My buggy to places far away is nothing more than ears that hear the rat-a-tat-tat like a gentle snore of a woodpecker that moved in right next door each morning he chooses a tree ever closer to the wide-open window above my dresser. Over the metronome tick of the clocks cupboards slam above my head in counterpoint to the fire alarm beep warning of bacon left far too long the creamer slides with a gentle splash of spoon chimes and dings on the side of the mug. Next door ricochets the giggles and shrieks of a gaggle of geese kept penned inside while past the shelter of too-small decks robins sing of spring delights the aging beagle peeks through deck rails beats the air with his helicopter tail. Old toad croaks below the moon high above while the evening breeze rattles the shades my ears so free they long to hear the song of the stars before they fade into the beat of the wings of a gnat and the chirping call of a hunting cat. **************************************
It never fails to amaze
how fact is kept under lock and key. In the face of rabid fancy
snowflakes should grow into snow balls and landslips.
It never fails to amaze
how one microphone can hold such glacial sleet
only to melt underneath the glare of the camera’s red stare.
It never fails to amaze
how fact is kept under lock and key in the face of rabid fancy.
Day 12’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a triolet which has a very fixed structure.
The Day 11 prompt from National Poetry Writing Month challenged us to write a poem in which one or more flowers take on specific meanings. And for inspiration directed us to the Language of Flowers, a glossary of flower meanings. My favorite flower since my childhood days running wild and free in the forests around our home is the Trillium. How lovely to learn it means “modest beauty.”
modest beauty –
flawless bud peeks through lashes
at a globe in tears
Day 10 NaPoWriMo’s prompt was a curious one: write a hay(na)ku, which is a variant on the haiku. A hay(na)ku is a three-line stanza, with one word for line one, two wors for line two, and three words for line three.Several can be chained together in one poem.
NaPoWriMo’s day 5 prompt was a doozy. Thank heavens it came on the weekend. Y’all should check it out. It has 20 components. I tried to use all of them, but there are a few missing. A couple of key things inspired this piece: a 1965 Bob Dylan interview, his biography, and a curious article on on Siri’s spread of Bob’s demise.
“Chaos is a friend of mine,” it’s said Bob Dylan did opine. For daring to taste electric nectar, adoring fans began to hector -- which caused no end to our folk hero’s lecture on monkey wrenches, sellout jackets and rosy Hollywood air. She sips her coffee with slow regret and surfs the wily ethernet unable to find a credible mention of how this man lived his life. Oh, Siri, thou font of all-knowing wisdom what brought this man back from his piece of heaven? Perhaps you channeled his neglected vision, a country’s hope for changing times. She sips her coffee with slow regret and surfs the wily ethernet and stumbles across a hidden message that answers all unanswered questions: “Music was a pipedream . . . There are no more escapes.” She sips her coffee with slow regret and surfs the wily ethernet the sleeveless mouse of make-believe bait to her frozen hand. Would Dylan use music and word and rhyme to throw some shade on epic, thirsty times where cool cats aren’t hip, just sick, and chaos no longer divine? She sips her coffee with slow regret and surfs the wily ethernet and ponders the butterfly logic of making friends with mayhem and mess. If truth is chaos -- maybe beauty, too -- then hope is free to soar and sing. Gather manna as you can. Vires acquirit eundo.
The Day3 NaPoWriMo prompt: make a list of ten words and then use Rhymezone to identify two to four similar-sounding or rhyming words. Write a poem using your “word bank” play with sound, repeating sounds and echo.
Why so quiet?
Does it take riots
to make them supply it?
Whist, Ms. Perky, don’t talk turkey.
Bide your time and stay in your aerie!
With stoic grace step away from the rat race!
Sip red wine. Nibble on toffee. Avoid strong coffee.
Spirits will save you from becoming blind.
Recall the recipe for mustard plaster,
Gramma’s answer to this unfolding disaster.
Scribble notes for posterity, the lessons learned
on civility, agility and utility. Have you done all you can?
Have you reached out your hand?
Don’t harden your heart or come apart
at the seams. Pray for pardon before
you enter the Garden
lest the end days
be brutal and
On a winding trail
lined with ragged pine trees,
I paused to watch the unfurling of spring.
Fiddlehead ferns sprang upright
under mid-day sun that cast no heat
as a too-early wakened bumble bee
tried to shake hidden pollen from me.
(I’m told this is complimentary – I quite disagree!)
Red-winged blackbirds looking for mates
laid claim to cattails round the still pond,
a built-in early warning system
for the snoozing beaver clan.
I drew in great gulps
of fresh spring air
and thought how blessed I was to be there.
Day 2 NaPaWriMo challenged us to write a poem about a specific place with lots of detail. I’m missing being out on the hiking trails during this time of COVID close-down. Stay safe and healthy out there folks. Only let the bumble bees invade your space.
she is the pliability between the scraping which is odd to say because her strength is brittle rather like the peanut brittle she recalls whipping up with her dad in steady, even strokes around and around the bowl until the frothy finish is laid out still and silent to bake in a thousand degrees time and time again
NaPoWriMo — Prompt for Day One: “. . . write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances. For example, bowling, or shopping for socks, or shoveling snow, or teaching a child to tie its shoes . . .”
Under limbs bare of leaves but still with summer’s warmth we find hope on top of wool blankets that scratch bare skin and know this is just one way to paradise -- surely there are others. Blindfolded we cross the finish line hand in hand, battered by our dance of finding mystery beneath the lies we dressed our public face in. Shall we dress our desire in rags? Or offer it as a tithing to a distant godhead? And if we do neither, what angel will cast us adrift to rock on blue-green waves in search of distant lands until parched and pleading the moon sets us free on the shores of our cloistered universe.
I return time and again to the challenge of the “golden shovel” poem. I find it offers just the right mixture of challenge, structure and opportunity to spend time on a particular line or phrase I read that stuck with me. In this case, Connie J. Jasperson’s #FineArtFriday musing on Hope by George F Watts 1886 had a line that grabbed me and would not let go: “Hope is blindfolded, battered, dressed in rags, and cast adrift in the universe.”
alone with my wit
at the heat shimmer raze
the long grass of spring
and I sigh for past dreams
of cavaliers who link their hand in mine
to lead me through the farandole line.
I see a lot of families out walking, biking and generally enjoying together time right now. Which is the silver lining of all the ruckus. So, it only made sense for childhood to be on my mind as a I played with four of the March 2020 NaHaiWriMo prompts: patches of snow, plum blossom, return of the migrants and thunderheads.
I spy croci
peeking through fairy rings
snow patch find
white snow turns pink
when the south wind blows
we honk with the geese
among cedar and fern
we wandered dawn to dusk
porch light migrants
with each flash of light
we count one-Mississippi
big guns overhead