Minisons are "mini-sonnets" -- poems consisting of 14 letters per line.  They can be as short as one line long, or the lines can be grouped together; most commonly in a group of 14 lines (each line 14 letters)often called a "Coronet". The following poems were SUPER fun to write.  They were a challenge both intellectually as well as poetically. I  will continue to write using this format as it is a great discipline for finding just the right words that evoke ideas and feelings and keeping one's writing "tight" and impactful.  The theme of the April edition of the Minison Project was "Fairytales" and three of my minison made it into this issue.  

​Hello Jack

A cow, Milky-White
traded for beans
a mother forlorn
casting them out
dawn follows eve
tendrils unfurl
magical, skyward
brave nimble boy
leaps his window
seeking fortune
bag of shiny coin
shimmering harp
hen’s golden eggs
Fee-fi-fo-fum, Jack

​
The Lesson

Upon her arrival
a queerish hello

wide, lupine grin
also, shockingly
massive canines…

BETTER TO EAT YOU!

Huntsman’s blade
Slain gray beast
Grandma rescued

Be ever reminded,
innocent ones, to
trust intuition:

wise to consider
cloaked dangers


Ode to Rapunzel (in 5 minisons)
​
Fairest hostage
          honeyed tresses
                   spill earthward
                           silken lifeline
                                    lover ascending

I wrote this poem a few months ago, winter months when the pandemic continued to weigh heavily on my mind and my heart.  Even so, I wanted to believe there would be a lightness, eventually.  The best way I could articulate this hope was through the idea of a writer losing her muse and her will, then finding a way through and building her strength, regaining her muse, her will to write again, like spring, like a rebirth.   I was thrilled that this poem was accepted for publication by the editors at Hobo Camp Review for their Spring 2021 issue, just released last week.  It seems like an apt moment for this poem to be published; it is about the importance of a personal journey both literally and metaphorically and coming alive again as we begin to emerge from strange, dark times.

The Gestation

The song of my keys jangling in pocket
Lightness in my steps down the three floors from my flat
To the avenue each afternoon.
 
A sojourn to Yarmu’s Coffee House
To meet Otta and Raul and talk about the events of the day
Or to chat with Teresa from the building next door
We exchange stories as she walks her bull terrier, Mookie
In the tree-lined vest pocket park on the next block
Grabbing the newspaper from Sahid at the corner stall
He grins and nods, his black gloves cut at the fingers
To make it easy to grab my change.
 
Writing is a lonely business
To build a mass of words on a screen
The discipline of solitude
The effort of carving from the mind
Drafts of work that might never see life.
The rhythm of these simple travels out, then home
This was my daily sustenance
Refueled, inspired, connected
The words came easily, then.
 
Lately it has been different.
The shifts were swift and seismic
I found myself unsteadied
Otta & Raul couldn’t meet
They were taking Otta’s father to the clinic (something wasn’t right)
Sahid wore blue latex gloves
and kept the window on his cart closed
I smiled and waved (but of course he couldn’t see my mouth for the mask)
Teresa said we shouldn’t walk together anymore
“For our own safety,” she said.
 
Venturing out, once joyful, became a solemn reminder of absence
The weight of this feeling grew heavier
Like dragging cold, wet stones in my soles.
 
So, I stopped journeying.
Stairwells silent.
Landings collecting dust.
 
For seven months (has it been so long?)
I can’t find my way into a story
The words get trapped in my head before they reach the page
Fingers hover above the keyboard but I can’t make them land
I stare at a blank screen (has it been weeks?)
My sleep is fitful – a tangle of strange, unfinished dreams.
A fog seems to blanket the days (is it Thursday?)
 
But today I awaken with a start --
A sudden, bright, crystalline moment of clarity.
 
My words rise, surface, flow and shimmer
I write an epic love letter
To Yarmu’s Coffee House
To Otta and to Raul and to Teresa and to Sahid
An ode to the tree-lined park and sounds
Of people I don’t know
and the energy of street life on my block
All of them my muses and my salvation.
 
I am sobbing, having (finally) birthed this piece
From deep longing
I am vulnerable
Unmasked.
 
Then lightness-- a release
And for the first time
In a great while
I unplug the computer
My screen darkening, my four walls fading
For the first time
In a great while
I am aware of the sunlight from my window
I open the shuttered sash
Feeling the rush of air
Itself, like a rebirth
Spring-like and fresh
The street is beckoning
Time for a reunion, long overdue.
 
My keys sing in my pocket as I descend the steps
I know the words will come.

Amie Herman is a wine/beer/spirits expert/reviewer, a travel writer, a ceramic artist, and an avid hiker and cyclist and wanderer. She is currently building her own campervan and will be setting off on an epic year long journey to explore North America this fall. Poetry and fiction writing is a passion and she plans to write more of it on the road. You can find her on FB and Instagram @amieswinehouse, website: www.amieswinehouse.com
Posted by Hobo Camp Review at 11:15 AM 

Scott's Run is a tribute to my Grandpa Nat, a special figure in my childhood and young adulthood who inspired me think deeply, to write daily, and to take the time to truly "see" things.  He is gone physically, but always with me spiritually.  I am happy that my work shares a place with other beautiful written pieces in the latest edition of Riverbed Review , a literary journal with a focus on the natural world.