well, let's look at a few -- this process is sort of instinctive, and I don't actually count stresses when I'm writing.
A FRONT of warm AIR reached our REgion
around NOON toDAY. DURing
the afterNOON, it will OOZE on IN,
probe with STICKy, EIGHTy degREE FINgers,
so THAT, she supPOSes, she could DRIVE
in and OUT between YESsterday’s CLAMmy COLD
and the OOZing CERTainty of MUGgy HEAT,
So that's 3,3,3,4,3,4,4 - and that's just the way I'm hearing it. Because it's not a regular meter, there's no exact way of counting it.
Here are a few suggestions for writing free verse, and they're just suggestions - everyone finds her/his own way.
Write complete sentences -- fragments tend to make the poem fall apart.
Have a general feeling about how long the line should be. If it feels clunky, maybe go back and count the accented syllables in the line -- or your sense of the accented syllables -- and think about whether the line would be better with an accent less, or an accent more (generally less).
Make sure you don't fall into regular meter. You want to keep that looseness and that unexpected quality to your line.
Remember that a free verse poem can have two kinds of units - the line and the grammatical (or ungrammatical) sentence. Balance the two. Don't make every line a complete sentence, but don't make every line a fragment, either.
If none of these ideas work for you, don't use any of them. They're just suggestions, like prompts.
I do like the way your poem fits together. I had fun reading it. It even reads well aloud.
ReplyDeleteWeathering
ReplyDeleteAfter a storm
the heart is soft for a while, is tender.
Weathering toughens the outside
as it softens the inside—
is this paradox created by love
to improve our tolerance?
We weather the crisis,
the suicide,
the long dying
the loss of love,
the doom of expectations
and we grow more patient and more kind
because we know how it feels, how it all feels.
We discover compassion
and the love that keeps on giving;
when we don't feel sorry for ourselves
we discover a well
that draws not from self,
but from never ending Source
and slakes the thirst of those who come to drink
Those who have weathered many storms
do not need a safe harbor.
They face wind and rain
with the knowledge that all is well.
In some way that cannot logically be explained,
they know life will go on,
grief dwindle with time;
and the sorrow that does not pass
becomes more tolerable
as it becomes a source of strength.
Though this is not a new poem, I felt it deserved publishing here because it asked me to, to be honest. In addition I will post a fresh one as well, however this one wanted to be here so...
ReplyDeleteHere is a senryu series on the subject
ReplyDeleteWeather or Not
Weather permitting
I rejoice in the sunshine
and hang out my clothes.
Otherwise I must
hang them out in the hallway
using laundry racks.
Why not the dryer?
Because my clothes will all shrink
plus it costs too much.
What matters to me
is whether or not sun shines
my clothes will be dry.
Couldn't resist the pun, alas.
ReplyDelete