Monday, March 21, 2016

Monday Poetry Stretch - Spring Apostrophe

Spring ushered itself in with a bit of sun and cold today. I'm feeling the need to write simply about my second favorite season of the year.

An apostrophe is a poem which directly addresses a person or thing that is generally absent, hence the more common name of poem of address. There are many days when I want to talk to someone who isn't here, to ask questions, to wonder. Poems of address require poets not to write about something, but to imagine what they would say if they could speak to the person, place, or thing being addresses.

Will you join me in writing an apostrophe to spring? Please share a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments.


  1. Sorry Tricia, didn't notice this was supposed to be about spring. But it is about today, and a particular spring day a while ago.


    It’s been 12 years, and Mom hates March.
    Twelve years today, and I was here
    that day, asleep downstairs
    when you fell in the shower
    and the paramedics came.
    You were gone, you went fast,
    and when I called my little brother
    the cell sputtered and cracked
    like us. He couldn’t hear me,
    kept saying, “What?” so finally
    I yelled it, “Dad’s dead!”
    He nearly drove his semi
    off the road. We all left the road
    that morning. You left your road.
    It’s been 12 years, and Mom hates March.

    —Kate Coombs, 2016
    all rights reserved

    1. This reads as if I'm experiencing the accident and loss, not merely in sympathy. Presence, immediacy, gut truth. Thank you.

    2. I appreciate that, Judith.

    3. Wow, Kate--ten years ago today my husband died. March is a bitch.

    4. Yes, it is! With sort of angry, bitter wind and weather. Works for me.

  2. Okay, one more just for spring!

    To Spring

    Birds call rain
    to wash your face
    this morning.

    Daffodils dip
    to touch your hair
    this morning.

    Dress yourself
    in grass and buds
    this morning.

    O bright girl
    run through blue sky
    this morning!

    —Kate Coombs, 2016
    all rights reserved

  3. Up and Down

    Take your meds,
    bi-polar March,
    Some days wobbly,
    some days starch.

    Last week sweating.
    This week snow.
    Which way you'll wander
    We don't know.

    Some days windy
    Some days still.
    Some days won't
    Some days will.

    Some days winter,
    Some days spring.
    Take your meds,
    You ditzy thing.

    ©2016 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

    1. "You ditzy thing"—haha. Exactly. It was 70 here and sunny on Saturday; then yesterday it snowed.

    2. My sentiments exactly.

    3. This comment has been removed by the author.

  4. These poems (and comments!) are powerful -- a bright spot in this windy month.

  5. So close and yet so far away...

    You are an awful tease, you know.
    Come on, Spring. We know you’re here.
    Come on out and play. I’ll bring the boat,
    and beer and onion rings. You bring wood decks,
    wood ducks and just enough wood smoke
    to keep the chill away.

    Come as you are. Come barefoot,
    In your old blue jeans. Barkeep, please,
    another round around the table
    for those beautiful round girls,
    whose laughter melts like frosting
    on this warm chocolate night.

    With the fire flies, stars, and neon lights,
    We’ve the notion you are near. Now red buds,
    redbirds, rock and roll the jukebox keeps
    on playing. Willie’s drummer keeps the time,
    the waiter keeps the tab and, Spring,
    I will keep coming back until there’s crawfish!

    Quit messin’ with us, Spring! This is your time.
    Come join us and let’s play. What’s that you say?
    An Easter storm? Bad, like we get each year?
    Can’t plant ‘til after Mother’s Day?
    You’re fickle, Spring. I knew that.
    Just wanted to forget.

    ©2016 Judith Robinson all rights reserved

    1. Love this, Judith. Voice is very clear.


    2. Thanks, Jane...sometimes it runs me over:)

  6. This comment has been removed by the author.

  7. So natural, poetry as spoken word, and yet controlled.


  8. I smile,'s the "controlled" part that gives me fits! Thanks for noticing. j

    I open both closet doors; grab a faded powder blue dress
    with dandelions scattered throughout. Mom called this
    her comfy dress, where she felt her most authentic.
    I still see smidgens of raspberry stains where a dollop of jam
    plopped itself, instead of on her toasted whole wheat bread.
    She was no doubt distracted by me, a tiny hurricane, tearing
    through this house which now, like me and Dad, has a hole in its
    heart since she departed. I’m in middle school now, all that frantic
    energy’s now channeled into sports and math, my two favorite things.
    When I smell this dress, once a year, on Mom’s birthday, her fragrance
    reminds me that she’s never too far away from my soul.