Category Archives: Poetry

Thoughts about poems, poets, poetry.

Tuning Your Ear to the Sound of Poetry

Tuning Your Ear to the Sound of Poetry



Hey!  I just wanted to shout out that a short blog post I wrote about training one’s ear to the music found in poems is up at the RhyPicBoMo site at:  .   (That’s:  Rhyming Picture Book Month site.) Scroll down a little below the information about SCBWI.



(And write a poem today to celebrate National Poetry Month!)






YAY!  I love that poetry has its own month. Read some poems! Write some poems! Vote in the March Madness poetry playoffs at:  .  (We’re down to the final eight today!)

Check out this link on 30 ways to celebrate at Poets Org.:

Also, consider signing up for RhyPiBoMo–which translates as Rhyming Picture Book Month at: . (You only have to commit to reading a rhyming picture book a day–10 minutes, tops! And to writing a poem a day . . . and to having fun. Plus, there will be a lot of good posts about writing–a new one every day. And I’ve written one which will be posted on April 8th!)  So stop by.

May all your days be lyrical!


A Poem for My Father

A Poem for My Father

Dad (Melvin Crum), James L. and Ben Crum Jr. at Setser reunion. 2000? (Dad, Uncle James L., Uncle Junior)


Father’s Cupboard

My father’s cupboard—built by hand

held baby food jars and Prince Albert Tobacco cans

full of nails or screws.

And always, oily boxes with torn labels

too heavy for me to tip and peek into.

These were the secret things my father used

to hold the world together.

Committed these past fifty years to the basement,

bracing the house I grew up in,

it was once Mom’s kitchen cupboard.

Dad painted it smiling-teeth white and Kool-aid red.

It sat near-to-bursting in the kitchen

until banished in favor of Danish modern throughout.

This morning in the basement,

jacking up the kitchen floor above,

it takes four of us to extract the cupboard

from the embrace of floor joists.

For the house is sagging now,

despite the stoic Danes, despite Dad.

I brush away cobwebs, check all its porcelain knobs.

It is dripped with spilled paint—pink on the red.

Perhaps the pink he used making my own

small table and chairs?  Or the pink

of my sister’s dollhouse—almost forgotten.

And sky blue.  Perhaps a birdhouse,

or a project of my brother’s?  Maybe it is the blue

of the metal chair that sat in the yard

idly reflecting on the sky while I attended school,

met boys, and fell in love.

My father’s cupboard is scarred and anointed with color.

Until the very end we left it to its labors, and only now

wrest it from the grieving house.

©Shutta Crum 2005


hammock  Dad’s cupboard. I still have it.