#acrostic — Public Fediverse posts

TIL the track names on the Batman Begins soundtrack form an #Acrostic. If you take the first letters they spell VEM BATMAN MCL. "Vem" is Portuguese for "Come" or "He comes" and "MCL" is Roman Numerals for 1150. This clearly points to the next Batman film being set in the Middle Ages.

praying for rain

Perhaps the seedlings were better off inside,

Really. She's never sure what's best for them,

All down the years trying peat pots, blocks,

Yanking down flats from storage, penciling markers,

Ingratiating herself with baked soils,

Now trying perlite, vermiculite, moss,

Getting out lamps and heaters, rotating flats,



Fighting intruding snails, mice and rats

Or even knotweed, and bindweed

Running its tendrils up through brick.



Right now, she wishes she hadn't hurried.

All her helpless babies in cracked clay!

If it doesn't rain tonight, she tells herself,

Never again shall I call April May.

waiting for the rain to stop

While watching forests comb those wet bellies,

All grey and louring, of the heartless clouds,

I wondered how the heavy earth breathes

Thus more than dampened, more than drowned

In so much rain. The very snails could gasp,

Nudging toward such daylight as they might,

Grudged them by the endless drops, dropping.



Fear for my crops, standing in chill pools

Or bent, prostrated, shambled, lying left and

Right, I feel, yet not enough to go and see.



There are tree branches, if I go, ready to pull

Hair, poke eyes, and shower me to my skin,

Every direction, along each path and bed.



Running streamlets ease a darkening land

All river-bound, discovering the slightest slope,

Inland being anathema to them,

No place like home, their wide and welcoming sea.



There all streams meet, mingle, and play.

Ocean the lowest place, where rain may end in



Stillness some times, or leap about, yet bounded.

There it may stop awhile, then one day mist forth

Over the waves and shores, plains and mountains

Putting forth life and death again, a cycle.



-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #dyptich #seasons #weather #drought #climate #homesteading #gardening

praying for rain

Perhaps the seedlings were better off inside,

Really. She's never sure what's best for them,

All down the years trying peat pots, blocks,

Yanking down flats from storage, penciling markers,

Ingratiating herself with baked soils,

Now trying perlite, vermiculite, moss,

Getting out lamps and heaters, rotating flats,



Fighting intruding snails, mice and rats

Or even knotweed, and bindweed

Running its tendrils up through brick.



Right now, she wishes she hadn't hurried.

All her helpless babies in cracked clay!

If it doesn't rain tonight, she tells herself,

Never again shall I call April May.

waiting for the rain to stop

While watching forests comb those wet bellies,

All grey and louring, of the heartless clouds,

I wondered how the heavy earth breathes

Thus more than dampened, more than drowned

In so much rain. The very snails could gasp,

Nudging toward such daylight as they might,

Grudged them by the endless drops, dropping.



Fear for my crops, standing in chill pools

Or bent, prostrated, shambled, lying left and

Right, I feel, yet not enough to go and see.



There are tree branches, if I go, ready to pull

Hair, poke eyes, and shower me to my skin,

Every direction, along each path and bed.



Running streamlets ease a darkening land

All river-bound, discovering the slightest slope,

Inland being anathema to them,

No place like home, their wide and welcoming sea.



There all streams meet, mingle, and play.

Ocean the lowest place, where rain may end in



Stillness some times, or leap about, yet bounded.

There it may stop awhile, then one day mist forth

Over the waves and shores, plains and mountains

Putting forth life and death again, a cycle.



-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #dyptich #seasons #weather #drought #climate #homesteading #gardening

she knows

She knows the weeds will win. Sometimes, at night,

Hearing them grow in her dreams, she'll wake, grasp

Even in her two hands, a phantom thistle, or



Knotweed, errant blackberry, or teasel.

Now not able to turn and sleep, she'll rise, throw

On her robe, and step out into night;

Walking the way the slim moon shows her,

She throws aside her garden gate and listens.



There might be corn and tomatoes chatting,

Having about as much to say as farmed things.

Even a whisper among the kales and chard --



Whatever such things say. Beyond are beds

Ensnarled in dock, barnyardgrass, bindweed,

Everlasting buttercup crowns.

Dire straits; but there's no sound there.

She knows they're biding their time,



Watching for her sudden return, sickle

In hand, fire in eye, seed packets in mind.

Level them, they fear she means to, or

Leave roots drying in summer sun.



Well, that's tomorrow. She turns now; steps

Into her lightless house. She'll give this up

Not soon, yet knows how it must end.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #entropy

she knows

She knows the weeds will win. Sometimes, at night,

Hearing them grow in her dreams, she'll wake, grasp

Even in her two hands, a phantom thistle, or



Knotweed, errant blackberry, or teasel.

Now not able to turn and sleep, she'll rise, throw

On her robe, and step out into night;

Walking the way the slim moon shows her,

She throws aside her garden gate and listens.



There might be corn and tomatoes chatting,

Having about as much to say as farmed things.

Even a whisper among the kales and chard --



Whatever such things say. Beyond are beds

Ensnarled in dock, barnyardgrass, bindweed,

Everlasting buttercup crowns.

Dire straits; but there's no sound there.

She knows they're biding their time,



Watching for her sudden return, sickle

In hand, fire in eye, seed packets in mind.

Level them, they fear she means to, or

Leave roots drying in summer sun.



Well, that's tomorrow. She turns now; steps

Into her lightless house. She'll give this up

Not soon, yet knows how it must end.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #entropy

clearing the knotweed

Commonly, this is done with herbicide.
Leery of that, she tried a chain saw. That was
Easy enough, but made fumes and sets fire to
All the earth's air over time. Electric clippers
Ruled the roost awhile, but that, we know,
In the scheme of things is but a longer tailpipe,
Neither the labor direct nor personal. She's
Going to have to simplify further. She takes

The hand pruner with her to the patch. It means
Her time in blighted shade, bending, will be
Extended, reaching to each stem in turn,

Killing with a snip and twist, dragging four or five
Not so much weeds as small trees outward
Or upward from the dry wash, toward hot sun,
Toward the roasting garden, into the paths
Where they'll be tossed as instant mulch
Entreating the drought to respect their shade,
Entreating irrigation not to evaporate,
Dimming, in sacrifice, the roving eye of Death.


--shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading #climate

clearing the knotweed

Commonly, this is done with herbicide.
Leery of that, she tried a chain saw. That was
Easy enough, but made fumes and sets fire to
All the earth's air over time. Electric clippers
Ruled the roost awhile, but that, we know,
In the scheme of things is but a longer tailpipe,
Neither the labor direct nor personal. She's
Going to have to simplify further. She takes

The hand pruner with her to the patch. It means
Her time in blighted shade, bending, will be
Extended, reaching to each stem in turn,

Killing with a snip and twist, dragging four or five
Not so much weeds as small trees outward
Or upward from the dry wash, toward hot sun,
Toward the roasting garden, into the paths
Where they'll be tossed as instant mulch
Entreating the drought to respect their shade,
Entreating irrigation not to evaporate,
Dimming, in sacrifice, the roving eye of Death.


--shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading #climate

three deep breaths

Three deep breaths, palms together,

Here in her room, or elsewhere, she may

Rise and take. A habit she has formed,

Even as most of her ideas, ideals,

Even her so cherished findings, hard found,



Deducted, inducted, reasoned, debated, polished,

Even those most like faith, as taught her,

Even those most like science, measured, observed,

Peeled one by one: a human desert, she.



By three deep breaths, she centers somehow: how?

Reality itself a question she's no longer asking,

Eating and sleeping themselves provisional.

All she bothers to call caring is now to listen

To breath, room sounds, outside sounds, to

Her friends, their worries unpacked, their voices

Spending both hope and pain. She bows.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #ritual

three deep breaths

Three deep breaths, palms together,

Here in her room, or elsewhere, she may

Rise and take. A habit she has formed,

Even as most of her ideas, ideals,

Even her so cherished findings, hard found,



Deducted, inducted, reasoned, debated, polished,

Even those most like faith, as taught her,

Even those most like science, measured, observed,

Peeled one by one: a human desert, she.



By three deep breaths, she centers somehow: how?

Reality itself a question she's no longer asking,

Eating and sleeping themselves provisional.

All she bothers to call caring is now to listen

To breath, room sounds, outside sounds, to

Her friends, their worries unpacked, their voices

Spending both hope and pain. She bows.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #ritual

she has work to do

She has work to do, establishing
Her anchor threads, her frame threads,
Even her bridge thread and all her radii,

Hub to be ready by dawn, herself resting --
All-powerful, so far as any lacewing can
See. Seeking out the ripest berries, she

Works not to eat drupelets, but entirely to
Offer them as bait to fruit flies and their ilk.
Right away along comes another
Killer, a ladybird beetle, seeking the berries

Too, and for the same reason. He's caught,
Offers resistance, is overwhelmed, rolled up,

Done. Whatever comes in, if protein, her
Ovum will accept. Death it is brings life.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #arachnidae

she has work to do

She has work to do, establishing
Her anchor threads, her frame threads,
Even her bridge thread and all her radii,

Hub to be ready by dawn, herself resting --
All-powerful, so far as any lacewing can
See. Seeking out the ripest berries, she

Works not to eat drupelets, but entirely to
Offer them as bait to fruit flies and their ilk.
Right away along comes another
Killer, a ladybird beetle, seeking the berries

Too, and for the same reason. He's caught,
Offers resistance, is overwhelmed, rolled up,

Done. Whatever comes in, if protein, her
Ovum will accept. Death it is brings life.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #arachnidae

where are the potatoes

Where are the potatoes, she wondered, watching

Heat shimmer across her corn block, its leaves

Each rustling against other, turning brown.

Right here they were planted, next bed over,

Evenly spaced, in two long lines, eyes up



And covered in soft soil, mixed with compost --

Really exactly as she had done these fifty years.

Early next morning, she reached for her mason's hammer,



The experiment with the spud hook having failed, and

Heaving her old bones down onto her gardening stool

Exactly at the end of that mysterious weedy bed;



Pulled block after block of solid hexagonal clod

Over, busting up each as she went, feeling for

That coolness she knew as round starch balls

All her life she'd depended on. It's not

That she hadn't watered and weeded, no,

Or fought those gophers well, newly arrived.

Earth could not drink for once, it seemed.

Some spuds appeared. They were even



Smaller than those from last year. Some felt

Hollow. Some were cracked. Some were

Even green with poisons though they'd grown



Well deep enough never to have seen sun.

Oh, well, she thought, I'll take what I can get;

Now we'll have barley for every other soup, with

Dandelion to help stretch out my kale. This

Earth, she told herself, never did all,

Really even in days of rain. Barley I bought.

Ere I go forth from here as buried flesh or ash, I'll

Do as I have done: work with what is.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #drought

where are the potatoes

Where are the potatoes, she wondered, watching

Heat shimmer across her corn block, its leaves

Each rustling against other, turning brown.

Right here they were planted, next bed over,

Evenly spaced, in two long lines, eyes up



And covered in soft soil, mixed with compost --

Really exactly as she had done these fifty years.

Early next morning, she reached for her mason's hammer,



The experiment with the spud hook having failed, and

Heaving her old bones down onto her gardening stool

Exactly at the end of that mysterious weedy bed;



Pulled block after block of solid hexagonal clod

Over, busting up each as she went, feeling for

That coolness she knew as round starch balls

All her life she'd depended on. It's not

That she hadn't watered and weeded, no,

Or fought those gophers well, newly arrived.

Earth could not drink for once, it seemed.

Some spuds appeared. They were even



Smaller than those from last year. Some felt

Hollow. Some were cracked. Some were

Even green with poisons though they'd grown



Well deep enough never to have seen sun.

Oh, well, she thought, I'll take what I can get;

Now we'll have barley for every other soup, with

Dandelion to help stretch out my kale. This

Earth, she told herself, never did all,

Really even in days of rain. Barley I bought.

Ere I go forth from here as buried flesh or ash, I'll

Do as I have done: work with what is.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #drought

it is quiet out there

It is quiet out there now. She
Takes her hat, stick and forage bag,

Into which she slips her pruners, then
Slides her feet into green clogs, feeling

Quite exurban-agrarian, ready to look
Under brush piles and into cottonwoods --
In every place that might consent to harbor
Even a hint of birds' music. They have flown,
The silence tells her; those that haven't died.

Out along the roadside she waves to cars,
Understanding her neighbors have to drive,
Then pockets up crabapples, berries, leaves

That now are turning away from green: cat's ear,
High mallow, chicory, plantain, sow thistle, her
Ears pricked for passing flights of geese.
Really, thinks she to herself, there ought
Even now to be more birds. There are

Not so many feral cats round here as that.
Or could it be the sprays? She supposes
War has been declared. A war on song.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #foraging #climate #birdflu

it is quiet out there

It is quiet out there now. She
Takes her hat, stick and forage bag,

Into which she slips her pruners, then
Slides her feet into green clogs, feeling

Quite exurban-agrarian, ready to look
Under brush piles and into cottonwoods --
In every place that might consent to harbor
Even a hint of birds' music. They have flown,
The silence tells her; those that haven't died.

Out along the roadside she waves to cars,
Understanding her neighbors have to drive,
Then pockets up crabapples, berries, leaves

That now are turning away from green: cat's ear,
High mallow, chicory, plantain, sow thistle, her
Ears pricked for passing flights of geese.
Really, thinks she to herself, there ought
Even now to be more birds. There are

Not so many feral cats round here as that.
Or could it be the sprays? She supposes
War has been declared. A war on song.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #foraging #climate #birdflu

she likes red

She likes red in September: viney maple, poison oak;
Her plum trees dress well in it. Where she lives, all
Else goes brown. Except the dog roses

Leavening hedges with their hips. She stuffs these
In her pockets on every walk, then does research,
Kindling a ken of potions, liqueurs, oils.
Easily, drying comes to mind; to prep for that
She'll split each pod and rake away hard seeds,

Removing them to her freezer to stratify;
Else they might not emerge come spring. She
Digs out also myriad tiny hairs,

Irritants if retained. It's a slow business,
Not for the impatient, which well describes her;

She knows of this but means to tough it out.
Each hip's a silent mantra: she'll
Push, pull, twist, scrape, sort, and set aside
The emptied husks for drying or infusing.
Eventually the pile is done, just as light fades.
My eyes, she tells herself, are getting on,
But this I can still do. I'll make rose tea;
Evening will fill my cup of mindfulness.
Really, there's nothing more than what there is.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #foraging #homesteading

she likes red

She likes red in September: viney maple, poison oak;
Her plum trees dress well in it. Where she lives, all
Else goes brown. Except the dog roses

Leavening hedges with their hips. She stuffs these
In her pockets on every walk, then does research,
Kindling a ken of potions, liqueurs, oils.
Easily, drying comes to mind; to prep for that
She'll split each pod and rake away hard seeds,

Removing them to her freezer to stratify;
Else they might not emerge come spring. She
Digs out also myriad tiny hairs,

Irritants if retained. It's a slow business,
Not for the impatient, which well describes her;

She knows of this but means to tough it out.
Each hip's a silent mantra: she'll
Push, pull, twist, scrape, sort, and set aside
The emptied husks for drying or infusing.
Eventually the pile is done, just as light fades.
My eyes, she tells herself, are getting on,
But this I can still do. I'll make rose tea;
Evening will fill my cup of mindfulness.
Really, there's nothing more than what there is.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #foraging #homesteading

the first few fires

The first few fires of autumn laid by me
Here in this stove aren't much; I acknowledge
Even the hummingbird's still caressing blooms, so I

Feeling only a brief dawn chill, build accordingly.
In thickets of summer I range about,
Ratcheting my long-handled pruner among stout sticks,
Stealing from oak and ash, letting in a little light.
These I pile in the long room where that stove squats.

Fueling it with paper and a stack of twigs, admiring
Even the least hints of gold and vermillion therein,
We sit back, warm enough for one dark cup of tea.

For awhile; then day overtakes us, ready
In sweater and chore coat to see to hens;
Really, we shuck those soon enough, sweat on our
Ears and eyelids, summer reborn briefly in our knees.
So; until the ground grows cold that will hold our graves.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading

An observation that homesteading, like all human activity, is temporary. #entropy

the first few fires

The first few fires of autumn laid by me
Here in this stove aren't much; I acknowledge
Even the hummingbird's still caressing blooms, so I

Feeling only a brief dawn chill, build accordingly.
In thickets of summer I range about,
Ratcheting my long-handled pruner among stout sticks,
Stealing from oak and ash, letting in a little light.
These I pile in the long room where that stove squats.

Fueling it with paper and a stack of twigs, admiring
Even the least hints of gold and vermillion therein,
We sit back, warm enough for one dark cup of tea.

For awhile; then day overtakes us, ready
In sweater and chore coat to see to hens;
Really, we shuck those soon enough, sweat on our
Ears and eyelids, summer reborn briefly in our knees.
So; until the ground grows cold that will hold our graves.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading

An observation that homesteading, like all human activity, is temporary. #entropy

the things to do

The things to do: bring an egg from her
Hens, a found apple, beet leaf, cat's-ear foliage,
Ensuring freshness even in October.

The skillet she heats, oil frisking.
Here's egg: break yolk, turn once or twice;
Insert chopped fruit and greens, with salt and pepper;
Now turn again, wait, remove from heat,
Give all to a spelt wrap. As she sits to her meal, a
Sun rises, invests her eastern window, spills in

To caress and warm six thick maple boards
Of her grandmother's table. Whatever remains to be

Done's already forgotten: the meal an emblem
Of all her morning cared to be.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading

the things to do

The things to do: bring an egg from her
Hens, a found apple, beet leaf, cat's-ear foliage,
Ensuring freshness even in October.

The skillet she heats, oil frisking.
Here's egg: break yolk, turn once or twice;
Insert chopped fruit and greens, with salt and pepper;
Now turn again, wait, remove from heat,
Give all to a spelt wrap. As she sits to her meal, a
Sun rises, invests her eastern window, spills in

To caress and warm six thick maple boards
Of her grandmother's table. Whatever remains to be

Done's already forgotten: the meal an emblem
Of all her morning cared to be.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading

there are rooms

There are rooms in a life that may sometimes
Have someone in them; but they are guests there.
Even when one most loves, one may find,
Really, a solitude that begins at this wall,
Ends at that wall; the rest is not entirely ours.

As years turn and suns, moons and stars
Rise up and fall like rain by every window
Even one's hands will shrivel soon enough

Right at the ends of one's arms, as hands
Of strangers. But to fret at this discovery
Of emptiness arrived at and emptiness
Made clear by moon's dance with water,
Sun's dance with dust, by endings never sought

In even that one room that is one's own, is
Not worthy of even that we call our life.

All our guests deserve from us restraint.

Little enough we can offer them as it is;
In a short while each vacates each room,
Feeling for the light switch as each goes.
Evening comes. Do not grieve the door.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #grief

just about

Just about her favorite thing is to

Unseal bright papery packets and

Set out flats of germination soil

The length of her bench, then scratch in parallel



Along each flat, with a stick, five lines for seeds.

By and by, the covered infant sprouts appear;

Or don't, in which case repeat until satisfactory.

Under her grow lights, not great ones, but good enough,

The seedlings make two leaves and then two more:



Here she makes more flats, with this time in

Each flat eighteen pots, filled with dampened

Rooting soil. A hole in each pot waits



For one tiny plant; the soil to be pressed

Around the taproot and tiny rootlets, then

Very gently watered -- from below, pouring

Over the flat's lip a tea of comfrey.

Really she overdoes it, making hundreds,

In every kind, of vegetable starts, far more

Than she can plant, but is fine with that; most

Everyone she knows will willingly give them homes.



That's her means, in old age, of making

Happen a kind of revolution. There are

In towers far away, those who would

Not have us eat what will not make them rich.

Go, little plants! Feed free souls free food.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

just about

Just about her favorite thing is to

Unseal bright papery packets and

Set out flats of germination soil

The length of her bench, then scratch in parallel



Along each flat, with a stick, five lines for seeds.

By and by, the covered infant sprouts appear;

Or don't, in which case repeat until satisfactory.

Under her grow lights, not great ones, but good enough,

The seedlings make two leaves and then two more:



Here she makes more flats, with this time in

Each flat eighteen pots, filled with dampened

Rooting soil. A hole in each pot waits



For one tiny plant; the soil to be pressed

Around the taproot and tiny rootlets, then

Very gently watered -- from below, pouring

Over the flat's lip a tea of comfrey.

Really she overdoes it, making hundreds,

In every kind, of vegetable starts, far more

Than she can plant, but is fine with that; most

Everyone she knows will willingly give them homes.



That's her means, in old age, of making

Happen a kind of revolution. There are

In towers far away, those who would

Not have us eat what will not make them rich.

Go, little plants! Feed free souls free food.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

the rhythm of the work

The rhythm of the work is to set down

Her padded bench, a flat, and trowel at the

End of a bed and drop as if in prayer,



Reach for the trowel (bent for her old

Hand at right angles), dig, then grope for a pot.

You may see each hole is deep and wide enough

To exactly take the root ball. She carefully

Holds this in her shade, tips the damp

Mass in, packs with trowel, repeats all -- three



Or four times -- then stands. Behind her, some

Four plants glow green in any six feet of bed.



The rhythm of this work, when best, resembles

How monks or nuns in supplication glide

Easily to the floor, centered, unconcerned



With body or mind, then rise, then glide again,

Outcomes not sought, nor merit earned.

Right to the end of the bed she goes,

Kneeling to simply do with her rough hands.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #practice

the rhythm of the work

The rhythm of the work is to set down

Her padded bench, a flat, and trowel at the

End of a bed and drop as if in prayer,



Reach for the trowel (bent for her old

Hand at right angles), dig, then grope for a pot.

You may see each hole is deep and wide enough

To exactly take the root ball. She carefully

Holds this in her shade, tips the damp

Mass in, packs with trowel, repeats all -- three



Or four times -- then stands. Behind her, some

Four plants glow green in any six feet of bed.



The rhythm of this work, when best, resembles

How monks or nuns in supplication glide

Easily to the floor, centered, unconcerned



With body or mind, then rise, then glide again,

Outcomes not sought, nor merit earned.

Right to the end of the bed she goes,

Kneeling to simply do with her rough hands.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #practice

what to do about trees

What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;

Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she

Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince

Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she

Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Even as those old hens looked on amazed:
Something to offer folks not yet alive.

-- shonin #poetry #gardening #orchard #acrostic #homesteading

what to do about trees

What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;

Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she

Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince

Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she

Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Even as those old hens looked on amazed:
Something to offer folks not yet alive.

-- shonin #poetry #gardening #orchard #acrostic #homesteading

what to do with leaves

What to do with leaves, if one cannot leave them

Here beneath aspen, gum, maple and birch

As what they become in winter, a kind of skirt

To warm and feed fanned roots, is gather and



Toss them on a garden. She spreads hers

Over bed and path alike, with straw, with



Dead grass and weeds, barn bedding, the contents

Of kitchen bucket and tumble barrel, along



With any foliage that comes to hand, even prunings

If too small to bother with for her iron stove.

This is for worms and all their small companions

Heaving aside the earth of path and bed alike,



Leveling and loosening, making untilled tilth.

Evening comes and she stills, listening

As the city of humus thrums toward spring.

Very likely it's best to interfere not
Even this much in things, she tells herself, yet

She's always loved to tell her children: eat.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #soil #composting

what to do with leaves

What to do with leaves, if one cannot leave them

Here beneath aspen, gum, maple and birch

As what they become in winter, a kind of skirt

To warm and feed fanned roots, is gather and



Toss them on a garden. She spreads hers

Over bed and path alike, with straw, with



Dead grass and weeds, barn bedding, the contents

Of kitchen bucket and tumble barrel, along



With any foliage that comes to hand, even prunings

If too small to bother with for her iron stove.

This is for worms and all their small companions

Heaving aside the earth of path and bed alike,



Leveling and loosening, making untilled tilth.

Evening comes and she stills, listening

As the city of humus thrums toward spring.

Very likely it's best to interfere not
Even this much in things, she tells herself, yet

She's always loved to tell her children: eat.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #soil #composting

or otherwise

Beets are a thing, she mused; all summer
Every seed she'd planted out refused
Every opportunity to sprout, but
Those in flats thrived, just as those
Seedsmen told her they would not.

As for after they were transplanted, well!
Rare was the beet that was not found by gophers.
Even so, some were left not quite finished

As the gophers waddled away, and

Those she was grateful for. She brought in
Her greens; made wilted salad; then
In winter came across again the muddy half-moons.
Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed,
Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.

-- shonin #acrostic #poetry #homesteading #gardening

decembering in the orchard

All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she
Loves that they cling to their shivered tree,
Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off

Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and
Have retired to their tractor, pecking
At storebought feed in its styrene bin.
The winds whistle through, rasping

Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and
Stub their green bellies. She

Lifts ten or so down, as if they were
Each one of her own breasts, tenderly
Filling her small basket. In the kitchen
They will sit shyly waiting their turn:

It is the season for other foods; in
Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus

Talk among themselves in distant tongues.
Here her hands make outland meals,
Even finding work for lemon skins.

Granny Smiths are not much favored,
Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an
Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed,
Not thinking of that one tree, struggling
Night and day to keep for them fresh joy.
Yet she knows she cannot blame them;

Shy apples do their best in pie.
Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick;
If some green globes remain at large tonight,
The morning light will prove, tomorrow,
Holiday for those that cannot buy.
Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading #gardening #seasons #orchard

weather is a thing

Weather is a thing, now, she tells herself,

Every day surprising -- week, month

And season. When, whether and what

To plant, or how to schedule visits with

Her friends or family, across a pass or

Even in lowlands. Storm clouds will

Roll in, blizzards, fire, a tornado. She



Is sure there's easy weather somewhere

Such times as freezing fog, wind, or



A heatwave shuts her in. She'll admit



There are good days for her yet

Here beneath her patient apple trees.

If weather is a thing, so is simplicity.

Never waste a calm day, she says:

Go see trilliums, bespeak beargrass,



Nod to daisies, curtsy to wise willows.

On such days, forget falling trees and hills,

Water rising. Love life while you can.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #seasons

weather is a thing

Weather is a thing, now, she tells herself,

Every day surprising -- week, month

And season. When, whether and what

To plant, or how to schedule visits with

Her friends or family, across a pass or

Even in lowlands. Storm clouds will

Roll in, blizzards, fire, a tornado. She



Is sure there's easy weather somewhere

Such times as freezing fog, wind, or



A heatwave shuts her in. She'll admit



There are good days for her yet

Here beneath her patient apple trees.

If weather is a thing, so is simplicity.

Never waste a calm day, she says:

Go see trilliums, bespeak beargrass,



Nod to daisies, curtsy to wise willows.

On such days, forget falling trees and hills,

Water rising. Love life while you can.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #seasons

that time

That time when there is yet nothing,
Her skills being at rest, synchronized
And sympathetic with soil's sleep --
Timid buds of lilac or jonquil still

Tucked within themselves -- she wonders
If she's even a subsistence woman, is
Mistaken in that as so much else, as when
Even deep snow cannot efface what

Winter erases when it is nearest spring.
Her hands stretch to packaged seeds;
Enter into bargains with their quietude.
Now? Now? Now? Now? she asks them,

Though she knows they will not move.
Here by a cold window she spreads
Envelopes on her table: peas, beets.
Radishes will be first, nearest the house.
Even now she smells them, lifted, bitten.

Is there nothing that can be done?
She asks for the hundredth time.

You'd think the mud would dry a little,
Evenings come later, mornings earlier,
The birds nest and sing, daisies open!

No. Tools rest in their ranks, sharpened,
Oiled. Clouds pass, low, lightless, sulking.
The arbor's done, fences, orchard,
Heaps heaped. All she needs today
Is that this blank month turn a little
Nearer sun, before her plot of earth
Grazes on forgetfulness too soon.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #seasons

it begins

It begins with mare's tails: wisps of ice

That spread, ghostly fingers from



Beyond the southwestern horizon; her

Ears feel the chill as she is planting bulbs.

"Go inside," her chapped hands urge her,

"Inside, your steaming kettle waits."

"Not yet," she replies. In her mind's eye

She watches thousands of daffodils bloom



Where grass grew. She must plant hundreds

If her dream will breathe. Altocumulus,

Those clouds like schools of fish, arrive.

Her hands are hurting her now; cold clay



Milking moisture from gapped skin.

As she bends, shovel in one hand,

Round brown balls of life in the other,

Each destined for a hole along her fence,

She senses wind lifting skirts of



The cottonwoods and willows. Raindrops

Are arriving now, slanting through trees,

Investing her sleeves and hair with wet.

Leaving off at last, she, crutching on her

Shovel, pivots to her tea-providing fire.

-- shonin #gardening #poetry #acrostic #homesteading #seasons

what was hers

What was hers, but is not hers just now,
Having suffered a rising tide of voles
And other rodents (she does not doubt), is
The potting shed/solarium, a domain in

Which she'd reigned, she thought, for decades.
All of it, she'd built herself. Gathering
Slats of rough hewn barn wood, windows,

Heaps of antique bricks, a long green bench,
Ever more pots and flats, bins and trowels,
Royally she'd treated herself to her heaven,
Seedlings doing as she'd have them do.

But then: disaster. Peas and beans tucked
Under skeins of soil vanished by ones and
Threes -- whole flats of corn plowed up.

Is there nothing to be done, she wonders,
Short of slaughter by nefarious means?

Not the first option. She casts about among
Old tosswares in corners and on shelves.
This rolled-up screening might do. Shears in

Hand, she measures as one measures cloth,
Ever minding the selvage, to create caps
Rodents might decline to chew.
Slipping these into place, adding to each

Just one stone per corner, using
Up the Buddha cairns she'd made
Stacked here and there round the room.
The precept honored, she waters all,

Not neglecting to sprinkle stones.
Outcomes must be as they must be.
We find well that find we do not reign.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

what was hers

What was hers, but is not hers just now,
Having suffered a rising tide of voles
And other rodents (she does not doubt), is
The potting shed/solarium, a domain in

Which she'd reigned, she thought, for decades.
All of it, she'd built herself. Gathering
Slats of rough hewn barn wood, windows,

Heaps of antique bricks, a long green bench,
Ever more pots and flats, bins and trowels,
Royally she'd treated herself to her heaven,
Seedlings doing as she'd have them do.

But then: disaster. Peas and beans tucked
Under skeins of soil vanished by ones and
Threes -- whole flats of corn plowed up.

Is there nothing to be done, she wonders,
Short of slaughter by nefarious means?

Not the first option. She casts about among
Old tosswares in corners and on shelves.
This rolled-up screening might do. Shears in

Hand, she measures as one measures cloth,
Ever minding the selvage, to create caps
Rodents might decline to chew.
Slipping these into place, adding to each

Just one stone per corner, using
Up the Buddha cairns she'd made
Stacked here and there round the room.
The precept honored, she waters all,

Not neglecting to sprinkle stones.
Outcomes must be as they must be.
We find well that find we do not reign.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

spring springs

Spring springs upon her unawares;
Perhaps she thought snow would drift
Right up to her window, as it should
In February, as in her memory
No such month escaped some white.
Going forth in a sleeveless shift

She pockets up seeds for flats,
Pulls out dank bins of soil,
Reaches for small pots, sets hope
In light. Such April ploys are
Not to be counted on, she knows --
Guessing random frosts
Still may spring upon her unawares.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #climate

spring springs

Spring springs upon her unawares;
Perhaps she thought snow would drift
Right up to her window, as it should
In February, as in her memory
No such month escaped some white.
Going forth in a sleeveless shift

She pockets up seeds for flats,
Pulls out dank bins of soil,
Reaches for small pots, sets hope
In light. Such April ploys are
Not to be counted on, she knows --
Guessing random frosts
Still may spring upon her unawares.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #climate

how she knows

How she knows she is not useless yet:
Old cornstalks must be shattered right
Where they stood green, to feed worms

She knows are waiting in darkness.
Her hens wait too, for water, for feed,
Especially for deadnettles, nipplewort,

Kale and comfrey. Some hummingbirds
Now arriving check the lilac for their
Own nectar bottle that hung there
While last spring, summer and fall
Slipped past. There are wasp queens

She finds sleeping in her woodpile;
Her heart skips a beat as she sees
Each one, for she fears them, yet

Interests herself in their rest and
Safety, for the good they do her garden.

Now she mucks out her barn, for
Of her things she values rich mulch, almost
To distraction, most. But slowly;

Under beams and eaves hang cobwebs,
Sacs of eggs suspended in each, waiting
End of winter, not to be disturbed.
Lest she forget to serve all equitably,
Every bucket of soiled barn water
She carries to her trees to tip out:
Something to stave off drought.

Yes, she's earned the right, she thinks,
Even in this so solitary place,
To call herself an asset to her friends.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

how she knows

How she knows she is not useless yet:
Old cornstalks must be shattered right
Where they stood green, to feed worms

She knows are waiting in darkness.
Her hens wait too, for water, for feed,
Especially for deadnettles, nipplewort,

Kale and comfrey. Some hummingbirds
Now arriving check the lilac for their
Own nectar bottle that hung there
While last spring, summer and fall
Slipped past. There are wasp queens

She finds sleeping in her woodpile;
Her heart skips a beat as she sees
Each one, for she fears them, yet

Interests herself in their rest and
Safety, for the good they do her garden.

Now she mucks out her barn, for
Of her things she values rich mulch, almost
To distraction, most. But slowly;

Under beams and eaves hang cobwebs,
Sacs of eggs suspended in each, waiting
End of winter, not to be disturbed.
Lest she forget to serve all equitably,
Every bucket of soiled barn water
She carries to her trees to tip out:
Something to stave off drought.

Yes, she's earned the right, she thinks,
Even in this so solitary place,
To call herself an asset to her friends.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

too soon

These are not the tomatoes she wanted,
Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, or
Even Brandywines. But the clerk only
Sells what's brought in, finds labels, wands
Each three-inch pot through as she would

A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.
Really, the old woman muses, I should have
Ended my day at the seedsman, but it's not

Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I've
Opted for the discount store again, to buy
These things that hurt my soul: hybrids.

There's this about them, they do produce
Heavy fruits that please her folks and friends
Easily enough, and in larger numbers. But

To her there's something in them lacking.
Old varieties taste of the eyes of young
Men, of weeping, of laughter, of
A child's anger at being teased, of
The confusion of having one's braid pulled.
On the hybrids she can't say as much.
End to youth, beginning of sameness; a
Safety that came to her too soon.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening

too soon

These are not the tomatoes she wanted,
Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, or
Even Brandywines. But the clerk only
Sells what's brought in, finds labels, wands
Each three-inch pot through as she would

A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.
Really, the old woman muses, I should have
Ended my day at the seedsman, but it's not

Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I've
Opted for the discount store again, to buy
These things that hurt my soul: hybrids.

There's this about them, they do produce
Heavy fruits that please her folks and friends
Easily enough, and in larger numbers. But

To her there's something in them lacking.
Old varieties taste of the eyes of young
Men, of weeping, of laughter, of
A child's anger at being teased, of
The confusion of having one's braid pulled.
On the hybrids she can't say as much.
End to youth, beginning of sameness; a
Safety that came to her too soon.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening

see it through

One should not have an orchard and
Not care for it; so she tries,
Even lurches from the depths of a chair

She's found at some thrift, pre-softened; from
Her house, warm or cool as she might wish,
Out into too much sun or too much rain; from
Under the kind roof of a porch she'd built,
Leaving tool after tool there to gather
Dust and webs, marks of a new will to

Neglect. Beyond the weed-bent fence, an
Orchard of sorts awaits her care, each
Task having skipped two years at least.

Hands grasp lopper and saw. She visits
Apple, quince, pear, plum, cherry, clipping
Vines, tall weeds, watersprouts, suckers;
Even designates branches for her stove.

As the forenoon warms, she strips off
Now her hat, next jacket, shirt and gloves,

Old skin offered to thorns, thistles,
Rough bark. Really she'd meant to hire it done,
Children of neighbors being short on cash.
Habit, she could call it. Habit, and the way
Apples come best that see right sun,
Ripe enough to pay her for some pains.
Do a thing yourself to see it through.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #orcharding

see it through

One should not have an orchard and
Not care for it; so she tries,
Even lurches from the depths of a chair

She's found at some thrift, pre-softened; from
Her house, warm or cool as she might wish,
Out into too much sun or too much rain; from
Under the kind roof of a porch she'd built,
Leaving tool after tool there to gather
Dust and webs, marks of a new will to

Neglect. Beyond the weed-bent fence, an
Orchard of sorts awaits her care, each
Task having skipped two years at least.

Hands grasp lopper and saw. She visits
Apple, quince, pear, plum, cherry, clipping
Vines, tall weeds, watersprouts, suckers;
Even designates branches for her stove.

As the forenoon warms, she strips off
Now her hat, next jacket, shirt and gloves,

Old skin offered to thorns, thistles,
Rough bark. Really she'd meant to hire it done,
Children of neighbors being short on cash.
Habit, she could call it. Habit, and the way
Apples come best that see right sun,
Ripe enough to pay her for some pains.
Do a thing yourself to see it through.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #orcharding

This Wednesday.

Lamplit — the acrostic puzzle game for people who do the puzzle in pen — lands on the App Store April 1st. (Not a joke.)

Free daily puzzle every morning. No account required. No subscription. No ads. Ever.

And if you sign up before Wednesday, there's a little surprise waiting for you. 🕯️

Words worth finding.
https://lamplit.games

#WordGames #Puzzle #IndieApp #Acrostic #lamplit

This Wednesday.

Lamplit — the acrostic puzzle game for people who do the puzzle in pen — lands on the App Store April 1st. (Not a joke.)

Free daily puzzle every morning. No account required. No subscription. No ads. Ever.

And if you sign up before Wednesday, there's a little surprise waiting for you. 🕯️

Words worth finding.
https://lamplit.games

#WordGames #Puzzle #IndieApp #Acrostic #lamplit

CAW Term of the Week - Acrostic
#CAW #CartersvilleAreaWriters #CAWTofW #CAWTermOfTheWeek #TermoftheWeek #TofW #WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #WritingTips #WritingLife
#Acrostic

(acrostic writing prompt from BlueSky: MERGE)

May the Gods be in your favor
Every time you have to get on the interstate
Rev up your engine
Get your foot on the gas
Enter the gap between cars.

(P.S. I live in NASCAR country. Merging is considered a personal insult. 😆)

#acrostic #poetry #writing #writingcommunity #writingprompt
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