poetry class at a residence in phoenixville, chester county, in early august.

our second meeting at the home of evelyn frederick in phoenixville, chester county, for my traveling poetry class, involved working through recent drafts of different poems but also exploring new color-thinking poems.

thank you to barbara tucker for assisting with photography for the morning out in the fresh air.

this purple-shirted fellow is bill, evelyn frederick's husband, who enjoyed the coconut oil and pink salt popcorn which i brought along, as well as some delish snacks kindly offered by the students. he observes people, trees, sky, moving cars, and is the great mailbox-watcher. since i send snail-mail ridiculously often, i notice these kinds of tendencies.

sam traten brought green-scenes. his photographs and a poem by him are below.

*

Green 

By Sam Traten

We live in Southeastern Pennsylvania.

It's August. Rain has fallen during the night. Creatures, including us,

are morning-happy.

The smell of life and growth surround us,

musky, rank of earth but shy of unpleasant, no

--much better than that.

Sound of dripping leaves shedding their leftover drink,

gentle tinkling patter for wake-up ears.

Taste of rain-dew nectar on spiraled tongues.

Ours, dear one.

Look. All around us and rarely noted

because it's there. It's just there.

*

i also brought along a multi-color exploration kind of poem from my own mind, from 2014.

when post-its are everything

by jennifer hetrick

i am so many bright colors,

i am the post-its and page-flags

i use: tangerine, stop sign red,

green of a pear tree leaf, peacock

blue, lemon, 1987's best neon

green, and a dull but efficient

canary persuasion. i am a part

of the adhesive on the back

at the top portion of the square.

i reuse them. i reuse myself.

i am reminders that i forget

because there is too much to do,

just too damn much of it. i am

what's sticky and loses itself

after so many papers are held

under me. i am perfect squares

in a perfect mess, chaosincolors

and in my blood. i am always

picking others’ post-its out

of the trash to mix back with

paper to take to the recycling

bin at my old high school,

at the edge of the parking lot

near the photography classroom.

i am ripped up pieces of color.

i am to-do-lists. i am short

sets of lyrics and new lines

of poems, not full poems, just

parts of them, tucked away 

into weekly planners. i am 

the reminders that reminders

couldn't remember and track

if they had off-center spinal cords 

and breathed the deepest of breaths.

i am where commercialized ink

sleeps. i am the post-its tacked

across the walls and mirrors

in my bedroom and by my kitchen

door. i am those post-its that

lose grip with stacks of sheets

when the car door is ajar.

i am fluttering down the street

like i am all wings, in the tenacity 

of a sudden summer wind,

getting away, losing myself

and reminders while colors

take small naps mid-flight

as i grow into new protons.