Some small poems were scribbles in my notebook.
December 5, 2022
slurping soup
chicken noodle bowl
achy tooth
​
© jone rush macculloch

December 8, 2022
Worked on a Spark 53 Poem 

December 9, 2022
kindergartners
joyous sounds
making snow people

©jone rush macculloch

December 10, 2022
amber gold
winter whisky warmth
grandfather

©jone rush macculloch
​

On  the November 17, 2022 post, I featured an interview with Rebecca Brock, author of Each Bearing Out.  She graciously sent me two poems to share.  One was shared during that post and today, I'm sharing her other poem. 
Originally appeared online at Mom Egg Review, December 2020

Good Housekeeping
She keeps trying to get her house in order
pretending with the rest of them
that the sun won’t melt the earth,
that the seas won’t burn, that the land
won’t disappear under water or ice
or our own triggered destruction.
She keeps going back to the dishes,
to the meals, to washing the clothes,
to worrying over the state of the carpet
which is funny in a sad way
if you knew the state of her house--
the way the windows leak, the way the doors
have to be snugged closed, the way
they blow open anyway, with the slightest wind,
the cracks in the ceiling from settling or moisture
or just poor craftsmanship. She still decorates
for holidays, she still worries
over the tidiness of things, the nutrition of meals,
the state of the bathroom—of the toilet--
under assault by the misdirection
and lack of attention
of three males in one small house.
She is like some mad woman
straightening a frame during an earthquake,
righting a vase after a hurricane took off the roof.
She sees it is the season to behave so,
to live beside, within madness--
to mother through it.
It is despair pushed off
to vacuum anyway, to make a decent meal,
to require everyone to sit. She is hoping
the children won’t notice or remember the windows,
the carpets—the way the door won’t shut.
She is desperate for their happiness
for their solidity, for them to make it
to some new place
she never will.

This poem really caught my eye.
Plus happy news, Rebecca has recently found out she is a Pushcart Poetry Award nominee for two other poems

On November 12, The Poeming Pigeon held an online launch party for Issue 12.  The video for that event is now posted and can be found HERE or below.

There was to be an in person event on November 13 but it needed to be rescheduled and moved to Zoom.  While I was excited to present in person, I can now have my friends in other time zones attend via Zoom. You must register to attend.
​
Hope to see you next month for our December 10th show for Part 2 of our launch of The Poeming Pigeon. You can register for event HERE

I had planned to share something else today but in light of this weekend's shootings, I am sharing this poem which I posted in May.  I also submitted it to the Oregon State Fair this year and is won second place in short poetry.
While my poem is in response to the Uvalde School shooting, it holds true for any place.  People should have the right to have fun and go out without the worry of not coming home.  My heart goes out to those families who lost loved ones this past weekend.
​

A Thread
There’s a thread you follow
~ William Stafford 

In the middle of the day, there’s
one moment in which a
classroom doesn’t know their thread
life will unravel. And again, you
wonder when gun safety reform will follow

© Jone Rush MacCulloch

​

This house was around the corner from my childhood home (1958-1963).  As a child, I was afraid of a tiny old woman and her St. Bernand who lived in a house down the street from my house. 
I was convinced this woman was a witch and that she would cast spells on the neighborhood houses. (The lights in those houses would be out at night if she hast put her spell on them).

Carrie Clickard was a guest author at Today's Little Ditty, in 2017.  She challenged us  to write a poem about a person, place, or thing which scared or spooked you as a child. 

Michelle Barnes, selected the poem below to be part of her collection, The Best of Today's Little Ditty: 2017-2018, published in 2019.

I moved from Monrovia in 1963.  It was that year that this magnificent house was torn down, making way for a housing  development,

I love autumn. And Joy Harjo's poem is spot on.

Fall Song by Joy Harjo

It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain.
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for “divine”?
I need a song that will keep the sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast
Yellow leaves
Your jacket hanging in the hallway
Next to mine.
From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings (Norton, 2015).

I am making an effort to listen to The Slowdown everyday.  Listening to podcasts is something I am working on.
There other day I listened to Ada Limón, share this on The Slowdown:

My Rock
BY PAT MORA
          Summer’s ending.

I sit on my desert rock, listen
         to the world’s hum.
                   Crows and ravens caw,

finches and sparrows chirp. A dog barks.
          Can I face
                  the halls of judgments?

You can read the rest at Poetry Foundation