First of all fellow Floridians, do not fear. The sun is shining today and no hurricane warnings are upon us. But it’s August, and we all know the next two months can be dicey at times. Dangerous weather damages Florida communities every year. As an Orlando resident, I’m fortunate to live in an area that hasn’t experienced the wrath of very many hurricanes. The worst storm I can remember happened in 2004 when Charley came through.
Still, I’m aware of the tough times communities encounter when their power is out for days. This poem, entitled A Cruel Joke of Nature is dedicated to you.
I’ve always been a goal driven person. I set expectations for myself and work hard even though I’m retired. Give me a block of time and I’ll fill it up. Yet, if you ask me what I’ve been doing often I can’t remember. I do know this; I haven’t cleaned house very much.
As you are probably already aware, I love to write. Even if I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. Building a following for this blog has been my passion. I believe it’s important to try post something each week and I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read my stories. Many of my posts involve research, interviews, and digging through personal photos. Now it’s July and the calendar is telling me its time to breathe in. Breathing in means taking time to seek inspiration.
Today I’m sharing a poem I wrote awhile back entitledAchievement.
Slick rock beneath my feet,
hands fixed on sympathetic boulders,
I fight to gain traction and climb.
My heart rate elevates with the altitude.
Gasping for breath,
I reach the summit and revel in my achievement.
The vista reveals a sandstone canyon.
A painter’s palette
of deep reds, tawny yellows, and burnt oranges fill the horizon.
Each layer of rock illustrates a chapter in “Earth’s Biography.”
Far below, the author continues to write.
the mighty Colorado River
snakes back and forth in a quest for sea level.
It too, pushes against obstacles,
but creates a masterpiece.
And I am silent.
I’m sure you agree that nothing man creates compares to the beauty of God’s creativity. Until next time…
Last week I received a beautiful card in the mail for my birthday. The sender recognized my affinity for nature and knew my favorite colors. The card meant a lot to me. Each year, as my birthday draws nearer, I tend to reminisce a little about past birthdays.
When I was a child I didn’t like the fact that I was born in June. Usually school was out for the summer. My school friends were often away on vacation. Sometimes my family would be on vacation as well. Even so, one birthday memory stands out from all the rest.
My tenth birthday was celebrated at a campground in the Smoky Mountains. As a family, we were busy living the camp life and I thought my birthday would be ignored. Boy was I surprised when out of nowhere my mom presented me with a cake. We were miles from a store or a bakery, and she had no oven in our little trailer.
Children always look forward to their birthdays with excitement. They feel as they grow older, each year brings new freedoms. Their parents might consider them old enough to care for a pet, date, drive, or eventually move out.
All of us keep birthday traditions. Our celebrations include a cake with candles, the song, “Happy Birthday,” and making a secret wish before blowing out the candles. If we don’t blow out all the candles with one breath, our wish will not come true.
But how many of us remember all the wishes we’ve made? I guess if we did, we wouldn’t tell anyone about it. After all they were all secret wishes.
As the years roll on.. birthdays are no longer a rite of passage. And by the time we enter our retirement years we would rather slow life down instead of speeding it up.
Women especially, go through a lot of inner turmoil about growing older. We experience a season of not wanting anyone to know our age. When I hit sixty I didn’t care anymore. On good days I feel proud that I can still do many of the things I’ve always done. At other times I use my age as a reason to excuse myself from activities I’d rather not do. I no longer feel a burning desire to spend a whole day at a theme park.
Last year I wrote a poem about turning 64, entitled…
This week’s post combines two of my great loves, poetry and travel. Many of our past family vacations included sight-seeing in the western United States. The juniper trees of Canyonlands inspired me to write The Time Trav’ler. This poem received first place in the 2015 Florida Tapestry Contest. A year later The Time Trav’ler was published in Time of Singing , a journal of Christian poetry.
While visiting Canyonlands I learned some juniper trees have lived for a thousand years. Their twisted and gnarled branches survived centuries of harsh winds and extreme changes in temperature. I was intrigued by a juniper’s half-dead/half-alive appearance. Its dark green foliage sprouted from branches that looked like pieces of driftwood. The tree emitted a sweet fragrance, and delighted my senses as I hiked in the high desert.
Juniper trees do not exceed thirty feet above ground. Two-thirds of the tree grows underground forming an extensive root system in search of water. Somehow a juniper thrives in areas that only receive seven to nine inches of rainfall a year. Junipers are common on the rocky mesa tops and ridges of Utah.
Canyonlands was inhabited two thousand years ago by ancestral Puebloan tribes who farmed maize, beans and squash. Living in villages similar to those in Mesa Verde, Colorado, the ancient Pueblos carried water from the Green River below to their gardens at the top of the canyon. If a one thousand year old juniper could talk it might tell us what it has seen on its travels through time. My illustrations for The Time Trav’ler were taken at various locations throughout Utah, Colorado, and Arizona.
The Time Trav’ler by Debra Burton (2015)
Old Majestic Juniper
green needles for a crown
saw a thousand years go by
upon this piece of ground.
He saw the highland Pueblos
ascend the rocky cliffs
with earthen jars of water
each drop a precious gift.
Below his dark gray branches
small creatures made their bed
and from his juicy berries
coyotes often fed.
Old Juniper heard miners
shout curses at their mules,
encumbered with provisions
and clanging metal tools.
He heard the wheels of wagons
roll at a steady pace.
Steered by the early settlers
with dangers yet to face.
The old tree heard the hoof-beats
of mustangs running free.
Pursued by eager cowboys
in faded dungarees.
One day his lower branches
were clothed with calico.
A signal for the work crew
which way the trail should go.
Tourists come to Canyonlands
to see this patriarch,
take photos with their smartphones,
reach out and touch his bark.
Time trav’ler of the ages
mute watchman of mankind
a sentinel restricted
but doesn’t seem to mind.
Old Majestic Juniper
green needles for a crown
saw a thousand years go by
upon this piece of ground.
You can read more of my poems from the Southwest through these links to previous posts: The Secret of the Cereus and Rhyolite. I wish to acknowledge the members of Word Weavers Orlando who assisted me by critiquing my work. For those who read my blog through Facebook, scroll up to the menu button to access additional pages.
“Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.” Carl Sandburg Atlantic Monthly, March 1923
In case you forgot, April is National Poetry Month. During the month of April flowers bloom and butterflies flutter. What a great time of year to recognize the significant contribution of poetry to our world. Maybe you haven’t given this art form much thought. Maybe you enjoyed reading poetry in school, but currently read novels instead. Maybe you don’t feel like you understand what some poets are trying to say. If you agree with any or all of these statements, please consider the following benefits of reading poetry.
Poetry helps readers grow intellectually. It teaches us to simplify complex ideas through the use of symbolism and imagery. As we read we draw a mental picture of what the poet sees.
When we engage with the emotions of the poet, we develop empathy. If we identify with the experiences of other people, we better understand ourselves.
Poetry infuses life with beauty and meaning, which increases our creativity.
Take a few moments to access these links. In her poem, Hope is a thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson compares hope to a bird that never makes demands. Shel Silverstein grapples with the secret world of dialogue known to caterpillars in his poem, Forgotten Language. William Wordsworth elevates his mood by contemplating daffodils in his work, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.All of these poems connect with the reader’s emotions through the appreciation of nature. These poets make new discoveries as they ponder the small things which are often overlooked in the hustle and bustle of life.
Writing poetry is a vehicle for artistic self-expression. Who I am, what I think, and my experiences are communicated by showing instead of telling. The poet paints with words, like an artist paints on canvas.
In his book, How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry, author Edward Hirsch refers to poetry as a message in a bottle. After the message is cast into the ocean, it drifts onto the beach waiting to be opened. The finder is the one the message was trying to reach. Once the finder opens it, words spill out from a distant place and time, yet still rich with meaning.
The following poems are my messages in a bottle. Cast out upon the waves, may these words reach the finders they are seeking.
For My Brother
As night fell in the desert
We stretched out on our cots,
Saw distant constellations
Whose titles we forgot
Viewed streaks of falling stars
Pulled down by gravity
Like fleeting dreams of childhood
Which never came to be.
The howl of a coyote
Made such an eerie sound.
It cautioned all outsiders,
“I will defend my ground.”
We whispered to each other
And felt a tinge of fright
Like children telling stories
When Dad turned out the light.
(Debra Burton 2015)
A Hapless Hero
Flutter of butterflies hover on the scene.
Arizona thistles bow before each queen.
Flutter of butterflies crowned in orange and white,
Seated on their purple thrones surrounded by the light.
Flutter of butterflies lift your scepters up.
Raise the royal chalice, drink deeply from the cup.
A River Poem is displayed on a plaque above the Hillsborough River. The author is anonymous. From this spot people can see rapids as they bubble around outcroppings of Suwannee Limestone. I love the depth of meaning in the poem’s simplicity. Life’s not hard for a river. It creates beauty in the process of overcoming obstacles.
The Hillsborough River flows through Hillsborough State Park on its course to the Gulf of Mexico. Recently Herb and I walked the River Rapids Trail with our dog, Buddy. The scenery is quite beautiful.
The path meanders along the river bank through forests of ancient cypress trees. The tree pictured below is estimated to be four hundred years old.
Although its base is hollow, the tree is still alive. Some scientists think the stumpy looking knees around a Cypress tree serve as anchors in soft muddy soil. The knees also carry oxygen to the roots. I’ve heard the taller the knees, the higher the water has risen around the tree. The base of this tree is probably underwater during the rainy season.
On our walk I noticed a significant amount of poison ivy on both sides of the trail.
Doesn’t it look pretty? These leaves of green terrify me! I’m very allergic to this wicked weed and suffer for weeks if the oil gets on my skin. So not only did I need to keep my eyes on the path, I needed to make sure our dog wasn’t walking through it. So far so good. Whew!
Unfortunately, I was so focused on watching my feet, I missed something. Herb sighted a bobcat running across the path ahead. I think I’d like to see a bobcat, but on second thought I might get scared and try to escape by running through poison ivy. Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
Back to the peaceful river… further down the path we noticed a couple kayaking.
As they paddled closer, instead of looking calm and relaxed, they seemed anxious. They had good reason to be.
The river provides a wonderful habitat for alligators. I photographed this fine specimen basking in the sun on the opposite bank. Once I saw the gator, I realized I was not brave enough to kayak or canoe here. I could appreciate the river better from where I was standing. As long as I wasn’t standing in poison ivy, of course.
Since we were camping at Hillsborough State Park, we had another day to explore. We visited Fort Foster. This historic site is a replica of the original fort which was built to house supplies for U.S. soldiers during the Second Seminole War, 1835-1842.
The fort also protected the only bridge in the area that crossed the Hillsborough River. One thing the government didn’t consider, the bridge also made it easier for the Seminoles to cross the river from their camps on the opposite bank. A few skirmishes happened here, but more casualties occurred from insect related diseases.
Inside the stockade fence, the fort contained a canon, an officers quarters, an infirmary, and a supply building.
The fort could not accommodate the 305 soldiers assigned to the post. Most of them camped outside the fence in palmetto sheds. During the summer of 1836 the fort was abandoned due to unhealthy living conditions. The troops returned in October, to guard the supplies kept at the fort. Eventually the Seminoles were pushed further south to the Everglades.
The Hillsborough River… an inspiration for poets, a habitat for plants and animals, and a source of history. Like the poem states… “a living river of possibility.”