Much about Spring

Much about Spring
has already been said
by poets greater than I am.

So, I only want to ask this about Spring:
how does a mother dove
make a nest
to withstand
wind gusts
of over
fifty
miles
per hour?

And when
it blows
apart,
why does
she risk
her life
to rebuild
it?

Oh,
I know:
she is
a
mother.

More than an Obituary for Ginny Dobbs

More than an Obituary for Ginny Dobbs (based on the 4/8/18 obituary of Genevieve “Ginny Dobbs/Steed-Gideon, Arizona Daily Star)

Ginny and Tom had a dream and ran a motel by that name, Dream House.  Still located on Miracle Mile, back in the late 1940s it pulled in a steady stream of road trippers.  Maybe a few babies were made on the bed sheets Ginny washed and dried; maybe a few lovers hid behind the curtains she sewed.

When the freeway was built, the motel income faded along with the bed sheets and curtains.  So Ginny and her husband turned to other small businesses; they always ran them smart.  Tucson was a growing town and folks needed furniture and cars needed repairs.  When the repairs couldn’t keep cars running, a wrecking yard stocked with vehicles, broken concrete and spooled wires was the next venture for Ginny and Tom.

Gifted with a business mind, bouncy smile and sparkling eyes, Ginny could warm the hearts of customers and sometimes charm them with freshly baked goods.  After her Tom died, Ginny kept busy with cooking, sewing, and tending grandchildren.  Never one to be idle, she managed the family businesses and became an admissions clerk at St. Mary’s Hospital.

She lived a long life of ninety-four years.  Probably not a remarkable woman in a large sphere of life, but her face in the local paper’s obituary column pulled me in and my eyes set on the pearls in her ears, and the pearl strand around her neck.  Maybe her husband gave her that matching set for an anniversary gift.  I can see her touching them like a rosary before she put them on for church or special occasions.  They would be precious to her for decades, but now they lie in a green velvet box, in a drawer, covered, like a shroud, by one of her pressed cotton handkerchiefs.

Betweens

This poem was written in response to a Poets & Writers 7/21/17 prompt to look at a photograph from a recent trip and write a poem that "explores the distance between your current self and the photograph, and between an image and a feeling or memory." I visited my birthplace town and home for twenty-one years, Elgin, Illinois in May of this year, taking photos of my first home and my dad's sister's home.  It is dedicated to Linda Sjurset Esposito, who lived across the street from me in Elgin, Illinois.  Her birthday is today 8/29/17.

My first Fonte-Dice home on Melrose, Ave., Elgin, Illnois.  It is a Sears & Roebuck Craftsman house.

Sjurset-Fonte home on Melrose Ave., Elgin, Illinois

My home on Melrose Avenue,

almost two thousand miles away

and sixty-two years ago--

I remember mom, 

standing over the porcelain kitchen sink, 

straining red berry juice through white cheesecloth.

She is to busy too play with me,

so I wander outside,

dragging my Buster Brown shoes

over the newly-mowed grass,

up to the border 

of the street-forbidden-to-cross.

I gaze longingly

at the black asphalt

and spy my cousin sitting on the steps 

in front of her house.

We wave at each other, 

our late summer smiles

bridging the boundaries

between us.

Two poems written at Rincon Market plus one

These are in the format of a "tricube": 3 syllables, 3 lines, 3 stanzas.  Thanks to Writer's Digest 9/2016.

Two Poems written 4.28.17 (while the Sawmill Fire burns SE of Tucson)
1.
The cookie
crumbles is
the saying.

It means life
falls into
parts, not whole.

So live it
in moments
not decades.

2.
The wind blows
ashes from
the valley

Where flames fly
grasses burn
horses run.

It is Spring:
white poppies
bend, break, burn.


Poem written 8.21.16 (late summer in Tucson)

The grey stone
rolled over
the mountain.

Silver clouds
trailing the
gentle winds

A monarch
flutters as
rain ripples.

Reckoning

This poem was written in response to the March/April Writer's Digest Poetic Asides description by Robert Lee Brewer for the poetic form:  dizain.  The form requires 10 lines, with 8-10 syllables the rhyme scheme of ababbccdcd.  This was fun for me to do and I was surprised by the message that emerged, as indicated in the title of the poem.

It was Easter morning at my house
Neighbors bringing berries and wine,
Our gray cat sleeping like a mouse.
He is imagining the first time
He tries to catch one on a day so fine
As this--when the sun shines, church bells ring.
I put aside what tomorrow will bring:
More of the same or a fanfare of fear?
When will the rocks begin to sing?
When will the mad crowds begin to cheer?

Paterson-inspired Poems

A few Lines

Butterflies settle on her stone ear.

They flutter against her cheek.

She sits against a cool wall

in the warm spring sun.

Yellow flowers border the wall.

Wind blows, flower stems bend.

Butterflies scatter.

NOTE:  The first line (with pronoun change) is attributed to "Paterson" by William Carlos Williams.

The Movie

In the theater,

dark lights

and the rustle 

of a tissue as

tears fall.

Friends and Lovers

The story shows

people at the neighborhood bar, 

playing pool or chess.

Two lovers argue

in the dim corner.

Outside, and English bulldog

puts his paws on the sidewalk

and sleeps.

In the End

He opens the blank book

to small possibilities

written in pen.

The water falls

on the other side

of a rusty chain link fence.

Two "Reset" Poems

(from Writer’s Digest December prompts) 12.3.16 by acfonte

Reset Uno

Nothing is quite right today. It started with the porch light blinking in the dark—

A response to a feral cat, blustery breeze or errant footsteps?

Unsettling, my dreams were dotted with

Faces from the ashen past, names from an afternoon movie.

In the morning, my toast burned.  I put too much water in the plant pot

And water spilled to the concrete floor.

At the gym, as I bicycled in place,

My muscles trembled and heart fluttered.

Then, at the café,

My sample coffee was too sweet,

The room temperature shifted from heat to ac and back again,

My orange sweater was tight.

Finally, I laughed at the poetry prompt to “reset.”

Okay, so I have.

Can I get off that bicycle now?

Ovillejo: Reset Deux (a Spanish poetry form)

How can I stop trembling in place?

It takes less space.

I practice my balance with care,

Arms high in air.

Like a cactus of certain age,

Nature’s green sage.

She offers me another stage

Where fear is quiet and hope is high,

So I grab hold as faith flies by—

It takes less space, arms high in air, Nature’s green sage.

All Soul's Day 2016

Note to readers:  I did post a short new poem yesterday on http://www.facebook.com/anitacfonte if you want to read that one.  Here is the one I wrote a couple of weeks ago in response to a Poets & Writers Prompt to "write a poem that joyfully honors a loved one who has passed away..."

Mom loved to bake
and so did her mother--
sugar cookies with 
cherries at the center, 
butterscotch brownies
with coconut and walnuts.

One of the bakers is buried
on a hill in northern Illinois.
The other's ashes in a
brass urn under 
rocky desert.

In due time, 
I will take a few of those ashes, 
sprinkle them on 
the hill in Illinois, 
where
cornfields sway in the wind
and black crows caw
at dusk.

Bagging gold for the cold days to come

Bagging gold for the cold Days to come (last line of the poem "Neighbors in October" by David Baker.

Bagging gold for the cold days to come,
I picked up the leaf just fallen from the tree.
Like browned butter, but crisp,
it folded into my hand,
curling in the afternoon sun.

A day later, it is as delicate
as tissue paper and flutters on
a red book in my hallway
as I open the front door.

It will blow away someday,
fall on the floor and
crumble into dust.

Sweetwater Haiku

Sweetwater scenes on
Sunday morning: ducks,
trees, fallen leaves on pond.

Sunday Starbucks poem

Success (an erasure poem based on a Sunday Sports story from the NY Times)

A little more than three years ago,

The man

Told her the future.

The man seemed

An unlikely clairvoyant.

His predictions

Stuck—

Distinctly outlandish:

A romantic rise,

A cash-filled corporate push.

On Sunday:

The future,

Exactly as predicted,

Has arrived. 

Honolulu's Beach Walk Haiku: A Mall on the Streets

Watching people pass.
Each one with a tale
to tell, carried in a bag.

Honolulu hype--
The beach is hidden by stores
Where no soul can shine.

It's about money.
Everything has a high price--
even the sandy beach.

For rent:  chairs, bikes with
floating wheels, shade umbrellas,
mats, boats, snorkeling gear.

But some time past:
Taro fields hugged the waters,
Stars danced in the sky.

Missing Maui

Missing Maui

One day later,

I miss Maui:

The hotel cats on the lush lawns,

The sunset hulas,
guitar music with breezes from the sea.

We walked and talked,

Admiring the aquamarine blanket of water,

The pillowing sand covering our feet

As the tide came in,

Out.

Our son caught sun,

Drank in his fill,

Opened and closed,

Opened again like a flower

On the Golden Shower tree.

We, too, found singular

And coupled rhythms.

And, like the sea,

We ebbed and flowed--

A rhythm we can carry

home.

Something Silly: Two Summer Poems

Finding Dory

[Response to Poets & Writers Prompt, 7/7/16—write a poem about a blockbuster summer movie]

Dory repeats,

Circles,

Splashes,

Jumps in and out of sea water and fresh water--

A blue and yellow bird with fins.

Along her journey—

Her friends never desert her or

Want her to change her ways.

Dory never gives up.

She repeats,

Circles,

Splashes….

Popcorn Snow

[Response to a prompt: the snow is falling but those are not snowflakes]

It’s a topsy-turvy land.

Trees grow with

Russet roots spreading upward into a

Gingham sky.

Children touch velvet clouds,

Sleep in hammocks perched on pillows of purple grass.

Winter brings rain of glistening pearl drops

And

In summer,

Hills are covered with popcorn snow.

June Road Trip and "found" poem

At Starbucks: Haiku

Grab something: yum, yum—

The icy side of cold brew.

A splash for summer.

Road Trip to La Encantada

My Saturday tasks are done.  Time for a bit of fun and mingle among the foothills crowd for a summer road trip.  Up and down curvy Campbell Avenue, I easily find a parking spot.  The moneyed class is in California or Colorado and Tucson’s plebes benefit on the less trafficked streets and open parking lots.

AJ’s is air-conditioned chilliness and bustling with kids in soccer shorts, punk teens with studs in their tongues, and seniors cradling shivering Schnauzers in baby strollers.  I head straight for the “grab and go” counter and buy a slice of vegetable pizza.  In the shade and under misting sprinklers, I am at a table by a fountain and potted blue flowers.  Picking the onion off the cheese, the pizza is savory, but dry from too long under the heat lamp.

Sucking on a dessert chocolate with sea salt, I go for a mini-shopping spree and leave Crate & Barrel with a cruet rubber stopper and a single glass from Italy that fits precisely to my hand.  Up the escalator to browse in a bohemian clothing store.  I pick a bar of soap on sale that is wrapped in pink paper and smells of peonies. When I use it at home, I will be reminded of my mom who loved her late spring peonies that grew in our Illinois back yard.

Succumbing to the temptation of clothing racks on sale, I find a light cotton blouse that could match a navy pair of linen pants I already have.  I have never ventured into the dressing area before and am surprised to be greeted by Angela who asks my name.  I wonder why she wants to know my name, but see that, as I tell her, she writes it on the small blackboard sign on a dressing room door that, for the moment, belongs to me.  The blouse “fits” in the style of summer-loose, but it is beyond my weekly budget.  Indulge: yes or no?  Well, I am alone all week and no one to scold me, so I decide to buy it, too.  As I give Angela the clothes hanger she waves me to the treat table: lime-flavored water and tiny chocolate cupcakes topped with a red raspberry.  I sip the water and skip the cupcake.

After my purchases, I decide: enough!  It’s time to head down the hill and go to Starbucks to write.  So, with a smile and a song from Keith Urban, my Subaru glides through the turns and I savor my Tucson townie road trip on a Saturday in June.