Requiem for a B-ball Tourney

Dear Readers,

I usually post children’s poems, but today I wanted to share a more adult—or maybe young adult–one. Written for Ed Decaria’s Annual March Madness Poetry Jam, I thought it would resonate with those of us on the losing end of last night’s Final Four Game. (I live in North Carolina where love of basketball is required.) 

for anyone who’s ever lost anything…

                      Requiem       

soft things bruise—a fruit, a limb—
but most of all, the flesh within—
the veins, the pulp, the under-skin.
a gathering of blood and bile,
a yellowing of youthful fire.
sweet and sour, tender, blue—
the vast tattoo of losing you.

Happy April, Everyone!

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Yogabets: An Acrobatic Alphabet

Hello, Friends, Readers, Writers!  It’s been a long winter and I for one am ready to come out of hibernation!  Please join me this weekend in downloading one of my newest children’s picture books, YOGABETS: An Acrobatic Alphabet.  It’s a short, sweet, and rhyming story/poem that introduces the alphabet in an unusual (I hope) way.  Here are the first few lines . . .

a . . . earring for a tiny lobe, or

a teacup resting one its side.

b . . . Mama with a baby bump,

baby bumpkin tucked inside.

The digital version is free for download from Amazon this week (Saturday, March 12 – Wednesday, March 16th).  The illustrations are by yours truly as well.

Here’s the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Yogabets-Acrobatic-Alphabet-Julie-Krantz-ebook/dp/B016DSTJCC

Happy Spring, everyone!

Cover 1200 dpi YOGA single pp for CS - 9 22 15_Page_01

Poem for Thanksgiving

Mr. Owl’s Apology
 
High above
the woodland din,
perched on a
listing redwood
limb,
I spy
the hollow
far below
where humble
creeks
and rivers
flow,
where songbirds
flit and
beauty lies,
where greening
trees and
bluing skies
hide forest
creatures
shivering,
their flittering
and fluttering
their wintering
and summering,
set my heart
a spin-owing.

Poetry Challenge: Rictameter

Greetings, All–

Sometimes I write poems in response to prompts posted on the Miss Rumphius Effect blog.  This one calls for a 9-line poem with the following syllable counts:  2-4-6-8-10-8-6-4-2, and requires the first and last lines to match.

You

You are…
the crest upon
a robin’s chest, the blue
in a bluebird’s feathery nest.
You’re the song I sing when I go to sleep,
the words I pray my soul to keep
when I need to be strong—
and if I’m not…
you are.

Goodbye, Summer!

Dear Readers,

Sorry I’ve been away. This has been a busy summer, and I’ve been devoting my energy to One Charming Cat (January 2016).

But here’s my question for the day . . . what is the value of light verse?

In the meantime, here’s one last nod to summer . . .

Swimmin’ Pool

Swimmin’ pool, swimmin’ pool
I’m your local swimmin’ fool.
See your sparkle, see your blue
ain’t nothing comin’ ’tween me ’n you.

Swimmin’ pool, swimmin’ pool,
hot dogs, June bugs, summer school.
Feel your water, feel your ice—
Ooooooh—don’t that feel nice!

Summertime: Beachballs, Bathing Suits & Frilly Nails

IMG_1353

Fergus

A fungus lives
inside my
foot–
he says
his name
is Fergus.

He’s rude
he’s crude—
I hate this dude!
But, worst of all,
he will not move!
And when I
try to rout
him out,
he rears
his itchy head
and says:
“I’d vacate
in a minute,
Sir,
if I could
find
new shelter.
But I’ve
no other
place to
hide.
So stay
I must,
and swelter!”

My voice
grows shrill,
my tone is
short,
I cannot
keep
from screaming:
“My toe shack’s
packed,
my nooks
are booked,
my feet
are raw
and blistery.
So please
get out—
don’t make me shout—
I’m sick
of all your
witchery!”

“Don’t kid
yourself,”
he answers,
“your foot’s
no Grand Hotel—
it’s pink,
it stinks,
it sweats
and swells.
In summertime
it’s hot as h_ll.”

Oh, how I hate
this loathsome
lout.
How much
I want
to
oust him!
But nothing
works—
not soap
or steam
or gel
or cream.
A knife would
do the trick,
of course,
but at
too great
a cost:
because without
my dear, sweet feet
(no matter how infected),
I would not know
which way to turn—
and I would be
forever lost.

Hide ‘n Seek

I wonder where
the blackbird went—
the one who sang
all night?
I wonder why
this songbird hides
whenever it is light?

Does he fear
the chilly
white—
or does he just
prefer
the night?