No April showers . . . does this mean no May flowers?

Don’t get me wrong — the sunshine and warmth are lovely after a long winter of housebound semi-isolation. But the “flowering” part of spring looks to be on track for a very short tenure with the daffodils already fading and the greenery already showing signs of drying out too much too fast. I am *fingers crossed* really hoping that we don’t have a fire season like last year. If April could send one or two solid showers this week? Drip, drip, drop little April showers . . .

Nonetheless, April’s dedication to poetry continues. Here’s one offering from this last week. Enjoy!

Prompt–trove: stellar jay alarm/we look for wisdom/in morning coffee

In like a lamb . . .

And so April, the month of poetry worship and writing, has blossomed like the pearlescent cherry trees, daffodil sun spots, I-love-thee tulips and pollen-driven sneezing. Normally, I carefully follow and respond to the daily prompts hosted on the NaPoWriMo site, but this year I am continuing with my haiku discipline and taking a weekly poetry workshop. So for these first 10 days in April, here’s a sample of both worlds:

Flight of the Hummingbird

Haiku Prompt: Balsam — soul peace/the smell of rain/after hot sun

For ears that hear

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.

Today’s poem brought to you by the NaHaiWriMo prompt of “cart or buggy” and the NaPoWriMo prompt to create a “walking archive” from inside one’s home.

Don’t feed the troll!

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

chaos is a friend of mine

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.

don’t talk turkey

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

where I long to be . . .

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.

all in season

My word! We’re closing in on NaPoWriMo 2019! Today’s prompt was to write a poem that was specific to a season, engaged all five senses, and included a rhetorical question. I played with the Japanese tanka and dodoitsu form with this one, but it just needs more work! My time is up for the day, however, so there’s the offering. Enjoy!

to feed our soul

I let a copper penny lie
on my picnic bench
next to jam and breads so sweet
but what think you caught his eye?

The gleam of unspent currency
a siren song to trap his fancy!
He lands and hops and jabs his beak
alights and soars — uncommon thief!

I spooned some jam onto my bread,
my lunch hour nearly over;
from afar, I heard him croak:
“Dear heart, you kept the better part.”

And let to us this lesson be,
our treasure is in what we share.
While shiny objects come and go
it matters more to feed our soul.

in memory of . . .

I’ve had a few days off from the NaPoWriMo game: some for gramma time and others for work travel. The day 22 prompt immediately brought to mind a friend I lost track of long ago, an aspiring pianist who gave me a glimpse into the highs and lows of true musicianship, and her grief at losing the physical capacity to play to that standard. I tried to capture some of that fragmentation in the combined imagery and poem, but also include the poem below as the JPEG is not necessarily readable.

In Memory Of . . .
Early days was laughter —
her fingers dancing lightly and without care:
a spill of giggles in F# major
a belly-laugh in pentatonic triplets
a gurgle of Lydian pleasure.

Middle days was fear —
her fingers driving contact through skeletal pain:
in blitzkrieg counterpoint
with diminished Locrian scale
a true Neapolitan spectacle.

Final days were tears —
her fingers twitching with wordless nightmares:
a tone-dead arpeggio sinks beneath
it’s relative minor in harmonic enigma
and she finds no tonic, no promised rest.