Tag Archives: poetry

King Copper Book Review

Lauren Scott, King Copper: Our Dog’s Life in Poetry

Lauren Scott’s love of her family’s beautiful chocolate lab, Copper, shines in this sweet little volume of photographs and poems that follow their lives together from adoption day on. In her words, King Copper is “a poetic account of the joy that arises when a lovable chocolate lab walks into your life and changes it forever. And the eventual heartache you feel when he crosses over the rainbow bridge thirteen years later and still too soon.”

What a touching account, and what a testament to the glorious impact our beloved pets have on our lives. If only all dogs—all pets—were as well loved and appreciated as the delightful lab Lauren writes so poetically about, the world would truly be a better place. Brava to Lauren for giving her beloved Copper a tribute worthy of his beauty and goodness! Did it make me cry a bit? Absolutely. But tears shed over the loss of a dear dog are never wrong. There is nothing purer than a dog’s affection and devotion. Copper wasn’t my dog, but I, too, have loved wonderful dogs. Like Lauren and her family, I know our animal companions deserve our deepest affection in return for the many gifts they give us. Part of the price for that gift is the same as it is for anything we open up our hearts to fully—the possibility, even the probability that one day there will be pain and loss.

But as Lauren so aptly says, “We celebrate his life- those soul-searching eyes that connected to us- we were links in a golden chain and now one link is missing, our golden boy- each day tears follow like a shadow- the shadow he was, but smiles gently find their place because he is in our hearts, because joy needs room to simmer.”

You can visit Lauren’s blog at baydreamerwrites.com.

http://lscotthoughts.wordpress.com

46 Comments

Filed under Authors, Books, Commentary, Loss, poetry, Reading

The Sun Sparkles on the Brook

Big Creek, Austin, Nevada, US

Stained ivory marble glimmers at the edge of the woods

Silent graves behind a rusty fence

Water murmurs in a nearby brook

So small So sweet So Young

A pool of minnows

A mother’s tears

Silver flashes of life

And a blanket of tangled vines, thorns, pink roses

Seek the sun and the angel

Roots curve lovingly around a box lined with satin in the cold earth below

Little bones

Buried in the cold earth below

And the sun sparkles on the brook which speaks softly, softly

A lullaby as it gentles on its way

Soothing the mother now resting next to her child

Buried in grief

Bones reach for bones

And the sun sparkles on the brook

Casting diamonds and tears across the surface

Warming the earth

Descending to the grave

Rising to the heavens

Where the child plays in golden endless days

Hold on hold on hold on to your faith

Austin Cemetery. Austin, Nevada, US. Photos are my own.
I wrote this poem as a kind of meditation. In deeply dark times, I search for faith, comfort, and beauty. I pray for the children.
In peace and love, Lori. 2025

26 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized, Writing

Polished Maple Tables

An early picture of our old house, before renovation.

One of the most enjoyable writing exercises I’ve done lately comes from a biographical poetry template based on a poem by George Ella Lyon. I came across it on Jeannine Quellette’s brilliant Substack, Writing in the Dark. The exercise is familiar to me in a distant way, as though perhaps I’d done it before but lost it. Or perhaps it suited me perfectly this past week because I have been contemplating writing memoir and fictionalized biography, so it seems as though I always had it—a poem about beginnings, and the echoes still heard, the lessons still being learned.

Thank you, Jeannine Quellette, for sharing the lesson! You can visit Jeannine’s website and read her poem, “From Chickweed to Ash,” here: https://writinginthedark.substack.com/p/from-chickweed-and-ash.

Here is my version:

Polished Maple Tables

I am from polished maple tables

From Pall Malls and Folgers

Green grass, Blue water, the whoosh of wind and wings

Flocks of seagulls

I am from Lilies of the Valley, Bleeding Hearts, Lake Michigan’s endless sand and waves

I’m from World War II, Ramblers, and Divorce

From Rachel and Frederick and William and Lorene

From Rae and Bill

I’m from long car rides and listening to albums on the stereo

From Mr. Wonderful and Stop Crying and What did you learn in school today?

I’m from no church, lost pets, and rented houses.

From a mother who scoffed at religious people

And a father who blamed organized religion

For the world’s woes.

But I’m also from Christmas trees and baking cookies, from bunnies and Easter baskets.

And I’m from the hand-written prayers I found in my father’s bedside table when he died.

I’m from Chicago and Kenosha

From Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota

From Scots called Johnstone, and Swedes called Nelson

From ground beef casseroles, navy bean soup, and sour cream raisin pie

From Great Aunt Mary who broke up with her beau when he jumped into a fountain,

Never to wed, who lived with her sister Lorene’s family and then mine until The Divorce when she

Was sent back to Chicago to an old folk’s home

And Mother was hospitalized

I am from women who sewed and worked in libraries

and who cooked and cleaned other people’s houses.

And from men who sought love and adventure and worked on farms and in factories.

I am from Midwestern barefoot summers and sea glass and wandering the West

Restless and yearning for polished maple tables and a place to call home.

                                                                                                             RLP, 2025

If you would like to write your own “I Am From” poem, here is the template. Use it as a springboard. Jump in and adjust it to suit. I hope the writing brings you joy, or something like joy, which is sometimes as simple as finding a way to express the inexpressible past.

Blessings! And please share your poems in the comments!

Kenosha, Wisconsin

                                                          Template: I Am From

I am from ________________ (specific ordinary item)

From ____________ (product name) and _____________ (product name)

____________ (adjective), ______(adjective), _________ (sensory detail)

I am from _____________ (plant, flowers, natural item)

_______________________________________ (description of above item)

I’m from ______________ (family tradition) and _____________ (family trait)

From ___________ (name of family member) and ______________ (another family member)

I’m from the _______________ (description of family tendency) and ________ (another one)

From ______________ (something you were told as a child) and _________ (another)

I’m from __________________ (representation of religion or lack thereof), __________ (further description)

I’m from ___________________ (place of birth and family ancestry)

_______________________ (a food that represents your family), ___________ (another one)

From the ___________ (specific family story about a specific person and detail).

Dad, Lori, and Billy

Early Days in Kenosha

Thanks for visiting! Wishing you all good things. With Love, Lori

40 Comments

Filed under Family, Personal History, poetry, Relationship, Uncategorized, Voice, Wisconsin, World War II, Writing

Identity

“We grow, regress, get stuck, fragment, hide, and find ourselves over and over again.” – Audrey Stephenson, Psychotherapist.

Learn!

Dear Ones,

Today’s readings and my own writing are themselves fragments struggling to find growth. I began by looking at my query status on Query Tracker. Added another rejection to the list. Okay. Next I wrote a short chapter in a new manuscript, one that I do not love in the way that I love the finished one I haven’t found an agent for. It’s hard to fall in love with a new manuscript sometimes. For me, anyway. I am sentimental, perhaps.

To escape, I ventured outside to the laundry room, which is separated from the main house by only a few feet, thinking I would do some productive laundry readying for my work week which begins tomorrow, Tuesday, which is quite wonderful right?–not on Monday, dreaded Monday–but on Tuesday, which I have to be grateful for. And I am. So, a little laundry, and then back to writing, I thought. Until I spotted the giant bug on the laundry room door. Yes, the Mormon crickets are still upon us here. Clearly a sign not to do the laundry.

Then I wrote in long hand–natural left-handed cursive usually brings me back to myself. Maybe even always when I spend enough time there. Today’s topic in my guided journal was Soul Searching: The quest to unlock one’s true self is an ongoing process, because we’re changing all the time (Breathe Journal, c2023. Guild of Master craftsman Publiscations Ltd. http://www.breathemagazine.co.uk. 72-3). Here are two of the prompts given in the journal and my responses:

  1. *Observe every aspect of your surroundings–from the bed you sleep in, to the transport you use. Things around you can shine a light on how you interact with your environment and indicate what you believe about yourself. What do you notice?

Sue’s pillow

Me: My bed must be clean and bright, soft and matchy-matchy- and made! Looking around me: Polished wood. Sunlight. Windows. Plants. Crystal. Books. Lois’s quilt. Photos. Art. Candles. Sue’s pillow. Baskets. Listening to music…

Lois’s quilt

(After I finished, I noticed I didn’t observe “the transport” I use. I could take a picture of my feet, which is what I try to use the most, but we don’t have a mani-pedi salon in Austin. Then I thought of my dear Jeep, Joni Blue. She’s not new, but she’s paid for, and she’s taken us to many beautiful places. She’s currently outside with the crickets, so I will not be going outside to take her picture.)

2. *Breathe. You will be astonished by how often you hold your breath. Just notice. Drop your shoulders, stretch your neck, allow your abdomen to soften. Breathe. Notice what comes up as you come back to yourself and jot down any thoughts. 

Me: This is one of the best gifts I learned way back in Lamaze childbirth class and years later in yoga–the magic loosening and lightening of the body and mind through the breath. Surpisingly, I still forget to practice it, often until I am panicked. I need reminders.

Time to breathe

For today, perhaps this enough. Two hours of dedicated writing, reading, journaling, and blogging. If it doesn’t feel good enough, perhaps it’s because “we grow, regress, get stuck, fragment, hide, and find ourselves over and over again,” and that’s all part of the progress.

Wishing you growth and rest, a room of your own, and the company of good souls. I’d love to hear what you’re working on, or not working on, or dreaming about. Thank you for reading, following, and commenting on my blog. Fondly, Lori

18 Comments

Filed under Identity, Publishing, Uncategorized, Writing

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells] by Alfred, Lord Tennyson – Poems | poets.org

american – The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and…
— Read on poets.org/poem/memoriam-ring-out-wild-bells

This poem popped into my head as I was ringing the bell at St. George’s Episcopal Church in Austin, Nevada this morning. It’s a gothic revival style historic church and we ring the bell by pulling a thick, knotted rope. It takes a surprising amount of effort to get it started, but there’s something very satisfying about it. Some of my students from the class of 1999-2000 may remember a poetry project we did that December–Ring Out Wild Bells for a new millennium. Lovely memories.

2 Comments

Filed under Memories, New Year's, Teacher

A Poem For My New Protagonist

*Mary Miller’s Broken Villanelle

 

She lay curled up on her susceptible side

          Aware that the hand that Signed the Paper filled a city

       Shackle-married to a ghost of war and manly pride

 

 Her brother’s love of bourbon not quietly set aside

Mountains of gray-green rock imagination and pity

 She lay curled up upon her side to hide

 

 Independence sold gladly for lust and feminine pride

 The lavender edged pond trailing hidden paws of kitties

 Shackle-Married to a ghost of war and manly pride

 

A fine suddenness of perception nearly compromised- near lost inside

 Her place in the bed dust-filled and gritty

 She lay curled up on her not as susceptible side

 

 Aware alert to a polished dying of the firelight beside

Her youth and a dimly realized truth sacrificed for war’s false pretty

Still married to a ghost of war and manly pride?

 

Along a Rim of World high and far above the tide

One and then another great pile of bodies scuttling behind the jetty

She lay curled up, contemplating, waiting, deciding

 

                   Not long perhaps if ever married to a ghost of war and manly pride

                                                                  Free to float

                                                                         Free

                                                               Beyond the jetty

 

  *A found poem in the villanelle style created incorporating some of the words of Virginia Woolf, T.S. Eliot, and Dylan Thomas.  This poem is written about the protagonist of a novel I’m currently working on set in Lake Arrowhead, CA and London, England during World War II.

 ©Rachel “Lori” Pohlman, Twin Peaks, CA, July 2013

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized