Thursday, July 27, 2017

A Gift from My Old Man (a Curtal Sonnet Attempt)

I have no fear in posting unpolished pieces. It's part of the process.

And I like a good form challenge. I haven't mastered this one yet, but I had fun working on it. This poem was an attempt at a curtal sonnet

It just so happens I have a wonderful memory of my dad pulling over on a road trip, so he could gather cattails for my mom. 

I guess that is where this poem began, though my father was not a townie or a clowny. He was a very nice man with a great smile who helped anyone he could. 

The day after I wrote this, I was out for a hike and came across a patch of cattails. I love synchronicity. 

Cattails by Linda G. Hatton
Cattails in the Desert

A Gift from My Old Man

One humid nightfall when out for a walk,
he hoofed over to an open wet ditch
to clip cigar heads adorned by downy
fleece from atop a towering, stout stalk.
He hunched over his back without a hitch
and winked like an old, bald, toothless townie.
I got this, he said, wrapping meaty palms
around skeletal stems, when his eyes twitched
his whole body became rather frowny,
and my prince charming became a sitcom


Thursday, July 20, 2017

What to Do When Words Hide (Make Art)

I wanted to write a poem today, but the words would not cooperate. So I played with paper and pens instead to release the pent-up creative energy.

Here is my work-in-progress.

What do you do when you have trouble writing?

Photo and Artwork by Linda G. Hatton
Doodling by Linda G. Hatton


Thursday, July 13, 2017

My Life Is a Collage

I've been creating collage art for thirty-five years, so when I pondered my attraction to it, I realized that my life is a collage.

My overwhelming desire for knowledge sometimes leaves me scattered. I want to take it all in and wind up with only bits and pieces.

Right now I'm creating a collection of cards I hope to make into a book. 

Are you drawn towards an artistic medium that is representative of your personality or life?

Artwork by Linda G. Hatton
Collage Card Front

Artwork by Linda G. Hatton
Collage Card Back

(This post was in response to theme of collage on the Daily Post.)


Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Still Life of Starbucks - a Poem

Photo of Heart Drawn in the Sand by Linda G. Hatton
Love over Coffee at the Beach

Still Life of Starbucks

Most people recognize where mermaids
skinny-dip underneath that famous
circular ridge crowned by coffee-
stained footprints (or sometimes
     monofin smears) to the melody
of barista love promises (that often
     bring tears). It’s served anytime
at B degrees, with a star
     and an un-
         determined number
of bucks on the side. A tight
seal holds its stormy contents
and the aroma of home
     within, while the ebony
liquid upsurge laps at craggy
tongue’s shore. Petite enough
to fit in a pocket or
the palm of a hand, but
     take heed. The number three
and a warning the contents
are too hot is largely ignored
by sleepers enchanted
     from the song
of the sirens, seeking only
a morning caffeine fix before
swimming to shore to start
a workday based not in fable,
but in the modern-day world
where they think 


Monday, May 1, 2017

The Pleasure Garden - a Poem for Day Thirty of PAD

I skipped day twenty-nine. If I wind up writing something, I will post it later. For now, here is the prompt for day thirty of the PAD Challenge:

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “The (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “The Poets,” “The Good Guys,” “The Bad Guys,” “The Last Thing She Said,” and so on.

Photo by Linda G. Hatton
Even the Garden Statues Come to Life

The Pleasure Garden

Undetected fairy wings 
under my footsteps
and an itty-bitty
cracked crystal ball
my future,
but I’m too busy
     getting by
to notice.

Mossy dreadlocks
in the trees above me
while flying ants
the grounds,
me in lotus pose,
hold me captive
for rainbow
shield bugs
     to cleanse
my chakras.

off in the distance,
a brownish-grey
mourning dove
my name,
begs me
to stay, set
an example,
gather debris,
plant seeds, help
the thicket,
teach all futures
to love and hold
it in 


Saturday, April 29, 2017

You Smell Like Bubble Gum - a Poem for Day Twenty-Eight of PAD

For today’s prompt, write a poem about a smell. Similar to Day 6’s prompt about writing a poem about a sound, today’s prompt involves thinking about the various good and bad smells that fill the world. Pick one smell (or a variety, I suppose), and write a poem.

Photo by Linda G. Hatton
Some Things Remind Me of That Bubble Gum

You Smell Like Bubble Gum

when I try to write,
I smell that bubble gum
I hid in my closet
in the house
where I grew up.
I remember feeling lucky. 
You’d given it to me
for Christmas
when I was sixteen.
I hadn’t seen you in years
when you made
that surprise visit
and handed
me a gift. I carried
that present upstairs
like a newborn, pondering
what lay swaddled
underneath the paper.
I ripped it open
and found gumballs
lined up side by side
like soldiers at rest.
I popped one
into my mouth
and was taken back
to our bowling alley
field trip
where the vending machine
shot out chewing gum
like bullets
from a machine gun.
It took me a year
to chew all that gum.
With each fruity ball I rolled
between my teeth, I wondered
when you’d roll back into my life.
I never got that lucky. 
The next time I saw you,
your casket reminded me
of that bubblegum


Thursday, April 27, 2017

Garden of Peace - a Poem for Day Twenty-Seven of PAD

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day; so carry around a poem in your pocket today. Or roll like me and carry a poem in your pocket every day.
For today’s prompt, use at least 3 of the following 6 words in your poem (using a word or two in your title is fine); for extra credit, try using all 6:
  • pest
  • crack
  • ramble
  • hiccup
  • wince
  • festoon
Photo of Jesus by Linda G. Hatton
I Really Did Find Him in My Garden

Garden of Peace

I scarfed down my last supper
to numb restlessness
bubbling up inside. But,
I winced. My stomach ached,
and there was no food left.
Then I found Jesus
in my garden, embedded
among the scraggly grass and pests.
He was face down, given up,
mud smeared on his back.
He seemed not to mind—his face,
although cracked, full of serenity.
I rescued him (or was it
the other way around?)—
thought I heard him ramble on
something about how
he’d sent me angel
tears and a bucketful
of hope. Said to plant seeds,
feed others, build a shrine of treasures
delivered on my daily hikes.
I said nuh-uh, I’d need a box of magic
the size of the great sea,
and my energy is better
spent festooning trinkets
     and treasures
to my bedside lamp
than on making up
for events of my past.
Still, I did what he said—sowed
my garden. And creatures big
and small came around
to nibble. Those angel tears
brought relief, watered my garden,
gave me hope 

that I’ve finally removed
my former seed coat,
and germinated
a new me. 


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