This odd little place is in my neighborhood just a few blocks from my house.. I wrote about the St. Therese statue earlier this week Here are a few more photos…
This photo montage is in response to Jacqueline’s (a cooking pot and twisted tales) call for echoes of our neighborhoods.
I have a busy day tomorrow so I’m posting poetry month, day 20 a day early. The Minute Poem is a rhyming verse form consisting of 12 lines of 60 syllables written in strict iambic meter. The poem is formatted into 3 stanzas of 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4 syllables. The rhyme scheme is as follows: aabb, ccdd, eeff.
While on my way to work this morning a strange storefront caught my eye, in particular the statue in the window. I knew I needed to stop by on my way home to explore it a bit more.
It is a strange, verging on creepy, little place. A small sign on a side window says it’s a Catholic museum. The statues and relics contained within share the space with lawn chairs, debris and dust.
I couldn’t help feeling a bit nostalgic, remembering the unfailing devotion of my grandmother who attended Novena Masses every morning and taught me to believe in the mystical and miraculous.
Odd as it all was, I felt blessed by those memories of my childhood and embraced in grace.
Even there behind a pane of glass, surrounded by piles of junk and buried under layers of dust…even there, miracles are possible.
Here then is my Minute Poem…
NOTE: I had mistaken the identity of this lovely “lady”. She is, in fact Saint Therese of Lisieux. So…to be accurate, I have tweaked the poem. It doesn’t change the meter or the mystical quality. A rose by another name is still sweet. ❤
Storefront Saint
Hail fair Lady full of woe
no votive’s glow
to warm your feet
here on Fifth Street.As weary travelers pass by
none catch your eye
lacking vision
for apparitions.Strange Storefront Saint Therese, you wait
bestowing grace
upon the few
who notice you.~kat – 20 April 2016
Happy Sunday and Happy 10th day of Poetry Month. Today’s poetry form is a perfect blend of left and right brain…the poem itself, a blend of elements, seasons, earth and sky. It is the perfect poetic storm…at least in my own mind! And you will recognize an old friend, my fairy tree lady.
Because she was so near an oak tree when I first noticed her, I assumed that she was an oak sapling. But this spring I discovered she is, in fact, a dogwood tree!
Serendipitous! Don’t you think? What better form could there be, but the Fibonacci…expanding cyclically into infinity! The whole idea of it makes me smile!
A Fibonacci Poem is a 6-line poem that follows the Fibonacci sequence for syllable count per line. It is expandable if you are mathematically inclined…alas, I am not. So I will stick to the basic form. But for those who want to give the expanded version a try, I’ve included the equation sequence to give you a start! The standard version syllable sequence is 1-1-2-3-5-8. The expanded version is calculated as such:
0+1=1
1+1=2
1+2=3
2+3=5
3+5=8
5+8=13
8+13=21
13+21=34
and so on and so forth…to infinity and beyond
Here then is my take:
Photo Credit: Kat Myrman 2016
She
whose
bare limbs
weathered winter,
now adorns herself in
a flowing gown of dogwood blooms.
kat ~ 10 April 2016
Today’s poetry form: Free Verse
* Free verse poems have no regular meter and rhythm.
* They do not follow a proper rhyme scheme as such; these poems do not have any set rules.
* This type of poem is based on normal pauses and natural rhythmical phrases as compared to the artificial constraints of normal poetry.
* It is also called vers libre which is a French word.
I often write free verse at 3 am mid-REM. This is one of those brain-flushing poems, particularly poignant for me. Free form is my raw unfettered side with no boundaries to keep me from spilling out. Its form title, “FREE Verse” echoes the soul of this particular piece. Both of my parents suffered from severe, undiagnosed, untreated mental illness. Each eventually ended their own life to silence the madness. I have chosen life. The lunacy stops with me. I am free.
Childhood Crazy
He was obsidian in a naugahyde recliner,
a red hot cigarette tip, heavy with ash, suspended in the blank space between us,
Inconsolable shell of burdensome flesh smoldering in silence,
clock ticking, refrigerator humming, faucet dripping,
Sepia Jesus scowling from the frame on the wall.
He was white deafening noise.
A dizzy streak of laser precision, constructing pyramids of tin,
preoccupied with aliens, reincarnation and escape plans,
dismantling, rebuilding, obsessing over the unfitted, left-over parts,
ever seeking the subtle smiling approval of happy, golden-haloed Jesus.
Terrifying and thrilling, monster and superhero,
doomsdayer, naysayer, cheerleader, dragonslayer,
fragile broken parent figure, angel, demon, candle burning at both ends.
A short-fused powder keg, self-combusting,
disillusioned by fickle wishy-washy Jesus, pulling a trigger to end the pain.
His poison festers in my cells, lethal shards of DNA,
catching waves of white and crimson coursing through my veins, settling in my brain.
A childhood refrain of mania to gloom, neglected, undiagnosed crazy.
Daddy, if we had only known, we might have saved you.
Consoled with pharmaceuticals, severing the chain…at least I can save myself.
kat ~ 2 April 2016
I realized this morning, as I gazed at my barren flower bed, its parallel to Easter and Spring’s awakening.
Death of unruly weeds and a sweeping of rocks and debris was necessary to ready the bed for planting. It required pulling up some deeply imbedded roots of certain weeds who disguised themselves in delicate, colorful blooms, hiding their malevolent intent to choke, encroach and overtake my beautiful garden. If I left even a hint of root behind, my garden would be at risk. Just to be safe, once the soil was sufficiently churned, a barrier was laid and new enriched top soil was added to prepare for new seeds and plants. Of course, there is still a bit more to do, and keeping the weeds at bay is a daunting task, but it is a necessary step to give my beautiful garden its best chance to thrive.
My soul is like a garden. It is affected deeply by nature, the changing of seasons, the light and darkness, the raging tempests and gentle rains, sunrises and sunsets, the clear open blue canopy, the subtle embrace of foggy bottoms, the star-speckled night sky.
As I look at the empty flower bed of my soul, especially on this Easter weekend, I am reminded of the despair and revelation of humanity’s dark nature that led to death, but I am also filled with a sense of hope for the new life that is promised to me if I am faithful.
When darkness overcomes me, I know I should pause to reflect. Is my current circumstance a result of happenstance? It is true some things just happen. Or is it a debacle of my own doing? The latter, if I’m open to considering it, requires a bit of work. Like my garden bed, my soul must be swept of weeds, taking care to remove the roots. The soil of my soul will likely need a bit of churning. It will take a conscious effort on my part to employ the barriers required to prevent any weed remnants from rising again to choke out my best intentions. And it will also take laying a new foundation of “soil”.
My life has the potential to be a beautiful garden! To be a light and a blessing. As I consider the hope of Easter and Spring’s promise, I embrace the new life that grace affords me today and every morning!
Peace, grace and life in all its magnificence to you! May you thrive in beauty!
-kat
like mercury colliding... 