Category: Poet

Ode to the Fat Squirrel  (Amy Beth)

As I watched you…

I could almost feel the warm midwest winter sunshine on your hair.

Your hair is the colors of burnished bronze, copper, and gold. Some strands are thick and lustrous as if made of spun silver.

Unruly, some with a mind of their own are spiraling away from the rest, up into the air with a strong sense of whimsy in defiance of gravity.

Flecks of dust are flying around your head in a ray of sun, animated by the air, stirred by the swish of wool and cotton.

Beautiful visuals punctuated by laughter.

I loved it all on this cold, wet, dark day in Portland on the west coast.

Wordsmith: Enora Hall

I watch a lot of knitting podcasts because I’m a knitter. I love some, and some I don’t love. The Fat Squittel falls into the former…  in my list of top five, she’s hard to beat.

She’s intelligent, well-read, informed, and always filled with abundant humor. There’s beauty that isn’t unfounded in other podcasts, but there’s something rare in the presentation… in the filming, in her talent as a textile artist.

Once, I thought I was writing to her to tell her of my appreciation, but sent it unknowingly to some random poster writing about Mary Todd Lincoln. Thankfully,  someone commented on my comment, and the lost poem was found. Here you have it.

Poet… Why?

Why do you write in words and phrases that hide in dark obscurity.

Is writing plainly so unappealing?

Unless my mind short circuits are you less profound?

Is it because your search for strange bedfellows in metaphors makes you feel more like your imagined idea of poetry?

I would rather that your words conjure visions and not a puzzle to interpret falsly or incidentally incorrectly?

Don’t you want me to peck and find and gobble your meaning like birds hunting seeds among the tall grass, the pebbles and dust?

I don’t mind the work, but at least make it worth my while.