543 Day Writing Journey

Will Pay With Eggs. Day 59.

Poetry is my favorite writing form. Maybe it’s because the first time a publisher ever said yes was for one of my poems put into a copy of Hypertrophic Literary Press called “Dear Annie, I Kissed Another Man.” Also, poetry is therapy because a writer may choose to rhyme or not, and it is a free and freeing way of writing. Some are intimidated by poetry, understandably so, but it is not as complicated as most believe. Lyrics are poetry and most of us sing along to them. Greeting cards, nursery rhymes, and even silly limericks are poetry. I suppose it doesn’t matter why I love it, but that I just do.

During the pandemic, I wrote this poem about items we traded using our eggs as currency. (Thanks, again, chickens.) Reading it now, a year later, I am reminded of how intense and unnerving that time was. Although we’re still going through the pandemic in this world, we now know more so are able to deal with the oddities and differences that we cannot compare with our pre-pandemic lives.

There are many more in this collection that I may submit in the hopes of publishing, so I won’t share them on my page, or they will not be eligible. I don’t normally rhyme when I write poetry, but this one offered a simplicity that made it easy and almost necessary. Here is the revision for a poem I wrote during the beginning of the pandemic:

Trade for Eggs

My hens are givers
of humor and charm.
And, breakfast and Easter
on our little farm.

The eggs are like cash
in this time of ill health.
So, we barter with others.
Stuff matters, not wealth.

A vine of peas
in the form of a seed.
A green fragrant mint plant
that looks like a weed.

Or. that precious paper
for the powder room.
That is hoarded like gold
or more minutes on Zoom.

The red apples that popped
when we each took a bite,
were left on our bench
under the rusty post light.

The babe spinach plant
in the white paper cup,
hangs on for life
like a hairless runt pup.

A plant of tomatoes
sips the wet drop.
But one day without,
and she threatens to flop.

Daffodils in a bag
surrounded by earth,
stand straight and proud
despite limited girth.

And one yellow paper
the most cherished note,
from someone so dear,
in blue pen she wrote:

About the new plants
that she started from seeds.
Water and sun
grant them their needs.

At the end was a closing
With a heart then a U.
And a noseless happy face,
sweet like honeydew.

5 thoughts on “Will Pay With Eggs. Day 59.”

  1. Dear Teri,
    Your “old” house was now empty of all things near and dear, with the front yard cluttered with items that would soon be cleared…
    The rooms now had an echo to show the emptiness they held, but if anybody asked, they had a story to tell…
    The morning was cool, with everyone working like heck, but all worked together like cards in a deck…
    The truck was all packed, and ready to go; and in the early morning hours, the traffic would flow… “North Carolina, here we come”!!!

    Love,
    Uncle Lee 😦

    Like

  2. Dear Teri,
    “We’re cooped up in these tiny little bins; and we are bouncing around like rocks in tin”…
    “But we’re now on our way to a new home far away, and we shall learn to enjoy life on yet another day”… Signed, “The Adams Chickens”
    (BTW – Loved your “chicken poetry”)!!!
    Love,
    Uncle Lee 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. You never cease to amaze me…so talented and pretty to boot! Speaking of eggs, I miss your pretty colored eggs your “girls” produced!
    🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔
    Love you,
    auntie sue

    Liked by 1 person

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