Category Archives: Green Poetry

Maple Bacon March Morning

Annecy_-_Carrion_crow_under_snow_PierreSelim

“A Carrion Crow Under Snow in Annecy” by Pierre Selim, via Wikimedia Commons.

Maple Bacon March Morning

A towhee’s red-rim eye caught sun yesterday,
relentless before the rain followed up

a moonless night of clouds
buffering the barred owl’s call.

On the wire, swallows step sideways,
making room. The flicker chooses

the chimney crown, drumming
his way to sex and vaunted chests.

A stellar jay follows my sleight of hand
feeding the crows on the mailbox,

the hand that mixed the fat with kibble
for the crows who stayed

through ice and several feet of snow.
The crows who like the fat the best

and for whom I ate the bacon.

—Tricia Knoll
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Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet with two books in print – Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press 2016) and Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com

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Modestree

tree_without_leaves_reidar-lunde-lillestol-relilles

Photo by Reidar Lunde Lillestøl (Relilles), via Wikimedia Commons.

 

Modestree

My leaves are gone;
my branches bare.
My bark is showing!
Please don’t stare.

—Lauren McBride

 

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Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, nature, science and membership in the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA). Nominated for the SFPA’s Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Awards, her work has appeared in numerous speculative, nature, and children’s publications including Bear Creek Haiku, Songs of Eretz, the Aurorean and The Heron’s Nest. She shares a love of laughter and the ocean with her husband and two grown children.

 

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A Whistle Broke

wendover_woods_in_autumn_-robertfirth

“Wendover Woods in Autumn” by Robert Firth, via Wikimedia Commons

 

A Whistle Broke

Deep down in the woods a whistle broke
loose and tensed the dog, tail a-wave
for a parade she ached to join.

Deep down in the woods rain fell.
I planned each step heading down
as if mud might ski me to the dell.

Deep down in the woods the crows
found the owl in the firs’ high limbs
and flocked like stone throws

to drive away the dark,
to foil the dog’s sniff of jokes,
and rock me on my feet.

—Tricia Knoll
* * *

Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet with two books in print – Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press 2016) and Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com

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Fall Magic

quercus_palustris_pin_oak_-_beale_arboretum_-_west_lodge_park_hadley_wood_enfield_london

Pin Oak, or swamp Spanish oak, Quercus palustris. The Beale Arboretum, London, England. Via Wikimedia Commons.

 

ABRACADABRA
Now summer with her raging heat,
Withdraws her arms from panting earth,
The night descends, it seems at midday
Wrapping our world in darkened veils
Trees give up their coats of green
To don the scarlet cloaks of kings
But soon these mantles grace the earth
Natures jewels to trod upon
Watch closely now the hand of God
ABRACADABRA!
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36866251 - yellow and red color leaves fallen on ground in autumn

Image by manganganath, via 123RF Stock Photos.

Mikey at Fairy Rock
The falling leaves weave a tapestry
Gold, red, brown and rust,
The wind throws her shuttle
Across the autumn sky,
A pattern of fairy wings
Cascading to earth,
To tryst with Oberon
One last time,
Ere the winter claims these
Gently fallen beings
To sleep forever in the earth.
* * *
virginia_gambardella

Virginia with her grandchildren, Erica and Mikey. Photo by her son Michael.

 

Virginia Gambardella lives in New York, only three miles from where she grew up. Her dad was a naval engineer and adventurer, and her mom, who sometimes called her “lamb’s lettuce” was a dressmaker for Bergdorf Goodman (she made all of Virginia’s clothes). Virginia has one son and three grandchildren and enjoys: people, holidays, antiques, nature, gardening, fishing, decorating, fashion, sharing knowledge, cooking and baking. She describes herself as “a memory keeper to the extreme”—she even kept her son’s baby teeth. She’s a cancer survivor, a pancreatitis survivor, a widow, and the re-inventor of her life, “as necessary.” She likes to exercise and spends every vacation at the beach with family.

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After the 2016 Election

tenthousandrosebushes

Image by Sandra Knauf

The Day I Helped Lop Ten Thousand Rosebushes

November 9, 2016

Wind pruning we call it. Taking the garden down
to wrist high so when the winter winds blast
down the gorge, low canes stay rooted,
refuse to topple, stand for the long haul
to first leaves, bud and bloom.

We were a tribe in coveralls and gloves,
pricked with razor thorns and lament.
The day carried November sun despite our gloom.
Our lopper tools were dull
from a summer long of use, needing
sharpening hours of winter downtime.

Yet, we lopped and whacked and whacked
and lopped. Hauled the remains on tarps
to a bucket loader for the dump truck.
One woman sorted through the loads
of fallen thorns and canes for the few tight buds
of orange and red flame mixed with yellow
that survived this late November.

We lopped and whacked and whacked
and lopped, and bent our backs, tired
from too late a TV night. Repetitive motion
to ensure the thorns will grow back
and perhaps allow another rose
to bloom out of this fierce, sad work.

—Tricia Knoll
* * *

Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet with two books in print – Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press 2016) and Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com

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Queen of the Nightshades

tomato-queen-reversed

Poem note: I’ll be eating the last garden-fresh ripe tomato later this week—Cherokees ripened on the kitchen table. The race is on—last tomato or last rose. The roses usually win here in Oregon.
—Tricia Knoll

Queen of the Nightshades 

I told the girls, old girls you know and several of them,
to bury me in the garden where my ripe tomatoes grow.
Ashes or whatever, stir them in because when I’m counting
seasons of the many’s—those repetitive accumulations
of cars, dogs, summers and blue jeans, I never forget tomatoes,
varieties I’ve made deep holes to plant in gardens
that moved from the side of a cliff to near an urban driveway
to a rototilled vegetable garden on a gentle southside slope
and now to rows of raised beds. Photos of my buckets
of ripe red tomatoes  get me through
cold months of the year while I ignore hothouse
winter tomatoes. These Romas. Cherokees, candy
Sun-Golds, and then the Brandywines.

This major-domo of the garden blesses each tomato
that balloons to juicy from inelegant yellow flower,
a bud that makes few promises of succulence.
I begin to a circle dance around the sprawl
in August. The red queen holds court
with basil and marigolds who sit on the sidelines
valiantly cheering her on for vigor
and determination.

Ah, ripe tomatoes, for the gardener
what no one on the faraway factory farm
can ever make sweeter, redder,
or better. Bury me where my red queen grows.

* * *

Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet with two books in print—Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press 2016) and Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com

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Backyard Chickens

backyardchickensknoll-2

Photo by Tricia Knoll. Tricia says the chickens are from Broadfork Farm, Trout Lake Washington, where she farmsits once or twice a year. She mentions that she might do a Broadfork Farm chapbook one day. I, for one, would LOVE that! – Sandra Knauf

 

We get it!
We get it – no roosters!

The coops go up,
cuter than cute.

Free-rangers strut
pompons on parade,
stick-legged chicken races
finish photos on Facebook.

Coyotes
and raccoons sneak
around the condos –
henitentiary fortifications
intensify.

Do senior chickens
who no longer lay
collect social obscurity?
Who broils Flocksie and Tottsie?
The Buddhists won’t.

But the eggs, the eggs!
Sunshine yolks
nestled in blue, green,
brown and ecru jewel boxes.
The eggs!

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Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet with two books in print – Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press 2016) and Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com

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