Last weekend I decided that I wanted to send some family members Hanukkah cards. In recent years my son has made lovely, creative ones, but this year that was not an option as he was busy with a baseball tournament. (I realize the winter holiday card/baseball tournament conflict is not really a problem in many parts of the world.)

I had not bought greeting cards for a long while, and, looking around at various stores, I was surprised to learn that they now cost $3-4 each. That seemed like quite a lot when I could make them myself, so I decided I would do just that.

The ideas started coming to me. I formed a vision I really liked. It got even better when I looked at the materials I had. But I began to worry that it would not be a quick task. I started thinking that maybe $3-4 was not so much for a greeting card. However, I very much wanted to send timely thoughtful greetings to our family, and the stores were closed, so I continued with my plan.

Once I got into the project, I enjoyed it so much. I was delighted with the results. I knew which card was right for each recipient.

When I was done, I stepped back and this is what I saw:

What a balagan! (The Yiddish word for a “chaotic mess” that I picked up from my mother-in-law.)

I had wanted to make those cards, then I hesitated, then I did it anyway and enjoyed the process. I made a mess while creating a neat result. I looked at it all and thought, “That is what creativity looks like.”

This week, with all the talk of refugees, I’ve found myself thinking of the poem, “The New Colossus,” written by Emma Lazarus in 1883 to help raise funds for the Statue of Liberty’s pedestal and posted on the interior of that pedestal in 1903. I love that a poem is connected to this grand monument.

The Statue of Liberty, New York Harbor. Those little dark spots at the bottom are people. The gold-coated flame shines in the sun. (Photo by Karin Fisher-Golton, 2012)

For four of my great-grandparents this figure was likely part of their first views of land after crossing the ocean, and leaving close family and their former lives behind. One of them was 17 and traveling alone. Two years later, her sister made the same trip alone at 15.

“Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Those lines are probably familiar, but do you know the rest? Here is the poem, a sonnet, in its entirety:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

—Emma Lazarus

What a powerful sentiment to have, where the edge of our country meets the ocean. May we find our way to keeping it true.

Thank you, Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect for hosting Poetry Friday. Find and enjoy more poetry there!

My children’s poets group chose to write cento poems for our National Poetry Month project. For those who don’t know, a cento is like a poem collage. The poet takes exact lines from existing poems and arranges them to make a new poem. I want to particularly thank my poet-friend Judy Gamble for exposing me to a yet another poetic form that I have come to love.

For my cento, I limited myself to poems by children’s poets who have inspired me and whose work I have particularly enjoyed either during my childhood or as an adult. This meant that I got to identify who those poets are for me and take a new look at their work–a very satisfying activity for National Poetry Month.

As I picked out lines I liked, a theme of children’s imaginative play emerged. I began to seek out lines that fit that theme. Soon I had a large group of potential lines from the poets I’d identified. I decided that I could use multiple lines from the same poet, but not from the same poem, and began the exciting process of choosing, arranging, and rearranging to create the new poem, “Play.”

“Play” has 25 lines from 25 different poems by 18 different poets. The poems are all referenced below, so you can check out the wonderful and fun poems that make their little cameos together.

Tomorrow is Poetry Friday, so soon you can also visit https://spacecityscribes.wordpress.com/ for even more poetry.

Play

A Cento in Celebration of Children’s Poets and Children’s Play



We burst forth,1 

Lost in cloudy hallways2

Into the hammock and wound round the stairs,3

i twirl in rhythm to the dance4

Behind the beat, around the beat5

we leap into the wind,6

Down and around and up on the crest of a breeze7

Up in the air and over the wall,8

For there’s no more UP to go.9

are you grinning10

There are no rules.11

Perhaps I am a Postman. No I think I am a Tram.12

Resemblance to both mud and lace.13

and onion ring fryers—14 

Pieces out of picture puzzles,15

spitting papaya seeds!16

Where ferns uncurl17

Whispers18

     like

          bright

               chips

                    of sunlight19

These are my two drops of rain20 

These jewels of color!21 

I really hold a million million rocks here in my hand22

Let the rain kiss you.23 

the sun is where the sun should be—24 

There’s laughter and smiles galore.25

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2015

“Play” includes lines from 25 different poems by 18 different poets. Each line appears in 
its entirety and unchanged except one minor punctuation change as noted. Author, poem, 
and collection sources are below.

1. Joyce Sidman, “The Season’s Campaign,” Song of the Water Boatman and Other 
          Pond Poems
2. Leland B. Jacobs, “E,” An Alphabet of Girls (period at end of line omitted)
3. Shel Silverstein, “Spaghetti,” Where the Sidewalk Ends
4. Nikki Giovanni, “November,” The Sun Is So Quiet
5. Walter Dean Myers, “America’s Music,” Jazz
6. Kristine O’Connell George, “Tree Horse,” Old Elm Speaks: Tree Poems
7. Alice Schertle, “A Silver Trapeze,” A Kick in the Head: An Everyday Guide to Poetic 
          Forms
8. Robert Louis Stevenson, “The Swing,” Sing a Song of Popcorn: Every Child’s Book 
          of Poems
9. John Ciardi, “How to Tell the Top of a Hill,” Sing a Song of Popcorn: Every Child’s 
         Book of Poems
10. Paul B. Janeczko, cinquain that begins “Oh, cat,” A Kick in the Head: An Everyday 
          Guide to Poetic Forms
11. Ogden Nash, “The Mule,” A Kick in the Head: An Everyday Guide to Poetic Forms
12. A.A. Milne, “Busy,” Now We Are Six
13. Joyce Sidman, “The Lichen We,” Ubiquitous: Celebrating Nature’s Survivors
14. N. M. Bodecker, “Sing Me a Song of Teapots and Trumpets,” The Random House 
          Book of Poetry for Children
15. Shel Silverstein, “Hector the Collector,” Where the Sidewalk Ends
16. Janet S. Wong, “Mountain Gorilla,” National Geographic Book of Animal Poetry
17. Margaret Wise Brown, “Green Stems,” The Random House Book of Poetry for Children
18. Valerie Worth, “Crickets,” The Random House Book of Poetry for Children
19. Joyce Sidman, “Always Together,” Butterfly Eyes and Other Secrets of the Meadow
20. A.A. Milne, “Waiting at the Window,” Now We Are Six
21. Valerie Worth, “prism,” Peacock and Other Poems
22. Florence Parry Heide, “Rocks,” Sing a Song of Popcorn: Every Child’s Book of Poems
23. Langston Hughes, “April Rain Song,” The Random House Book of Poetry for Children
24. N. M. Bodecker, “Good-by My Winter Suit,” The Random House Book of Poetry for 
         Children
25. Shel Silverstein, “The Land of Happy,” Where the Sidewalk Ends

While most of this country was experiencing a snowy-stormy winter, here on the California coast we had an unusually balmy one. So last Monday morning, walking in some good ol’ San Francisco Bay Area fog seemed refreshing. I was surprised when those misty droplets got heavier, and I found myself caught in the rain.

For a reason I don’t recall, I stopped and looked behind me. A rainbow shined in the sky.

Though this was not the actual rainbow I saw, the scene was quite similar. Double rainbow by Andrew McMillan from public-domain-image.com.

I had my rainbow pause—my moment with that amazing sight.

Then I was amused. Isn’t that just like California in 2015? When we get rain, we get a rainbow, too.

I’d been looking for a topic to respond to Margarita Engle’s tanka poem challenge on Today’s Little Ditty, Michelle Heidenrich Barnes’ blog. (Read about the challenge following Michelle’s great interview with one of my favorite authors: here). I had just found my topic. Here is the poem:

Amidst a dry March,
this misty California
morning turned rainy.
I turn around to find a
rainbow, smiling upside-down.


© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2015

After a draft or two, I realized an upside-down smile is also a frown. That seemed fitting too, in a time of climate change and in a poem with turns and words with multiple meanings.  Poetry, whether it’s mine or someone else, so often helps me notice more.

To me both meanings of the rainbow are true, the smile and the frown. Whatever meaning I give it, as with any rainbow, its awesome beauty was undeniable.

You can find many more poems for this Poetry Friday at Jone MacCulloch’s website, Check It Out, and mine and other tankas in response to Margarita Engle’s challenge on Michelle’s blog, Today’s Little Ditty.

My poem-a-day-for-February month is winding up. As long as nothing unexpected happens by Saturday I’ll have written at least thirty poems this month. (So far there have been two days when I wrote two.)

The experience has had an ease about it that I didn’t feel last year. What a good reminder that, for just about anything, practice helps.

In celebrations of Poetry Friday, I’m posting a few of my poems from the past week. Visit Heidi Mordhorst’s My Juicy Little Universe for links to more poetry and many reasons to get excited about MARCH.

February 21: I wrote in response to the prompt: “Write a poem inspired by a favorite word or a word you find interesting.” I’ve always loved the sound of “petunia.” Plus, it’s fun to say. Try it.

Petunias

Petunia

tune into color
and put petunias into the ground
bright as sound
the tune of petunias

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2015

February 24: This poem was inspired by underwater sounds as part of Laura Shovan’s sound poem project on Author Amok. Here is a link to her page with a gorgeous photo of a sea turtle, more watery poems, and a link to the sound: http://authoramok.blogspot.com/2015/02/2015-sound-poem-project-day-24-sea.html

The Underwater Way

Undersea sounds—
soothing splashes
babbling bubbles
rhythmic wash. 

How in the midst
of this aquatic lullaby
can there co-exist
a fish eat fish world? 

The underwater citizens
confine their violence
to a snap
               then quickly resume
their peaceful flow.

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2015

February 25: In honor of all the furry office companions, and especially in memory of my two:

The Poet’s Assistant

The poet’s assistant provides
quiet companionship
in the indoor office space.
The assistant is available to hear
the poet’s readings, joys, and woes.
Additionally, the assistant bestows
its soft furry head and back
to receive pats that connect the poet
to the present time and place.
And when the poet needs to walk
in the outdoor office space
to discover what poetic thoughts
are to be found there,
the poet’s assistant is happy
to oblige with a walk.
 
© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2015

February 26: Another poem inspired by Laura Shovan’s sound poem project on Author Amok. Yesterday, before I wrote I saw that the prompt was train sounds. Then while was out in the morning I had an experience much like the one described in this little poem. More poems inspired by train sounds are here: http://authoramok.blogspot.com/2015/02/2015-sound-poem-project-day-26-train.html

Rolling Rhythm 

I hear the beat of drumming, rhythmic rising cross terrain.
I glance and see no drummers drum—the sound comes from a train. 

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2015

Thank you visitors and friends of poetry!

We are past mid-February in the poem-a-day month I am sharing with my poetry group. As anticipated, I feel more at-ease with the project than I did last year–in fact the month seems to be going by a bit fast.

In honor of Poetry Friday, I’m posting a few of my February poems. Visit Linda Baie’s web site, teacherdance, for links to more Friday poetry.

February 4: I am co-teaching an afterschool poetry class which began this month, so February has been doubly rich with poetry. We started with cinquains. One of my students finished her first and asked if there was time for a second. With about 10 minutes left, I thought it was borderline, but said, “yes, go ahead.” Less than 10 minutes later this nine-year-old came back to me and had written a very clever cinquain that was also an acrostic. I still needed to write a poem that day, so after class, I challenged myself to an acrostic cinquain. For the record, this little poem took me more than 10 minutes to write.

Cool drops
Latch together
Out over oceans, high
Up above mountains, hills, plain, then
Drop rain.

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2014

February 8: I am not usually a big acrostic person, but I wrote another I like this month. February is full of surprises.

Luminous Arc

Rainbow—
Apple-y red fire engine arches
Insistent citrus orange-color California poppy
New day, new light, new yolk yellow then
Boreal lush-living wet grassy green over
Ocean sky blueberry blue to indigo
Wowing plum purple-y violet complete

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2014

February 9: The moment described in “Picture This” had me thinking, “There’s a poem in that!” One benefit of poem-a-day month is that I notice even more poetry in life than usual.

Picture This

today I saw a woman with a phone hovering
over a parking lot planting strip

my device-judgment radar on high
I cursed the ubiquitousness of phones

then realized she was taking a photo
but of what? curiosity slowed me down

I looked as I passed and saw a
dew-covered web tucked in green
 
I glimpsed a world where cell phones
make people halt for beauty and art

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2014

February 12: Some February days it’s handy to have a short poem possibility. One of the members of our group remembered the 11-syllable lantern poem. We are enjoying it and not just for its brevity.

      Above

        sky
     expanse
realm for wings
 sector of stars
      space

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2014

February 19: Laura Shovan at Author Amok is doing a month of poetry prompts based on sounds, another synergy with our poem-a-day month. I highly recommend heading over there and delving into the excellent array of poems on 19 February days, so far. It is fascinating to see how different poets respond to the same sound. Today I was inspired by this sound:

Museum Stairwell
 
in the museum’s grand stairs there are echoes—
echoes of conversation, echoes of anticipation
conversation anticipation stairwell
echoes off metal, echoes off marble
metal marble stairwell
echoes of art, echoes of story
art story stairwell
stairwell echoes
echo

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2014

Last year the members of my children’s poets group set out to write a poem a day in February. All four of us did just that. Some days one of us wrote two.

On the last day I wrote a poem called “February 28.” It reminded me of accomplishment and possibility. I transcribed it onto a scrap of paper and put it in a central location on my desk where it has stayed for eleven months.

Poem by Karin Fisher-Golton, 2/28/2014

A new February is about to begin, and we’ve decided to do the same exercise again. Last year at this time, the goal seemed daunting. I was making plans for how I’d keep going and encourage others to keep going when we got stuck or distracted and didn’t write poems for days. None of those plans were necessary.

Now I’m just excited that it’s almost February.

This is a good moment to express my appreciation and esteem for the other three poets in my group: Sheri Doyle, Judith Gamble, and Carol Shank. I am fortunate to study poetry with, be inspired by, and enjoy the friendship of these three talented women. Thank you, Sheri, Judy, and Carol!

(This post is identical to the one I posted earlier today on my book’s blog, OurAmazingDays.com. The two blogs overlap so much, a merge may be forthcoming. Meanwhile, I want to share this here, too.)

I’ve been noticing lately that “stay calm” is a great lesson of parenting. Things just work better when I stay calm. With parenting there are so many opportunities to practice: Stay calm when your precious child is bleeding and sobbing. Stay calm when your innocent child says something completely inappropriate for a situation. Stay calm when your adorable child makes a mess that you never thought possible. Stay calm when your sweet child whines with a marathon runner’s tenacity. Stay calm when you realize you forgot to stay calm.

I was contemplating this just last night. That turned out to be fortunate timing because this morning, when my 9-year-old son and I were putting away clean dishes and my back was facing away from him, I heard a very loud crash with metallic tinkling overtones. Without turning around I said aloud, “I think I just heard the sound of the silverware drawer falling on the floor…now I’m going to turn around and see what that looks like.” In that brief moment I’d taken, I’d already reminded myself to stay calm, which was a good thing because not only did I see the silverware all over the floor, but I saw sharp knives next to my son’s sock-clad feet.

I asked him to notice the knives and walk carefully away. In an alternative not-so-calm universe I would have had dramatic and loud things to say, that would have included keeping him out of the room entirely, while I fixed everything myself, perhaps alternating with demanding he do some particular task in a stressed-out voice.

Instead, I asked him to get a dish towel from the drawer in the dining area so that we could put the clean silverware from the dishwasher on the towel to make room in the dishwasher for the silverware on the floor. While he was out of the room, I picked up the knives. Then we started cleaning up together.

I didn’t point out that it’s not a good idea to pull out the drawer vigorously. I think he already got that message. In fact, I think being calm left space for it to sink in.

Being calm, also left space for gratitude—gratitude the knives hadn’t landed on his feet, gratitude I’d remembered to stay calm, gratitude that he could help in this situation, gratitude for the opportunity to remind him and myself that when we make mistakes we can just simply fix them, gratitude for his good company.

What could have been an unpleasant interlude turned into a sweet time together.

photo by Warburg

photograph by Lori A. Cheung from My Amazing Day by Karin Fisher-Golton, Lori A. Cheung, and Elizabeth Iwamiya ©2013

I started a blog on OurAmazingDays.com, the website for my book, My Amazing Day: A Celebration of Wonder and Gratitude. I’m launching with a month of daily posts about amazing things–clearly relevant topics to my Still in Awe Blog here. I hope you’ll visit, enjoy the posts, and add some comments. Here’s a list of the posts, which I’ll continue to update.

Amazing May 1: Babies, Toddlers, and Wonder
Amazing May 2: Color
Amazing May 3: Written Language
Amazing May 4: Being Ready
Amazing May 5: Breathtaking Scenery

My children’s poets group is finishing up writing a poem a day for the month of February. When we started I wondered how many poems we would actually write. Turns out we’ve each written a poem a day, sometimes two. Between the four of us we have written over a hundred poems this month. It’s been a rich experience in so many ways.

Today I wrote an ekphrastic poem (a poem inspired by a piece of art) on Grant Wood’s painting Spring Turning. You can view the painting here: http://www.reynoldahouse.org/collections/object/spring-turning. I decided to write it as a pantoum, a form I’ve long enjoyed and admired, but felt daunted to try. (In a pantoum the second and fourth lines of one stanza are repeated in the first and third lines of the next stanza.) Thanks to being on day 27 of a poem a day, I put “daunted” aside, and wrote.

Thank you to Anastasia Suen for hosting Poetry Friday. Visit http://www.pinterest.com/anastasiabooks/poetry-friday-22814/ for plentiful links to poetry.

Pantoum on Spring Turning
     inspired by Spring Turning by Grant Wood, 1936

pulling plows, preparing for planting
around the edge of a grand square they go
horses are a farmer’s helpmates
turning hills of grass to growing places

around the edge of a grand square they go
working horses who sleep in warm barns
turning hills of grass to growing places
hills to be filled with food

working horses who sleep in warm barns
pulling plows, preparing for planting
hills to be filled with food
horses are a farmer’s helpmates

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2014

My family and I are making room in our garage for the coming multitude of My Amazing Day board books, so on Sunday we had a garage sale. We did fine with sales, but when it was over there was also quite a lot left. Gung-ho to clear space we made some quick decisions, and packed most of it in the car to take for recycling and donations. My husband Joe found out that the recycling center was open until 4:30pm, so while he finished cleaning at home, I quickly headed off with the Oakland A’s division-clinching game on the radio.

The woman in the back of the Goodwill truck was helpful. I handed up bags, boxes, and loose items. She explained that she couldn’t take aluminum lawn chairs but they could be recycled in a nearby bin. She pointed out another bin for electronics items.

It wasn’t until I was on the way home and the A’s were celebrating, that I reviewed what I had just given away and began to feel anxious about giving away a few of those items, particularly some decorated enamel-on-metal bowls. My mother and I had bought those bowls long ago at a small store, called Peking Duck, on Solano Avenue in Berkeley. Long gone now, the store sold imported items from China. Not the “made in China” stuff that could be from anywhere, but real Chinese crafts which the friendly proprietor often had something to say about. We appreciated the variety of designs in those bowls, the way they stacked so neatly, and how sturdy they were. They ended up following me out of the house, through various meals, camping trips, potlucks, and relationships.

As the evening continued, the anxiety about the other items faded away, but the emotion about the bowls was distinct, not just in my head, but fluttering in my chest, and heavy in my stomach. After decades of experience being a sentimental person, I usually am quite good at identifying the items I don’t want to part with. It bothered me that I’d not even noticed an inkling about the bowls until it was too late. I told my Mom and Joe about this, ending with “…and there’s no way they could even be found in that big truck.”

When I woke up this morning, and the bowls drifted into my thoughts, it occurred to me that since I had dropped the boxes at the end of the day, as of this morning the bowls’ box might not be buried in the truck. What seemed impossible last night, seemed possible this morning. I decided to put my mind’s chatter about overvaluing material objects aside, and just go for it.

By the time I walked my son to school, attended the brief morning assembly, walked home, and drove to the recycling center, it would have been open for nearly an hour. Getting there earlier would help, plus I wanted to minimize the impact on other parts of my day. I asked my ever-more independent, third grade son if he’d feel comfortable being dropped off at a gate. He answered, “Sure!” After some discussion about how weird it felt to drive and debate about where to drop him off, we did it. I watched him walk off on his own, struck by how much more okay that felt than the one other time I did it a few years ago. My confidence that he would reach his classroom this time was complete.

I drove on to the recycling center. As I’d hoped, it was not crowded. Another attendant was in the Goodwill truck, equally helpful. I briefly explained my situation. He asked me to describe the box, as I wasn’t allowed to look for it myself. It was a pretty regular box, but I’d handed it up yesterday with a dish drain sitting on top. First I spotted my son’s little-guy sleeping bag. It was very close to the front. Then I could just see the edge of dish drain. The attendant handed me the box underneath.

At first I’d thought I had the wrong box. I’d expected it to be full of kitchen items wrapped in paper. But then I remembered stuffing that mattress pad on top. I started to reach under the pad to feel for the shape of the bowls wrapped in paper, but instead found the whole stack of bowls right there, stuffed in a fold of the mattress pad. I’d forgotten, that the decision to give away the bowls and their packing had been that hasty. I pulled them out, glad to feel them in my hand, then went to the car and reviewed all the designs, remembering places where they had been and people who’d shared meals served in them.

I drove home on this sunny morning, in awe of how this thing that had seemed impossible had happened, wondering what it might come to mean to me. One thing that struck me is that this is a story of overcoming false limitations—the bowls weren’t impossible to find in that big truck, I didn’t have to wait until after the normal school drop off to go. After I got home I felt a little sad I hadn’t taken a photo of the old sleeping bag. I realized that was because it was linked to my son’s first camping trips. For the second time in twelve hours an emotion hit me hard, again in my chest, but this time with warmth, and it brought tears to my eyes. These objects mean something to me because they are linked to memories of often seemingly simple moments. I got how profoundly sweet it is to have so many precious memories.

I’m feeling sentimental about the eastern span of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Today is the last day it will carry traffic.

My earliest memories of the bridge are as a child, slumped in the back seat on long rides home to Berkeley from San Francisco or beyond, down on the lower deck where both spans look the same. Other than the tunnel through Yerba Buena Island and some glimpses of views between cars and girders, it could be a monotonous ride. But I’d found a way to make it fun. I’d discovered that the underside of the upper deck had sequentially numbered beams. I entertained myself by reading the numbers and seeing how high they would go before they restarted. A few weeks ago, crossing the bridge on the lower deck from my modern-day position in the driver’s seat, I heard my 8-year-old son and his friend refer to “the never-ending bridge” with fondness. I could relate.

The eastern span has been the less glorious half of the Bay Bridge to be sure, and since it showed its vulnerability in the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, over half my life ago, its days have been numbered. Not new to sentimentality, I never sat comfortably with that plan—even before the ridiculous costs and delays.

The impending absence made my heart grow fonder. I realized that on the upper deck I enjoy the geometric patterns, changing like a kaleidoscope as you drive along. A few years ago I was fortunate to be sailing under the bridge in a friend’s boat. I noticed that the eastern span’s supports sport the design element of criss-crossing metal between two sides that is in the towers of the western span. I liked that the two halves were visually tied together.

Crossing the eastern span in recent years has offered the opportunity to witness a bridge being built up close (the new eastern span). I am impressed with people who create bridges. There is a certain audacity in building something over water that will hold the weight of concrete and millions of cars and people passing over.

The new span, which I’ll miss getting to view from the old one, is a beauty. Despite its crazy costs and timeline, I am growing fond of it already.

But for today, I say goodbye and thank you to the original eastern span of the Bay Bridge. Thank you for getting me and so many others to and from San Francisco, Oakland, and points beyond—for work, for visits with friends and family, for life events, for sights and music. Thank you for the views and the counting opportunities. Thank you for being part of the Bay Area.

Monarch butterflies, Monterey, California, Nov. 2011

My love of butterflies began with language. One late spring day in 1997 I was on a group hike, celebrating a friend’s birthday. Someone saw a butterfly and mentioned that he liked the French word for it: “papillon.” I shared that I’d long been partial to the Spanish word, “mariposa.” I realized there were people from several countries on the hike and got curious about their words for butterfly. Before the hike was over, I knew “farfalla” (Italian), “schmetterling” (German), “falter” (also German), and “leptir” (Serbo-Croatian).

Learning words for butterfly became a hobby. I called it my “butterfly collection.” When I heard people speak with accents, prior to this interest I’d feel shy about asking where they were from, but now I had a reason to ask, and ask I did. In a few years I learned thirty-five words for butterfly.

A few of my favorite butterfly words are “babochka” (Russian), “p’ch” (Wolof, a language spoken in Senegal), and “colibangbang” (Ilocano, a language spoken in the Phillipines). I noticed that many of butterfly words start with an “f,” “b,” or “p” and have an “r” for a second consonant. Examples include borboleta (Portuguese), fjäril (Swedish), farasha (Arabic), parpar (Hebrew), and paruparo (Tagalog).  I mentioned this to a linguist friend, and she pointed out that the /f/, /b/, and /p/ sounds are closely related. They are all made at the front of the mouth. I find it fascinating that these languages are connected.

Over the years, my interest in butterfly words translated into a special fondness for those colorful creatures. Recently my online poetry group explored the poetry of Valerie Worth and then wrote poems inspired by her style. Butterflies were a natural topic for me. That poem is below. For plentiful links to poems and uplifting, butterfly-worthy colors, visit Jama’s Alphabet Soup. Thank you Jama for hosting Poetry Friday!

BUTTERFLY

The butterfly
flits, 
jumps around
wearing
its flight-
fancy, color-
bright 
suit.

Something
so beautiful
should
glide or
soar
maybe waltz
or even
sashay.

But these 
beauties
dart 
this way
and that,
as if
distracted by 
their own
brilliant
wings.

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2013

I missed my cousin’s wedding yesterday. It was the union of two people I am so glad get to have a life together. Much of my family, including my husband and son, were there, but I stayed home nursing an ear that would not have done well with the high altitude of the mountain setting.

In March, I had pushed the limit of the RSVP date, hoping some quick acceleration in healing would occur. But that was not to be and my decision was clear—I want to do what I can for this condition to clear, and aggravating it with a trip up the mountains was not that.

And so this weekend I am home alone. A couple people have asked me if I was sad to be missing the wedding. I was struck by how little sadness I felt, as I am, in fact, an extremely sentimental person who is not reluctant to let her emotions flow. I realized that if I wanted to really mine the thoughts about what I was missing and how aggravating this ear thing is etc., etc., I sure could go there. I certainly did some of that when I first saw the four-digit elevation of the wedding site on Google maps. But yesterday, other than sending some good wishes, I didn’t focus on what I was missing. I stand by my decision about my ear, and I might as well enjoy this time. It’s rare for me to have this sort of solitude in my motherhood phase.

As I thought about it this morning, I remembered a time someone told me about seeing a squirrel do an amazing aerial feat at a park and commented critically about all the people present who missed it because they were looking at other things. Though I got that there is a helpful message there about being aware of what’s around you, what struck me is that if you’re at a park looking at something amazing, you are most certainly missing something else amazing. Chances are that while the squirrel was impressing, butterflies were flitting their crazy-colored wings through the air, flowers showed intricate patterns, getting down low you might see an ant carrying something five times its size, birds were singing complex songs. It’s everywhere. Even in abandoned parking lots, wildflowers grow in cracks, at night twinkling starlight reaches our eyes over vast distances, and in the day the sun can warm our hair. The park story has been a touchstone that life is bursting with beautiful, inspiring things.

This morning, while savoring a rare, peaceful start to a day at my own pace, I read e-mails from my husband and my mother about how fun and meaningful the wedding was, and saw the connection to the leaping squirrel story. It was comforting to remember that even when what’s right in front of me isn’t my first choice, I can always find plenty of sweetness.

We were lucky to move into a house a few years ago with an established Meyer lemon tree. The tree has been prolific. Once I invited a friend to collect some lemons for her daughter’s school event. She stopped by when I was out and filled a bag. I couldn’t tell she’d been here. The lemons were delicious in that sweet-fruity way that Meyer lemons are.

I write “were” because last winter the tree’s leaves went limp. They were thin and curving in on themselves. My neighbor, a gardener, explained that even though the leaves looked dry, this was a symptom of too much water. We have a creek running under our house, and the water table had likely gotten too high from recent heavy rains. Despite her usual optimistic attitude, she told me frankly that the tree probably wouldn’t survive. I also am optimistic, and extremely persistent (that’s what keeps me in the children’s book writing business), so I confirmed there was a chance it would make it and decided to do what I could to help. What I could do wasn’t much, just restraint from watering. But I recalled the notion that talking to plants helps them grow and that singing is even better. It couldn’t hurt, and besides I knew the perfect song. Well, it was perfect after I altered Peter, Paul, and Mary’s lyrics and stayed away from the verses.

Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet.
Lemon tree, very pretty, and your fruit’s so good to eat.
(It was that second line that I altered. The verses pertain to a tragic and cynical love story, which my tree did not need to hear about.)

I made my musical visits and stayed hopeful as long as the leaves stayed green, but once they turned pale yellow and started falling off, revealing a tangle of branches and moldy lemons, I began to think we’d be moving on to something else in that space soon. The tree remained, a sad sight out my office window and a reminder of a task lingering on my to-do list.

Then last weekend a friend stopped by while I was working in the garden. She has a way with plants. We took a look at the lemon tree together. She said, “I wonder if pruning might help.” Why not? We gave it a go—a fine activity to pursue with good company on a bright, spring afternoon. With a few clips we discovered that the branches most certainly were not dead. As we opened up space, removed moldy lemons, and let light get through, we found we couldn’t help but say, “Ahhh.” We both had the sense the tree would say that too, if it could. I decided it will stay in that space for a while, and we’ll see what happens.

Now when I look out my window, I see a lovely bare-branched tree. The lines are graceful. The shape is pleasing. But it’s more than that. I love that whether green grows on it ever again or not, right now it is beautiful. It is a sweet reminder to enjoy the moment and the possibility of pleasant surprises.

I shared my collection of truck poems with my son’s second grade class this morning. I haven’t shared my writing with one of his classes since he was in kindergarten. I did it once that year and several times when he was in preschool. So for me, in my writer hat, this was quite a sophisticated audience. I spoke of my choices to write about certain trucks in certain ways, how I selected trucks to go with certain forms of poetry, and how I made the poems dynamic. Being familiar with seven- and eight-year olds’ attention spans, I found ways to involve the kids. They were engaged, and it was gratifying.

But the best part came after I was done speaking. Their wonderful teacher suggested we have the kids write their own poems. She and I came up with an activity on the fly. The kids would write poems about trucks. They would choose favorites or ones they found interesting. The poems could be long or short, rhyming or not. The kids added that they could write about made-up kinds of trucks. I was hopeful that a few kids might really get into it.

Oh, I was beyond pleasantly surprised. A few minutes later every single kid was going with those poems—some working in quiet focus, others bursting to share their ideas, two pairs collaborating. They were getting help with spelling, or not, and asking questions when they got stuck. I loved that three kids chose to write about garbage trucks (also called “garbig” trucks), as I’ve recently noticed that those trucks, which are so ripe for children’s poetry, are missing from my collection. There were poems about hippo trucks and bunny trucks, and a poem about a planting truck. There were rhymes and sound words and inspired repetition, also humor and contrasts and stories. When the writing time ended, maybe just fifteen minutes later, several kids had written two or three poems. At least one had reached the bottom of a page. Some had added elaborate illustrations.

The words that came to my mind were “unbridled creativity.” I am inspired.

Inspired by this article, my 7-year old son and I began candy science experiments in our kitchen this morning. Whatever prompted me to suggest this possibility before school, when usually just getting out of the house is a challenge, must be part of the magic of this time of year. We filled four test tubes with water. At his direction we put two green Skittles in one, two green M&M’s in another, two brown Skittles in a third, and two brown M&M’s in the last. What happened next I’ll leave for you to discover, because it was fun—lots of fun. And it was fun because it surprised us.

I asked my son if he wanted to keep a scientist’s notebook. Changes were happening in those test tubes much quicker than we’d expected, so we were scrambling around his room, knowing he’d been given notebooks, and soon we found the perfect one—an end-of-school-year gift from his first-grade teacher who bases many of her lessons around science topics. Then my son, a person who rarely writes more than a few words on his own at home, sat down and recorded a half a page of notes.

Finally we’d pushed leaving as long as we could if we were to have a hope of getting to school on time. I was entrusted with the responsibility of adding more notes over the course of the day. And we were off…part running, part walking. I loved the irony that he might get his first late slip because he was absorbed in science. But fleet-footed, we arrived in his second-grade classroom with a bit of time to visit with his teacher. I caught myself blurting out a report about what we had done and interrupted myself so my son could be the one to tell her. Those candies can pump you up one way or another. I’m very pleased with their new role.

*    *    *    *    *

Here’s a web site with specific candy experiment ideas by the author of the article I referenced at the beginning of my post: http://www.candyexperiments.com

My alma mater, Carleton College, has a fitting graduation tradition for a school that so values its instruction. New graduates walk through an aisle lined by professors on both sides. In addition to its symbolic significance, the moment offers an opportunity for graduates to say a few words to some of the men and women who impacted their education. One such person for me was Professor Paul Wellstone. I shook his hand that day, looked in his eyes, and said, “Thank you for inspiring me.”

As I reflect back on that moment, it is striking that he had already inspired me at that time even though it was before some of the outstanding moments I think of when I remember him. My graduation was sixteen months before he was first elected to the U.S. Senate, despite his campaign being outspent seven to one. And it was thirteen years before he was the only senator running for reelection to vote against authorizing the war in Iraq.

He did not live to find out if that vote would cost him his senate seat, though he was ahead in the polls at the time he died, twelve days before the election. Ten years ago today on October 25, 2002, Paul Wellstone, along with his wife, his daughter, three of his campaign workers, and two pilots, died in an airplane crash. That was shocking news when my father first told it to me by phone, and it is still shocking when I think of it today.

Professor Paul Wellstone had a big reputation at Carleton. Even people that didn’t agree with his politics were impressed with his dynamic style and the impact he had. It was sometime during my junior year when I realized that due to my late declaration of a major and my decision to study abroad for part of my senior year, there was no room for a class with Paul Wellstone in the plan. I didn’t want to miss the experience, so I decided to audit his Poli Sci 10 course.

Despite a very full schedule of regular classes, I sat in the lecture hall week after week and watched Paul speak passionately about politics and real people. I remember that he used his whole body when he spoke, pacing and gesturing to underscore his points, and sometimes sitting on the edge of the stage, close to us students. He was the antithesis of every cynical rumor about politics. He believed people’s actions ought to fit with their beliefs. He believed that was not only possible in politics, but he had the personal stories to prove it. He had a way of bringing out the simple in what seemed complicated—probably because the truth tends to be simpler than lies. I remember him repeating, “Always ask where the money comes from.” That was the quick way to discern the intent behind a movement or campaign.

Paul really loved people and knew how to connect with them. I saw it in how he spoke of others, and I experienced it myself. One day after class I found myself walking the same direction as he was. We got in a conversation about Berkeley, my hometown. From then on he always remembered me and would take the time to say at least “hello” when our paths crossed, even in situations when others might not find it necessary. The people were important to him.

When I heard the news of Paul’s death, I had been equivocating about making the drive from Oregon, where I lived at the time, down to San Francisco to participate in a demonstration against the Iraq war. The decision became clear. The next day, as I marched up a jam-packed Market Street, there were dozens of people holding signs with images of Paul. I had gotten used to the happy thrill of seeing his familiar face when senators would file into the House chamber for the State of the Union address, and when he was pictured in newspapers and magazine. Several times that day I had that happy moment of recognition and then remembered I was seeing his photo because he died. But I also saw that he had impacted people way beyond Carleton and Minnesota with his message of standing up for one’s beliefs.

I wish there was a happier reason to remember that message just before elections, but I can’t think of a better time to remember it. Paul Wellstone won a campaign against all odds because he spoke and acted based on what he thought was right, and that resonated with people. May we do no less than that in this coming election and in all else.

*    *    *    *    *

Here is a good video to see and hear Paul Wellstone in action. It is produced by Wellstone Action, an organization that works to forward Paul and Sheila Wellstone’s beliefs.

As anyone paying any attention to baseball knows, last night the Oakland A’s lost both their game and the American League Division Series to the Detroit Tigers. The Athletics’ 2012 season is over. I am disappointed, but I am, in fact, still in awe. Not only am I savoring their remarkable season, but I keep thinking about and feeling my heart warm when I remember something extraordinary which happened at the Coliseum last night. A nearly full house of fans (unusual at the end of a 6-0 loss by the home team) briefly booed the last out, and then they got on their feet and applauded. They waved their yellow towels and broke into chants of ‘Let’s Go Oakland!” The A’s came onto the field, tipped their caps to the crowd, and hugged each other right there with their fans. Some of the Tigers players tipped their caps to the A’s before going inside to celebrate. I’ve seen estimates that the crowd’s ovation lasted for 5-10 minutes.

This team touched a lot of people. I love that at that moment the appreciation outweighed the disappointment, and 35,000 or so people gave it expression. Reports today indicate that the A’s players took this the outpouring of acknowledgment into their hearts.

Thank you to Athletics Nation, where I read many firsthand accounts of last night’s ovation, and for being a great source of insight and connection to other fans. And a big thank you to the 2012 Oakland Athletics players and management for an awesome, inspiring season.

Here’s a fan’s video of the last night’s post-game scene.

A lifelong Oakland A’s fan, I’m finding this season beyond thrilling. I don’t ever recall getting teary about a baseball game before, but it’s happened several times in the last two weeks as the A’s have defied expectation after expectation.

In case you need catching up, the 2012 Oakland A’s are a team made almost entirely of rookies and veterans who didn’t click with their previous teams. This was seen as a rebuilding year. Most people didn’t expect them to break .500, let alone win the American League West, which they did last Wednesday on the final day of the season. Prior to this season the 1952 Brooklyn Dodgers held the record for a playoff team with the most regular season starts by rookie pitchers at 69. The 2012 A’s busted that record with 101 rookie starts. But what I find most wonderful about this team is their spirit.

Several times it has crossed my mind to write about the A’s here. But my thoughts have quickly gotten lost in an abundance of amazing stories and stunning moments.  Since I am not a person who has been taken by Twitter, I am amused that what has finally inspired me was a tweet.

It caught my eye on the sfgate.com web site last night, which I was reading as I was trying to calm down. See, in case you missed it, last night the A’s were playing a must-win game against the Detroit Tigers. If the A’s lost, the Tigers would have gone on to the American League Championship Series, and the A’s would have been done. The A’s had been behind all night. As of the 8th inning they’d only had four hits, spread out across the entire game. Bad as it seemed, those of us familiar with the A’s had a little more than the usual “it ain’t over ‘til it’s over” hope. The A’s led the major leagues this year with 14 walk-off wins during the regular season. That means 14 times they either came from behind or broke a tie in the bottom of the ninth or a later inning, leaving no need to play the final outs.

And so it happened. The game’s ending couldn’t have been scripted any better. They went into the bottom of the ninth down 3-1, facing the Tigers’ star reliever Jose Valverde. Josh Reddick, the hero who only had one so far hit this series, lead off with a single. The joyful, raucous Coliseum crowd, already on their feet, exploded with cheers. Josh Donaldson, who was sent to the minors in May with a .094 batting average but returned to become a solid contributor both in offense and defense, was up next. He hit a first-pitch double off the left-center wall. Runners were on second and third. Next Seth Smith, the normally mild-manner designated hitter, hit another double and literally roared once he reached second base. The game was tied. A’s fans everywhere, including this one, heaved a massive sigh of relief. Then George Kottaras popped out for out number one. Cliff Pennington, despite his great eye, checked his swing to strike out looking. And so, with two outs, it was Coco Crisp, just the right person to be there—a clutch hitter with the .367 batting average with runners in scoring position to show for it, one of two players in the lineup who was an A’s player last year, and one of the few who saw the potential of this team asking not to be traded at the beginning of the year. Coco Crisp, the centerfielder who had dropped a ball last Sunday for a heartbreaking two-run error, but then leapt perfectly to reach above a wall and rob Prince Fielder of a homerun Tuesday night. That guy hit a first-pitch sharp grounder that got by right fielder Avisail Garcia, Smith ran home, and the rest of the A’s poured out of the dug out to celebrate.

How did they do it? How have they done it all season? It’s easy to wonder. Some say it’s magic. I’ll agree with that. But what kind of magic? I suggest it is the magic of belief in one’s self and one’s teammates. I’ve been suspecting that for a while and was extra delighted by the tweet I happened upon last night. It came from San Francisco Chronicle sportswriter Susan Slusser, whose coverage of the A’s I greatly enjoy and respect. She posted about Grant Balfour, the A’s Aussie closer who psyches himself up with impassioned speeches on the mound in front of thousands of people. That level of unself-conscious freedom inspires me. Turns out he is using those skills for his team, too. I got this insight from Slusser’s tweet: “Balfour got entire dugout fired up in 9^th insisting everyone believe. He’s still really fired up.” Of course he is. Me too.

For more on this amazing game, Balfour’s speech to his teammates, and a chronicle of the A’s whole team’s contributions to their now 15 walk-off wins, read here.

And for even more on this game by Susan Slusser, herself, read here.

I saw the space shuttle Endeavor fly by my house this morning. Actually, it wasn’t flying itself. It was on the back of a very large plane. I could tell that plane was very large because it was so much larger than its military jet escort. Even though seeing a shuttle being carried rather than flying itself might seem somehow “less than,” it was not. It is not every day you see an airplane carrying a sizable object which also happens to be a recognizable object and one which you recognize as something that has been in space. And those things are going by your window in a very fast and loud manner. It was impressive. Afterward I saw the entourage winding around my familiar Bay Area sky, much farther away. It was still amazing. It was also beautiful.

As you may know Endeavor was on its way to Los Angeles where it will become a museum piece at the California Science Center. Here’s a Seattle PI summary article with stellar photos from the Associated Press. Here’s a San Francisco Chronicle article with the excited Bay Area perspective.

My perspective was that I was on the phone with my Mom, also at home a few miles south of me in Berkeley. We were scanning the sky and sharing information that I was gathering from the internet, and she was gathering from my Dad who was checking the television. We had the fun realization that we could see the same planes. Eventually we learned the shuttle had passed over the Oakland Hills so we knew to look towards the south. We scanned more. I was starting to suspect that we had missed that which turned out be un-missable in the misty fog hanging over the bay…when…there was my mother’s excited voice telling me the shuttle was flying right over her house, and then telling me it was heading north towards me. Again there was a pause long enough to wonder if I’d missed it…when…first I heard the loud noise, and then there it was, right over a familiar tree-lined hill and coming towards my back yard. It was at that moment it occurred to me that a photo for my husband and son would be nice. I grabbed the thankfully nearby camera, snapped a photo, saw the shuttle and planes right outside my window, and then saw them fly past my neighbor’s roof.

Though I’m interested in space, it’s a minor interest. I’m not a person who has made a trek to see the shuttle before. Even this morning I didn’t bother to leave my own dining room. So I am amazed how exciting this was. Hours later, I’m still hyped up. I’m starting to think it was the enormous convergence of miraculousness that’s put me in this state—the ability of large things to fly at all, the ability that they can also fly from our Earth into space, the idea that I can see these things from my home, the reality that my mother can see something in the sky and tell me it’s coming my way via a small device and then it does, the every day beauty outside my window mixed with this unusual thing, and the notion that I was one of multitudes witnessing this. It’s all thrilling.

This is a shout out for Mary Pope Osborne. Last week, during my son’s last week of summer vacation, we savored one of those last home days by reading A Perfect Time for Pandas, the 48^th installment in Osborne’s Magic Tree House series, all in one day. Forty-eight is a big number. It is the number I get if I count all my fingers and my toes two times over and then count my eyes and ears two times each as well. It is a long time for two characters and a lot of repetitions of the same story structure. But 110,000-in-base-two books in, Osborne is still writing Magic Tree House books worthy of that special end-of-summer day. Her characters are still learning and surprising us, while also being wonderfully familiar. She found another fresh setting, and once again she touched my heart.

Part of my experience of being “still in awe” is that my heart is open. I let things in. I’m a crier. My son is used to Mom choking up often when we read books. Sometimes tears flow because something is sad, sometimes because something is so beautiful. This book had both. I had sad tears when I read that there are only 1600 pandas in the world. Think of that—seven billion humans, 1600 pandas. I had happy tears when her characters spoke so beautifully about the meanings of the objects they had collected in this and the previous three books. For keeping her series engaging and fresh twice-the-number-of-hours-in-a-day books into her series, Mary Pope Osborne has my admiration and appreciation.

The following poem is a little ditty I came up with while walking down a street, maybe 15 years ago. I often compose poems while walking.

An elephant
never forgets.

An elephant
never forgets.

If you think
an elephant forgets,

then you
are not an elephant.

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2012

I don’t recall ever writing down this poem before I began to prepare this post. As you can see there’s not much to it. It is just twenty words long and uses only ten different words. Despite its modest stature this little poem has stuck with me. It pops into my head occasionally. It’s one I’ve been known to recite to my son or a friend. Sometimes it gets a giggle. It’s fun to say.

Other poems I’ve written and certain lines from my books and manuscripts behave similarly—they persist in coming to my mind. They aren’t usually the more flashy ones nor ones I thought were my favorites. Now that I think about it I see that they often have a pleasing rhythm or fun sounds and a meaning or twist. However, I like to think many of my other poems and lines have equal qualifications! Still, as their author, when this happens I’m pleased. I decide they work. Apparently, they at least work for me. This is one of those phenomena in the process of creating when the creation takes on a life of its own. I get to be both the artist and a surprised audience member. I love that.

Do you have poems, lines of text, or other bits of your own art that occasionally and consistently come to mind? What do you notice about them?

(Find more poetry at Life is better with Books where Bibliophile is hosting Poetry Friday.)

I made yeasted bread without the use of a little packet. I harvested yeast off the skins of plums from a tree in my backyard and pulled yeast right out of the air. These things, some rye flour, and water were the ingredients I used to make a sourdough starter so robust it has twice bubbled out of a large jar and has got a corner of my kitchen smelling yeasty. Yesterday and today I baked my first bread with that starter, and it worked! By “worked” I mean it tastes good and has a nice texture.

To many people in the world today and in the past this process was commonplace. It was called “making bread.” But to me who lives in this dependent-on-the-power-to-purchase time and place, it is a miracle and a liberation. Yum!

Thank you to Sandor Ellix Katz for his fascinating and effective book Wild Fermentation, where I found the instructions to make the sourdough starter and the recipe for onion-caraway rye bread.

I love baseball for its graceful moments and its stories. One player who epitomizes both for me is Ichiro Suzuki. Perhaps I’m partial to him because he is short-statured like I am. He is big in his speed, grace, ability, and accomplishments.  Plus I like his history of defying people’s expectations. In 2001, the year he became the first non-pitcher to make a career move from Japanese to North American professional baseball, not only did he hold his own but he won a multitude of awards and honors—including Rookie of the Year, American League Most Valuable Player, American League Golden Glove, highest batting average, and most stolen bases.

Next Tuesday is the fifth anniversary of my favorite Ichiro moment. In honor of that occasion and of the celebration of baseball that is the All-Star Game, I’m posting this poem.

15 SECONDS

July 10, 2007,
sparkling San Francisco stadium,
78th All-Star Game. 

Top of the fifth,
American League down 0-1,
Roberts on first.
Already with two hits tonight,
stellar leadoff man, Ichiro Suzuki,
steps to the plate.

First pitch—
fastball.
Whack! 

Baseball soars
       towards right-field wall.
Ichiro sprints.
            Baseball flies
                  over outfielder Griffey.
Ichiro’s still sprinting.
                    Baseball ricochets off
                         a crazy
                     pad-covered
                         corner.
                                     It darts     away from
                                                           Griffey, who chases.
Roberts scores.
Ichiro’s past first, past second,
third-base coach waves: “Keep going!”
                                                           Griffey grabs the ball.
                                                           He throws long,
but it’s too high and too late.
No need to slide,
Ichiro steps onto home plate
15 seconds after he left it.

  
This hit was the first inside-the-park home run in a Major League Baseball All-Star 
Game. It was also Ichiro’s first in his two-continent career. That night Ichiro became 
the first Japanese player to win the All-Star Game’s Most Valuable Player award. 
People once wondered if Ichiro was too short and skinny to succeed in Japan, and 
later in North America. His record-breaking hit is one of many accomplishments that 
make him a star on both sides of the Pacific Ocean. 

© Karin Fisher-Golton, 2012

Watch video footage of Ichiro’s record-breaking home run here.

Whew! I made my goal to get my blog up and running AND get this poem posted on the Poetry Friday before the All-Star Game. Delve into more Friday poetry at Tabatha Yeatts’ blog.