Author: Christine Goodnough

I'm a wife, mom & grandma, homemaker, avid reader, blogger, and nature lover enjoying country living. I write short stories, poems, and share life experiences, adding a dash of humor whenever I can.

Of Micros and Macros

~ Christine Goodnough ~ Leave a comment

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word this morning is MACRO

This is a word I’ve had only a passing acquaintance with. As in, heard it used; had no clue. So I checked in dictionary, I see that MACRO is the big picture whereas MICRO is the small one.

The Canadian Oxford Dictionary tells me:
Macro: A series of abbreviated instructions expanded automatically when required. (An accordion deep inside in your computer?)
Macro- combining form: long, large, large scale, comprehensive
Macrocosm: the universe, the whole of all nature
Macroeconomics: the study of large scale or general economic factors
(Macro is the Federal Budget; microcosm is our family budget.)

I’ve heard of micro-poetry, so I suppose the opposite is macro-poetry? As in, the macro-poem being the old familiar one by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and the micro-poem being my senryu version. What do you think?

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor,
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Flourish.plainer

senryu version:

soft patter of words
the poet’s pen and your voice
night’s harmony

From My Back Door

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 13 Comments

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is:  LOOKING OUT MY BACKDOOR.

hoarfrost-3491999_640
Clarence Peters — Pixabay

We don’t have the new dusting of snow and hoar frost this morning, but our scenes are as above, all winterish white and gray. The odd magpie and crow visits or flies over now and then to add its own shades to the scene.

magpie-4661322_640
TheOtherKev — Pixabay

However, the other day when I drove out of my yard a huge bird took flight from a tall old tree at the edge of our yard; a second look told me the bird was a bald eagle. As it circled over the field just south of the road I was on, I got a good view of this regal bird.

bald-eagle-1018717_640
skeeze — Pixabay

If you haven’t already, why don’t you pop over and see how various bloggers have responded to this prompt. All bloggers are welcome to write and share their own posts on the topic. LOOKING OUT MY BACKDOOR

“Wee timorous beastie” indeed!

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 21 Comments

It’s Wednesday again and Biff seems to be AWOL as yet. Nevertheless, I’ll do a Whatnot Wednesday post anyway — mainly because I don’t know what else to do with this verse-of-sorts. 🙂

The following poem is based on a real life experience…

The moon rains silver on my window
pierces the darkness of my eleventh hour,
draws thin slats on my carpet as
warm ambiance enfolds me like a cloak
woven of droopy eyelids, wool-gathering.

My book slips from my hand; sinking into
the fronds of fern casting their shadows
in dark splashes on the carpet
rubbing the rich brown of the old
grandfather clock poised to chime.

Shattering my doze like a snare drum,
the steady rustle I have come to dread.
That MOUSE again!
Intrepid raider of the cat-food dish.
Its toes scratch on the floor tile as it creeps
forward toward its goal – then I hear
that brazen crunching I detest.

It knows – I’m positive it bides its time until
some telepathy reveals to its pea-brain
when I am most vulnerable. Too burdened
and half asleep — can it hear me breathe — 
to give chase. Then out it creeps
to fill its emptiness with a cat food snack,
which it erroneously believes
has been provided for its benefit.

I will the clock to strike, to boom
a hickory, dickory, dock. A horrid shock
that causes said mouse to die of fright.
Yet Grandfather has nothing to say just yet,
so I sit here trembling in the darkness
while my cat, a warm ball on my lap,
snores on, oblivious to mouse or man.
Waking, only to glance at me in peeved disdain,
when I screech, “You’re FIRED!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my dreams…

Cat + Mouse.K Tyl

Maritime Morning

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 4 Comments

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word for today is GOODBYE.

I wrote this short story some years back, but I think it will be a suitable response:

Maritime Morning

It was the perfect day for sorrow.

Grey veils drifted across the sky and mist blanketed the sea, a reflection of the murky future. Only the tiny waves rippling toward the shore disturbed the ocean’s dark surface; only a gentle rise and fall bore evidence of the giant sleeping below.

A small row-boat bobbed up and down ever so slightly with each swell, its docking rope barely pulling at the mooring. The big fishing boats were still at rest, shrouded in the mist, waiting for the fishermen to fire up their engines and point them seaward. The sailors were still at home, lingering over their morning coffee, waiting for the fog to lift.

All was silent except for one old horse that plodded along the gravel road, still half asleep. Some farmer riding out to check his fields; saving gas and trusting his horse rather than his battered old truck. No danger of him losing his way in the gray mist; habit had mapped the route indelibly in the old horse’s brain.

Down at the wharf a boy sat all alone on the lower dock, legs dangling over, toes not quite touching the water. He gazed over the sea, recording the muffled cries of invisible gulls and sandpipers as they scavenged along the shore and the far off droning of some foghorn. He studied the small seabirds as they paddled on the water’s surface, appearing and disappearing amidst patches of fog. He strained his eyes to define the that elusive line where water met sky.

From his small space in the universe, he contemplated the power of the sea. That great expanse that fed them, that bobbed them up and down from one shore to another, that challenged and tested their mettle. One day it held them so gently on the palm of its mighty hand; the next day dashed and crashed them from towering peaks into deep green troughs. Troughs that could swallow a fleet of ships at a gulp, the old-timers said. He’d seen the tails of those big waves lashing these docks and he right well believed it!

The subject of his contemplation was at this moment as docile as a lamb. The expanse of sea was as gray as the sky overhead, as gray as the fog that blanketed the shore. The only variation he could see as he looked around was a thick dark line away beyond the clearing behind him; the woods were too big to hide completely in the fog.

Somewhere on the eastern horizon a red sun would be peeping over the ocean; his watch told him so, though not one beam penetrated the cotton batting that wrapped the small town. Yes, this was a perfect day for sorrow and regret, for leaving the people and the home you love.

He stood to say a last goodbye, looking around at every familiar thing, taking mental pictures, wanting to have these scenes filed away for the lonely days ahead. He wanted to drink in as much of his home as he could before the ferry left at ten.

The sea. Would he ever see it again?