Spring Insists on Coming

Spring insists on coming.
Even though winter still gnaws
at the edges of my world,

spring will not stop coming, coaxing
life from the seeds
I thoughtlessly planted,

not understanding how fragile
the sprouts’ little green necks
can be, stretching out skyward.

Some will never make it that far,
asleep forever
where even late frost can’t hurt them.

But spring is here
and for whatever it’s worth
so am I.

Photo by imso gabriel on Unsplash

Song Choice: Carry On My Wayward Son covered by First to Eleven

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem in linked to the Friday Writings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Love Letter to a Wildflower

beautiful things grow
in unexpected places.
you taught me that

there is no wall
no cement pavement
thick enough
to keep what is meant to grow
from unabashedly blooming.

at the end of every winter
i search through last year’s dead leaves
and the cracks of suburban civilization
until i find you again.

Photo by Lee 琴 on Unsplash

Song Choice: Wildflowers covered by The Wailin' Jennys

Line Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writings Prompt at Poets and Storytellers United

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Spring Hymn

What could not survive
winter lies cracked and broken.
Don’t be gentle, wind,
bear away what will not bloom
so that hope can plant its seeds.

Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

Song Choice: Spring 1 composed by Max Richter

Liner Notes for This Groove: This tanka is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings Prompt. I did mean to write about cake, but the wind was so wild and lovely today, I just had to get my thoughts down about it.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Warmth Exists

Ceaseless wind scours
my lips raw on this winter day.
The sun does its best
to remind me warmth exists
if my will is to seek it.

Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Pinch Me by Bare Naked Ladies

Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings post.

Waiting for Crocus

If I stand here long enough
I might see a crocus bloom.
But I’d likely freeze to death

before that happened.
Only my bones left
when the snow has melted

to see the purple fingers
of newborn crocus
reaching for the sky.

My ribcage could be
a serviceable cathedral

for mousely vows
said under springtime moons
and earthworm princes
to find the objects of their quests.

I’m afraid I’m too selfish to share
this space my heart is used to
taking up with just any random
invertebrate or rodent.

So I’ll pull my hat down lower
to cover up the howling of the wind,

go inside where my tea waits for me,
and come back to this place
when the crocus is ready for me.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: The Waiting by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storyteller United's Friday Writings, Feast or Famine. 

Bare

People will always talk
about the pretty perfection
of falling leaves

but hush
when conversation turns
to branches stripped bare.

Photo by Shaojie on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, October.

Two Unexpected

Two unexpected
seeds dropped.

One on a winter evening
when it had the indecency
to rain instead of snow.

One on a summer afternoon
when sunshine pulled out
everyone from inside the house.

Why go out
and expose flesh
to numbing rain

for just dinner and a movie
when there’s a perfectly good bed?

Why stay inside
a stifling room
when a breeze from the bay
feels so good on skin 

on skin in the shade?

One winter day. One summer day.
The company was more than fine.

Perhaps we should have been a little less surprised
at how life (and love) grows in welcoming spaces
despite the whims of the weather.

Photo by Bastien Jaillot on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Closing Time covered by Wendy Child

Liner Notes For This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets United, Sudden Moments.

When Winter Comes

Some wounds are deep
enough to bleed through generations—
aches handed down as heirlooms
listed on wills with invisible ink.

It couldn’t be helped. Then 

silence was a virtue
(and here everyone believes that
please scream inside your heart
is just so 2020).


There’s an evolutionary advantage
to all the wild ‘what ifs’
buzzing like discomforted wasps
looking for a target.

At least that’s what I heard on NPR once.


If I have time for NPR,
I have time to consider
all the seasons
the wounds have lingered—

all the thorns in the spring,
all the hollows of the summer,
all the breaking of the autumn—

and what I’m going to do about them.

I hope
that by the time winter comes
some wounds have time to close

and I will know that I have done my part
to pass on what it means
to walk away from legacies
we don’t want to hold on to anymore.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Song Choice: Teach Your Children Well by Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

This poem was created in response to the prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Weekly Scribblings #40: Walk Away.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

All Winter in a Day, Blogging Around with Rommy Week 12

The glitter-glass water fell last night

in a melodious hushing shush

I strained to hear over your snoring.

(please, wake up)

There’s a tingle in my snout

as I dream of little bursts of cold

melting all over my fur and tongue.

(Please. Wake up.)

I hear the barbaric chittering

of my foes, flaunting their villain’s tails

as they revel on top of your car and my tree.

(Please. Wake. Up.)

The slushy crisp crunch of feet

attached to giggles and mittened hands

ready to rub my belly

goes ambling along outside the door.

PLEASE. WAKE. UP.

Liner Notes for this Groove: 

This poem was created for a prompt (created by me) as part of Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads NaPoWriMo extravangaza. I asked people to write about a situation that would scare something they were afraid of as a child. As a kid, I was terribly scared of dogs (alough I'm a certified dog-lover now). I couldn't help writing one of my dog's biggest fears - missing out on winter fun.

I know I've shared this image before, but sadly there is no snow today for Kit to claim.

So Groovers is there something that scared you as a kid that you grew to like later in life? Or how is NaPoWriMo going for those of you who are playing along? Tell me all about it in the comments section, or just talk to me about how your week is going. If you’d like to continue the conversation on your cyberhome, drop the link in with the rest of your comments. I’d love to visit.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: FOMO by High Rule

False Spring

Do not trust the sun in early March. It's promises mean nothing. Winter is a lazy monarch in those days, allowing occasional warmth to creep in until she remembers herself. Be patient. In time, she shall yield to her sister seasons. Then it will be safe to grow.

False spring tempts rash seeds

afraid to miss any warm days.

It's braver to wait

under snow, gathering strength,

trusting warmer days will come.

Song Choice: Wait For It from Hamilton

This poem is linked to The Tuesday Platform over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Songbird

When conditioned to the silence of winter, that first sound of bird song can be surprising. Its music is a far better reminder than a date on the calendar that warmth will soon return. Even if there is snow on the ground, each trill carries a seed of spring to plant inside the hearts that hear them.

A bird intends its song
to be heard. It is a gift,
inspiring music
in an appreciative ear.
The worlds needs more songbirds.


Song choice: Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus (acapella version)

This poem is linked up to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads' Tuesday Platform. It is also linked to Poets United Poetry Pantry 392.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Refining Silence

My breath floats around me like a veil

and the world is silent,

save for the sighs in the snow’s descent.

The waning sun still has enough strength

to bring out the glitter in winter’s icy jewels.

Winter’s court is a dark beauty,

hiding nothing.

All the extraneous has been shed,

leaving the trees’ bones to sway

in a danse macabre

orchestrated by frigid winds.

There is strength as well as elegance

to this starkest of seasons,

inspiring us to remember the peace

in the quiet cores of our souls,

to rest, and cherish them

for the blooming season to come.

Song Choice: Winter (from Vivaldi's Four Seasons)

This poem was inspired by the prompt given by A Dash of Sunny's Prompt Nights: Winter, my dear, would be cold without warm memories.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Cherry Blossom Diva

I have a very limited engagement,

once a year, perhaps for a week.

My performances inspire artists and poets.

Emperors and peasants stop

to enjoy a moment under my boughs.

So imagine my displeasure

to see I’ve been upstaged

by snow.

Snow!

Clinging on my elegant limbs,

freezing my barely unfurling buds!

I simply cannot work like this.

If you can’t arrange for the proper conditions

for me to truly display the extent of my beauty,

I’ll simply stop performing

and you’ll have to wait until next year.

See to it this doesn’t happen again.

Actual picture of a tree in the Philly burbs on 4/9/16 taken by a friend, Christine Strieb

Song Choice: Primadonna by Marina and the Waves

This poem was inspired by Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Transforming With Nature's Words and by the cherry blossom trees who's peak bloom was cut short by an odd "second winter" in the Philadelphia suburb area (boo!)

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Run

(Just a quick poem I worked on yesterday, after a vague sort of dusting of snow.)

The snow was much deeper then

and you and I were much younger.

But when it glittered at just the right height,

and the powder of it was just so

we’d run.

Leaving nothing
but sprays of crystalline glitter and prints behind us

we’d run,

when good folk were working, cooking, studying

and generally intent on busy-ness.

That might have been me too,

when I was even younger still,

cocooned beneath cinder and cement,

looking outside and longing,

but afraid.

The snow is not right yet.

The leaves are mostly gone.

But the sky still has not made up its mind.

Eventually it will,

and when it does

I’ll run.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks