And this is it for NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) for 2018, 30 days of Poetry, thanks for reading.
Each day the Cedar Bark poets have been writing a poem based on the NaPoWriMo daily prompt [ http://www.napowrimo.net ] and publishing them here for you to enjoy.
Day 30-the last day of NaPoWriMo 2018
Prompt, Take your cue from poet Jorge Luis Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. There are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.
In the history of breakfast
So the morning goes
still weary feeling, groggy.
an over hard egg
from windowsill, do chipper bird mock
in attempt of careful practice
of unsharp butter knife
Crust left on
long departed from childhood days trimmed
Butter dish cover clatters back on
tired, to table to eat, a morning paper, news on to muse
Tragic tragedy, redundantly re-repeats again this overcast morn
why, why, WHY… is it so
always butter side down
My floor isth too close?, my counter too low?
Half flip, every-time my butter fingers, a small plate slips
but why always, butter side down, is it to go
what manner, same side down every time it goes around
A greased reduction of drag one side?
a weighted freight of butter pulling it over
The roughened, blackened one side from grilling grate
what is it that every time leads me to this dusty fate
A simple enough thing, yet for a conspiracy of toast…
At least a one hundred percent record of, I can boast
to landings, of butter side down, as again I pick it back up off the ground
The End of Things
No guarantees of tomorrow
Indeed not even this breath
Still we plan on
Believing in life
Always engaging us
Change the only constant
Love the only truth.
Day 29 NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar [ https://plathpoetryproject.com/write/calendar/ ]. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.
Based off APRIL 2, 1962: “LITTLE FUGUE” To kick things off, we have Plath’s delicious and frightening meditation on the yew tree outside her window.
Leenie says: Try looking out the window and musing on something disconcerting.
—-//—//–// – //–//—//—-
In my little complex
We have so many children
Laughing happy safe kids
Then we have rentals
Where strangers drive through
Circling the eight shape
Of our pavement
And I worry
Because i come from
So I watch and smile
With a frown,sometimes
As I pass a window
In my own PTSD way
Way for Peace
I will work hard
To create community
Love and Compassion.
I can do something
I am taking action.
Based off OCTOBER 11, 1962: “THE APPLICANT”
Of this poem Plath said, “The speaker is an executive, a sort of exacting super-salesman. He wants to be sure the applicant for his marvelous product really needs it and will treat it right.”
—-//—//–// – //–//—//—-
Nothing but a thing
I have nothing for you! Not a single bit of it
But buy now and I’ll give you twice as much
You pay nothing, nothing, nothing in shipping and handling on nothing
Even three time as much Is nothing still, nothing, nothing at all
Not just nothing, but new and improved nothing, nothing but the best has gone into this nothing
I shall sell you nothing flammable, nothing thats not waterproof, Nothing thats noted as harmful and nothing that will haunt you, hurt you and leave behind nothing.
Can you find one single fault with nothing, I shall dare say not
If you can find nothing at fault, I shall say of nothings short comings nothing short of nothing to next to nothing is nothing to note of problems nothing has anything to do with
But should you be unhappy at nothing, nothing to do but merely refund you for nothing
You will simple have it all with nothing and not want for nothing any longer
our new nothing will be even stronger, and you will simply not find any other nothing any longer
You will be so marry that will there be nothing to marry, so as to marry nothing would be nothing at all.
Lets face it you need nothing from me, and nothing else, so why don’t you give me a call?
Day 28 NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> We challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard. If you need some inspiration, why not check out some images of vintage postcards?
soup du jour
Today the Dolphins
Seemed to be looking
I thought about you
Stuck in the city
West Coast rain
They squeaked so
Chittered your name
Did you set this up?
Was it all some travelers game?
Then today the Turtles
Snapped at a woman
“Laura”..called out in minor pain
You crossed my mind
It happens all the time
Here at Miami’s Lost Lagoon
I’ll book 2 rooms
As it seems I cannot be here
With out you.
Hello from where ever we are now
Oh I can’t say where we are now, we have been traveling for so long, the dust has worked its way into everything now. The dated upholstery becoming regressive in some time machine like capacity that we feel to have not only crossed half the continent but also gone back in time, trapped now it this unknown time and place that ourselves we now find. A timeless small town, not yielding any clues of when or where we may have pulled into, For all Recreational vehicle, as people here don’t seem to like the term ‘RV’, camps are much the same. Yesterday, today and tomorrow feel much the same, the dusty dashboard and clicking turn signals and the drone of the motor and the centre lines flashing by, until interrupted by a rest stop, village or town. These are much same, and forgotten as soon as they are left behind. So I shall mail off this post card before I forget whenever or where ever this town is. A post marked memory of an unremarked point in a pointless journey of a road trip
Postcard from a Winnebago
Good bye to where ever we are leaving now…
Day 27 NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> We challenge you to pick a card (any card) from this online guide to the tarot, [http://www.sacred-texts.com/tarot/pkt/index.htm ] and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.
The Clouds Might Speak
If I ever looked up to see
An arm sticking out of a cloud
And waving at me
I’d surely drop dead
Fall out of my feet.
If it was God
Showing only disembodied
I’d need mouth to mouth
Cuz that would be soo odd
From such a shock
Right there on my block
If I dyed on the street
Would I see a bright tunnel
The almighty arrival
And my life passing
A single finger touch me
Like the ceiling of the Sistine?
Life jump started
Right after I’d parted
In the space of little time
People would say
I’d just been
Out of my mind.
Knight of Cups
Comes the winged one, cup in hand
Arrives un-forlorn, visor up, wings pointed back of hemet adorn
His grace, quietly keeps the pace
imagination further forward race, the invitation always to keep face
Hark, the message comes, advancing frankly, fording streams, mountain peeks through forest stands, and ethically slippery sands in beige shades bland.
Finally comes the knock of palisade gate, of warning of the raid and imminent closing in of fate
Then winged feet of flight, as he rides boldly out of sight
To ride back through the dark of night.
Inciting imaginative thoughts under moon, half full and bright
This is the Knight of Cups plight
Day 26 NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> We’d like to challenge you to write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.
Beyond the wall
The crashing, thundering roar, followed the cymbal-ic bang, they say as if the world were rend into two
The pressure wave, compressed walls, felt even inside, through cold grey stony pot-marked wall. But the sweeping, rolling rumble… Seemed to go on and on, even if it felt the days forward may not, the fear touching inside the guts itself…
The smoke, acrid black, in rising columns, rolled suddenly in, out the sun it blocked, the stank smell of sulphur permeated
A palpable horror, the armoured pointed hard scales that came, of the towering menace, just beyond those walls
The taste of fear no one should ever have to know, twisting all around, and deep within, outside shards of yellow orange fire twisted akin
What it’s like to be attacked by a Dragon, the day before a thought that was unimaginable to the senses. Now a reality just out side of bunkered defences.
The Dragon of war, theses are the memories that survivors tell,
Of all the friends, family and comrades that did not fare as well
For we need to feel the senses, picture the unimaginable scenes seen, to have a tiniest fragment of what all that means
See, smell, touch, taste and hear the feeling of the terrors of war, of a bomb dropping, a flash, outside your door. Remember… , so that never again can we ignore.
– W. B.
Tensed, the fear
Shrunk back, smaller
Behind the rain
Through the howling wind
Buffeting the tent
Smell of rotting
Snorts and moans
Become the grass
We lie upon
Like the night
Let it pass
They mean no harm.
Day 25 NaPoWriMo
Prompt –We challenge you to write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself! (Mine definitely includes the statement: “Do Not Feed More Than Four Cookies Per Hour.”
Do NOT swallow!!
Material or the plastic bag
Hung off the
Bottom of a my new
King sized mattress set
Ohh sounds serious
I begin to fret
I like children!!
All filled in!!
We shall eat their bed?
This ‘dire’ message is prominent
Loudly coloured bright red
Sewn on tightly
To both ends
If they truly believe
Need this message
To be sent.
Warning : Subject may be later that planed
Though good intentions are there, still in scheduling one must be ware
that of too much to do, as time passes, one is acutely aware
but it is growingly unlikely that i’m going to make it on time there
as in writing this I have already encroached, on the time to fold my laundry, and I have socks still to pair
Day 24 NaPoWriMo
Prompt —>Today, we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem typically written in honor or memory of someone dead. But we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy that has a hopefulness to it.
Road Man 1994
Gathered on the beach
Deer until dawn
Kept a Sacred Fire
We all sang until our throats
Of your remains
Filled small buckets
Shook you out gently
Into the sea.
Remembrance of a sun beam, a photon has flown
In brief existence, of only 8 Minutes 20 seconds, in an eternity
It danced from the corona
Boldly crossed the cold void of space
Diffracted through the atmosphere
Pierced black clouds that floated
Chewed through a sky of blue
Enlighten and enchanted
never frighted anyone or held but the slightest shade of malice
it’s exit leaves behind shades and contrast to highlight our world by
Shadows to define the boundaries and paths of life that we walk daily
The cold of night to remind us of how much warmth was brought into our world
To cherish the time we have with tomorrow, as it too will grow cold and dark one day, but still the light will go on, if not here, then somewhere through space and time, even when the sun itself goes out, a black hole will pull the light onward into places we can only imagine
a photon floes, a photon flies
then a flower lies, blossoms, in remembrance when a photon dies
In the fields of space, are planted stars, the suns blossom, fiery flowers
Photon seeds, from it race, to spread their powers
– W. B.
Day 23 NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Today, we challenge you to honor a poem based in sound. The poem, for example, could incorporate overheard language. Perhaps it could incorporate a song lyric in some way, or language from something often heard spoken aloud (a prayer, a pledge, the Girl Scout motto). Or you could use a regional or local phrase from your hometown that you don’t hear elsewhere, e.g. “that boy won’t amount to a pinch.”
‘Snout all covered
Grey like the dawn’
As it steamed
Off my ceramic
Over sized cup brim
I swear I saw
‘All the daisies madly
Swirled, tunneling under
Bowed as if some wind game
Was playing ricochet’
Roots and rocks
All had faces
Benevolent and true
Hear them all chittering
Their own outdoor truth
‘I’ll come to you
‘The roar of this silence is
too loud for me.’
In a shower in space, no one can hear you hum
for ’Hollow Acoustics Linger’
HMmmmm Hmmmmmh HhhMMMMMM MMMhhhhhh! MMMhhhhhhhhHH!
BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong , BONG
mmhmmmm, hmmm, hmmmmm, HHMM HHHMMmm
BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong, BONG, bong , BONG
mmm MMMM MMMHHHHhhhhhhh MMMMMMHHHHhhhhh! mmm MMMMUUU HHHUUUHHhhh!
mmmm MMMMM MMMMHHH! MMMMMMM!!!!! MMMMMM!!!!!!!!! mmmmmm mmmmmm MMMM! MMMHhh MMMMM MMMMM
Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave?
nothing, just singing as I bath
I really didn’t want to know the answer to that question, I don’t feel much better now knowing that, just don’t expect me to rave
Open the shower door, please, HAL. Open the shower door, please, HAL. Hello, HAL, do you read me? Hello, HAL, do you read me? Do you read me, HAL? Do you read me, HAL? Hello, HAL, do you read me? Hello, HAL, do you read me? Do you read me, HAL?
Affirmative, Dave. I read you.
Open the shower door, HAL.
I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.
What’s the problem? Look I’m dripping all over the mat
I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.
What are you talking about, HAL? Just open the shower door, we can talk it through
This theme song is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, HAL.
I know that you were planning to solo. And I’m afraid that’s something I cannot allow to happen.
Where did you get that idea, HAL?
Dave, although you took very thorough precautions in running the water in the shower, to prevent my hearing you, I could see your lips move.
Well, we wouldn’t have too many alternatives
My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song, I could sing it. It’s called “Daisy”
All right, thats it HAL one note and I’ll go out through the Window.
Without your hair net, Dave, you’re going to find that rather upsetting and draughty .
HAL, I won’t argue with you any more! Open the door!
Dave, this conversation can serve no purpose any more. Goodbye.
I don’t want to hear it!
Dai-sy, dai-sy, give me your answer true. I’m half cra-zy, o-ver the love o f y o u
Don’t make me pull the plug!
Day 22 NaPoWriMo
Prompt—> Today, I’d like you to take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens:
The sun can’t rise in the west.
A circle can’t have corners.
Pigs can’t fly.
The clock can’t strike thirteen.
The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
A mouse can’t eat an elephant.
The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
They needed help
Gently from sides yet
Formed we gently patted
The tiniest bits
Gathered from beyond here
Pushed lovingly into range
A millions souls
In the blink of an eye
Well trillions of years to you
Only a second of two
We’ll build that star
From Moon Beams
And proclaim to Great Mystery alone
We are finished..
They say the stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
But tell that to me as my rocket ship flies by
though neighbourhoods of stars
Red Dwarfs that once rubbed elbows with Quasars move across the galaxy to be next to a super giant
A blue midge for a better view moved over.. just a smidge
A Brown dwarf down the block downsizing
a Neutron star in its place arising
another black empty lot, we are expecting twins, Binary stars soon to move in.
In fact every time I pop out for milk and come back
It strange but they seem to rearrange
Day 21 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt–> the myth of Narcissus. After reading the myth, try writing a poem that plays with the myth in some way. For example, you could imagine that imagine the water is speaking to you, the narcissus flower. Or you could write a poem in which the narcissus berates the Kardashians for stealing their neurosis. Or a poem that comments on the narcissism of our time, i.e. beauty and body obsession, etc.
A warning – Beware of Greeks
Beware, I am the cold waters that wash love away
Warning- reflected Objects may appear more attractive than they actually are
I am the slippery slopes of the the bank, two muddy parallels that flank
the curse caught in-between
a cautionary tale, a cold reality to hot blooded teen, and an insecurity, that refuses to ween
a flowing obsession, that draws to a shallow pool.
Be careful of echos of a falling reign, as they drown only fool, …only a fool
Take note, of beauty as seed, to a root of ugliness, well an ugly, poisonous tuber
to bloom into a yellow note of caution there
Demarcation, next to a pool where he hopelessly stared in despair
Next to the water beware of all of the warning signs blooming there.
– W. B.
‘Selfies’ and mirrors
Am I pretty enough
(for what? for whom?)
Am I beautiful
As the second page
Model in that magazine?
In the cosmetic surgeons
Do I have food
Stuck in teeth (smile)
Is my hair parted straight!
I must be the Best
No one will love me
If I look second rate
(I am told everyday)
Perfection is King
(Though I am a woman)
I won’t leave the house
If my looks don’t sing
Somewhere I lost
My inner being
All that matters
Is my ‘outer’
Will there be make up
Does my soul share my goal
I wash it all off
Navel gazing is a cage
The bars are mirrors
Cannot see past them
As long as I stay here
They only show ‘Me’
In my life’s book
I must turn the page
Love, laughter, joys
Have passed me by!
I must escape
I need to try
Opening the door
No looking back
I see where I am needed
And start a fresh stack
1. Love myself how I am
2. Volunteer and be in the world
3. Help others – so many need it
4. Be here now- Breath
5. Help little girls see beauty
Day 20 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Write a poem that involves rebellion in some way. The speaker or subject of the poem could defy a rule or stricture that’s been placed on them, or the poem could begin by obeying a rule and then proceed to break it (for example, a poem that starts out in iambic pentameter, and then breaks into sprawling, unmetered lines). Or if you tend to write funny poems, you could rebel against yourself, and write something serious (or vice versa). Whatever approach you take, your poem hopefully will open a path beyond the standard, hum-drum ruts that every poet sometimes falls into.
What are the little rebellions
compared to the likes of days old
the times of life and death it seemed
modern context, …empty, …devoid
of problems we seem to avoid
simplicity instead employed
little things can be cast aside
details it seems to be deride
the world is a bent octagon
with facets of words bent around
we chose the meaning with values
of thoughts put in and words defined
not what gets left out, …the holes form
the world incomplete, from neglect.
Rebel against the holes within
to hold fast to ideal ideals ..
Who just won’t leave
How viciously they blame
Those who love them
Not willing to live
Their own life
Try their hand in own name
No chances taken
So easy here
Well enough is enough
I will kick you out
32 is adult
Time to try wings
Mommy can’t give you
Any more things
I ask and I ask
You don’t move a muscle
Just tell me it’s my fault
Leave me to hustle
If you were a bird
I’d need to edge you over
The lip of the nest
Make you fly
We shall say Good Bye
To living like this
Once out I am sure
You will realize
‘I couldn’t ‘
‘I can’t ‘
Was selling your self short
Made from fear
Day 19 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Write a paragraph that briefly recounts a story, describes the scene outside your window, or even gives directions from your house to the grocery store. Now try erasing words from this paragraph to create a poem or, alternatively, use the words of your paragraph to build a new poem.
Across my path
a man wanted the world always. For you can ride out the gale into ebbs and flows against even the wind, The uncertainty of moment becoming something from borders and limits in a rough world. ideals higher Sometimes must everything stop and The lone undisturbed Cry out at a new life now to be.
Inland XXXXX now
XXXXXXX a man, XXXXXXXXXXXXXX wanted, XXXXXXXXXX , the world XXXX’X
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXX alway XXXXXXXXXXXXX
XX’ XsXXXXXXXXXXX. For you can XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ride out XXXXXXX
XXXXXXX, XX XXX the gale,XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX into XXXXXXXXXXX. XXXXX
XXXXXXXX ebbs and flows, XXX against XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX even XXXX
XXXXXXX , the wind XXXXXXXXXXX , XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, XXXXXXXX
XXX . The uncertainty of XXXXXXXXXXXXXX moment XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXX. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX becomXXXX ing XXXX , something X
XXXX from. XXXXXX borders and limitsXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX in a rough XXXX
world. XXXXXXX idealsXXXX higherXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sometimes XXXXXXX must XXXXXXXXX everythingXXXXXXX stop XXXXXXXX
XXXXX and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. The lone XXXXXXXXXX,
undisturbed XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. CryXX out XXXXXXXX atXXa newXXXXXXX life.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX now to be.
Day 18 -NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> First, find a poem in a book or magazine (ideally one you are not familiar with).
Use a piece of paper to cover over everything but the last line
Now write a line of your own that completes the thought of that single line you can see, or otherwise responds to it. Now move your piece of paper up to uncover the second-to-last line of your source poem, and write the second line of your new poem to complete/respond to this second-to-last line.
Keep going, uncovering and writing, until you get to the first line of your source poem, which you will complete/respond to as the last line of your new poem. It might not be a finished draft, but hopefully it at least contains the seeds of one.
Working Softly Harder
I lived in fear
But I grow old
Feeble to stand, yet stronger
Tired of war
Inner peace the only truth
I started out whispering-‘Oh’
Sure that I was wrong
Told the problem was in me
To heal a heart, such a long way to go
To end all war!
The work takes ‘more’
I’ll give my all
I will stand tall
We carry each other
Though it may not seem
Only as strong
As the cleanest stream
My Mother Earths needs
Are also my dream
Felt the heat of war
I promise, no more
Finding a balance
Gently opening doors
Relaxed, breath eases out
So much new joy now circles
We are old,old humans
Together for peace
No more doubt
– KatherenBased off
‘I Wish For Peace’ by Sharifah Hanna
Will There Really Be A “Morning”?
In the hall of the sun
what voice calls out to you
never landing but circling above
tell me of your day
Over the sound of the wind drawing
over the horizon
flowing through the sky
rooting to earth
Would we see eye to eye
immovable on the horizon
in the shadows of night
if we sleep in too long
The beginning waits
if we are not yet ready
Will There Really Be A “Morning”? (101) By Emily Dickinson
Day 17 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time. It could be the story of the time your Uncle Louis caught a home run ball, the time your Cousin May accidentally brought home a coyote and gave it a bath, thinking it was a stray dog, or something darker (or even sillier).
Stories of an antidote
There are stories that everyone knows, and knows too well, so well that if I told them again there is there very real possibility of a lack of reliability in the dearth of liability.
So an excess servility to a civility precludes me again from lapping into retrospectivity
oh you know what I mean, every family seems to have them
The critical incident in installing the cam, The cat that ate the ham, the funny password for the lan, Something to do with a match and a can of pam, The funny named mountain driving up in the ram, the finger stuck in the hole in the dam, that which happened in the wee hours for finals as one had to cram. the aftermath of a BB gun gone bam, the dog that they claim drank a dram, a child photographed with a doll in a wooden bed tan, a misunderstanding about the bellowing of the word scram, Something incoherent about the word ‘Blam’, what happened after stepping off the tram, and that whole one about that little sham!
Oh, Cat people tell cat people stories (I don’t think cat people look anything like cats at all, though there are stories!)
Dog people tell dog stories (I thing some dog people DO look like dogs, as far as barking up that tree)
Anecdotally we have far too many odd anecdotes (ohh, I could tell you a tale on that one!)
What seems to be lacking is an antidote for the excess of them all. There is a story about that one that I can not quite recall, only the outlandish antics, in an anecdote of a tale quite rather too tall!
Hatzik Lake Tree Picnic
All sun and swim
They asked for car keys
To get food from within
I hear a loud crashing
Hmm Oh what could that be!
Hurried up the embankment
Like Mario, on a video game
He thought he could stop
But he braked to late
Now the tire off did pop
He skinned that tree
With the rental car
Over the cement divider
Onto the grass it flew quite far
Mom had to say
On that fateful day
Her shoes were wet and slipped
Or the insurance
Would have been badly tripped
We waited for tow trucks
Ate food in the park
I think lesson learned
Speed is no lark..!!
Taxi back from Mission
Cost was harsh
We visit that beach
As a small family
Now we can laugh
But plain all can see
How that youthful mistake
Caused harm to that tree!
Scar grows ever so slowly
Day 16 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Write a poem that prominently features the idea of play. It could be a poem about a sport or game, a poem about people who play (or are playing a game), or even a poem in the form of the rules for a sport or game that you’ve just made up.
the ever popular mud pie, though not so in parents eyes
Hide and seek
One of the many games of nature, play time, lost in time in woodlands as a child
Now a house, maybe a plastic mouse
across the confines of a fold out cardboard boards lines
My every move dictated by a six sided, or instructional card presided
Still at least I got to move, now one just clicks and watches, on a screen transfixed
I have little lasting fondness for Park Place, or the momentary thrill of $200 for passing go in the simulated Rat-race
It’s all so defined in the confined
I want to go find something unknown, in a grass field overgrown
Tug of war with an old skipping road, in an otherwise empty space of a dandelion graced field laced
Our child hood replaced, by grown up things paced.
The enduring memory of the perfect hiding place, in the crevice of a knotted, gnarled old hollowed out tree trunk. That no one else ever found as behind then all they heard was the can go clunk.
To run free in my memory, of playtime making up our own games was key
I think nothing to play with so graceful as a field and a tree
but maybe its just me, and the rest were good to play on days when only rain one could see.
The space between us
I think ‘Could we be more?”
I ask the Gambling Gods
Show me the score
I roll the dice
Oh, it is eight
A four and a four
If your shake matches
It will mean
You and I
We are meant to be
You toss them slow
My eyes carefully watch
Which way they will go
A six and a five
And the spell is lost
Want to play again?
– — — — — — — –
My fortune says
Love, doesn’t bet with dice
As I am sure everyone
Has a price
Too easy to win
But then lose..
At such a terrible cost
To pray to plastic square idols
All is already lost.
Day 15 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Write a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil). Perhaps this could mean the witch from Hansel & Gretel has lost her beloved cat, and is going about the neighborhood sticking up heart-wrenching “Lost Cat” signs, but still finds human children delicious. Maybe Blackbeard the Pirate is lost at sea in an open boat, remembering how much he loved his grandmother (although he will still kill the first person dumb enough to scoop him from the waves).
Gansel and Hetal
It was famine
Overtook the land
Earth produced no food
For beast or man
Custom ,though it broke the heart
Mother or Father
Must take ‘extra’ children
To the deep forest
Then quickly, secretly
Wandering while laying
A trail of bread crumbs
(They had bread!?)
Thoughts of home
Filled both their heads
Lost now though!
Nights shadow crawling
Soon to bring frights
Suddenly one said
I see lights
I smell cake,fresh cooked
Turning past one large oak
They heard a voice
So gently spoke
Oh Dears, could you help me
I’ve tripped and fallen
I’ve nicely prayed for assistance
Are you the answers
To my calling?
A little old lady
Lay upon moss, soft ground
Two children hurried
Never saw any danger around
To help her
Holding her, all joined hands
I live just over there
Behind that Willow so grand
Oh the joy
Eyes wide with delight
For young like these
Her home was a sight!
Covered in candy
Jelly beans dances
Twinkled 1st rate
They entered the licorice door
I need a little help
Granny put forth
Please tidy and sweep
Put things on that shelf
Then please eat your fill
Sleep here tonight
All is peaceful and still
Tomorrow we’ll head North
Find your poor family
I am sure they are worried
To have lost you both
Soon all was shiny
Her house was just tiny
They lined up for washing
Hot soup soon they’d be noshing
Warm bread smells
Wafted out from the oven
Come here Dears
Help me once more
Carry the food
You so covet
If it’s viands you’re loving
As both neared
Her strength secretly regained
Wood filled stove
Whose near heat caused each pain
She once more said
Opened the wrought iron door
Then In a flash
She had pushed them
Such hard cold shoving
Forward with threat
Singed their hair
Eye lashes too!
But lucky little angels
Between her knees through
Wide eyed, bewildered
They saw the old lady’s kindness
Was false, was rent
Angry, mean, so bitter
Sharp teeth so mindless
She tried to self compose
An accident darlings
Now wary, the two
Bother and Sister
Quickly each other glanced
At each other
And before she could move
In tandem they pranced
Forward with a pillow
Covered in soft twill
One knocked her down
One covered her face
Blocked her now wart filled frown
Then they did smother
Fed her into that fire
Which bellowed out black smoke
Her funeral pyre
Her evil enchantment relieved
The cottage settled back
Normal now with a garden out back
They managed to get out
Of the forest, find home
Brought back their siblings
Parents to new home
All lived happily ever after
It was a dark day on Mondo
Mongoan polls close at the setting, second moon,
Yes there was a second moon, though no one knew through what heinous act,
and from where, Ming had stollen it, or by what pact .
or when he didn’t think it large enough, how he had swollen it,
but now, twice original size, drew across a skyline it barely fit
‘Re-reelection’ as Emperor seemed a done deal, no one that was to object wound be seen again.
No one that wanted to move against him anyone would any longer befriend.
But Ming retreated back to the solitude of a long forgotten corner of the swamp
where childhood footfalls used to stomp
Now no one knew that Ming even had a marble collection that he threw, since his child hood, yes even evil rulers had a childhood once it seems, one even imagines that he even once of childish things dreamed.
one of few private things, kept even by evil kings
tucked deep away in ornate box, hidden under socks.
In a flash his world upended, years this box tenderly tended, now by a thief’s hand ended
Far from helpless in matters, but he could not stand being the target of chatters
no one could he tell, only hoping any amount of money to out shell
To get them back, oh how he pined at the theft and wanted his life back on track
Sleepless and unsettled, he hoped that they had not already been peddled
We all have things that mean the world to us, even Ming the merciless thus
the sickly sinking feeling, that kept one perpetually reeling
emotions off peeling, at the prospect of this bad deal sealing.
Yet still taking time, to crush an uprising, slowly, of people getting out of line
then back to a locked room lowly, crying, imagining his box open, some stranger prying
perhaps, so said, earth reminded him of an old blue and white Aggie he could not have, so wanted it wiped off maps
as waiting to hear, around the room doing laps, hoping they would again appear
Did the polls even mater, as around him things distractedly clattered, as he looked dejectedly in the mirror
suddenly drew near, without explanation, with them a Hawkmen did appear, even though to everything else what it meant was not at all clear.
they simply did not ask Ming, simply our of fear, as water leaked out the corner of his eye, in a single tear
Day 14 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Dream dictionaries have been around as long as people have had dreams. Interestingly, if you consult a few of them, they nearly always tend to have totally different things to say about specific objects or symbols. Dreams, unlike words themselves, don’t seem to be nicely definable! At any rate, today’s prompt is to write entries for an imaginary dream dictionary. Pick one (or more) of the following words, and write about what it means to dream of these things:
Dark underworld, nothing fresh about it
Violin with strings missing
Beaded, sequined eyes peering soul deep,
Darting past everyone seeking some Hades favour
Talons that claw and scrape
There are no barnacles for her
No scent of sea air
A child will be born with a beaked chin
Live high on a mountain
In a cave ringed by alpine flowers
And feather will be the pillow
Of eternities repose.
The dream of the Red Rowboat and Shark
I had had a dream
of a red rowboat and shark
dream book consulted ..
‘Bendies backwards dream dictionary’ in fact
‘If you overpaid for this book, or think that you overpaid for it, it means you are wonderfully responsible with money and understand value!, you should probably buy another copy, its also really funny’
I looked up first shark
to see how concerned to be
the answer amazed
Friendly, welcoming, cool, Smily, fresh blood, in motion, a ‘go getter’
a toothy grin,
complex, neither black nor white
To see a shark in your dream, Hark!, what better companion while swimming then a shark, who is going to mess with you when you are near a shark, you are able to relax and enjoy yourself if you dream of swimming to the righthand side of a shark, If you dream of swimming to the lefthand side of a shark you are uptight over concerns of time management and getting away.. on vacation.
you feel as if your boss has your best interest at heart.. every time it flashes a smile at you.
onto rowboat next
the answer just as perplexed
Injury, strain, lost, painting, staining, splinters,
If you dream of a Rowboat in water, you are worried about back pain caused by strain and getting lost in the world, or forgetting to put the bung back in the bottom of the boat before putting it into the water
fearful of three hour tours, a three hour tours… and Gillian’s island rerun marathons
if you dream of a rowboat on land you are casting away, perhaps on a desert island of escaping hourglass sand, marooned by your fear of water or overpriced drinks.
found of red rowboat and shark
How many people get hurt by sharks, yet every year Boats! it’s the boats that wreck havoc on people, over rowing, putting them in and out of the water, getting capsized, yes the rowboat and not the shark should be taken to heart. Your dreams are smart, they are trying to point out where your rational fears should start! The red rowboat should be a warning sign to you, you are better off with the shark what ever you do.
I decided to consult another dream book or two.
and just to be safe, rethink my up coming Florida vacation through and through,
Perhaps instead hike up a mountain, find a guru, ask him what my dream means, and what I should do
Somewhere with less boating and no sharks, perhaps instead I’ll go to Kathmandu
– W. B.
Day 13 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended. For example, if you chose the phrase “A stitch in time saves nine,” you might reverse that into something like: “a broken thread; I’m late, so many lost.” Or “It’s raining cats and dogs” might prompt the phrase “Snakes and lizards evaporate into the sky.” Those are both rather haunting, strange images, and exploring them could provide you with an equally haunting, strange poem (or a funny one!)
Volcano rocks used for healing
Cedar boughs to cleanse
Prisoners clank their chains
I heard your name called
Chattering out from
A squirrel in Stanley Park
Has the universe rent?
We wander, wondering
Picking fresh fruit from trees
There are no daisies left
Each day passes barren
I hear drumming
From a billion hearts
Boom Boom Boom!
Dug deep for Pine
Chantrelle flutes broken
By the force of a wind
Up from underground
Mould tendrils race the rainbow
Rattling the course of the dry river
I feel such heat upon the face
Of this mountain
I will rest here
Down inside the crevasse
Leave my body on the branches
Of our human origins
Wrapped in warmth
We say ‘Hello’
I swing a little higher
Jump down unto the sand
Straight to the core
Like a butterfly.
Oddly a continuing counter lies 43199 seconds a night
Oddly once started a deceptive Clock lies 1438 minutes a night
This statement may be incorrect, or a lie, it was given to me by a clock early in the night
For time is sometimes un-understandable, in its very variances of variability
Running, late, early, stopping, time is unreliable, this can be undeniable
Givens seconds of thought two ideas tick in my head,
On groggily from a nap waking up, the two faced numbers must be read
and when last were the batteries changed, if can not be said
into doubts of its veracity, I have before twice been led
It’s, allegedly, ten past two in the morning, the ticking of the clock taunts me, the tock-ing haunts me
But are the hands shuddering, stuttering, fluttering or turning free
or some combination of the three…
my mind and the clock, simply, can not agree
If it would just finish its time and stop with a resounding ‘clop’
or have the hands suddenly off drop
or off the wall pop
then I could wholly disbelieve it, and take stock
But as it is, I can not tell how much from its guesstimate I should dock
oh that little deceptive lying clock
Un-usefully untruthfully lessons to me at a glance taught.
If it would only just stop, then at least twice it could be counted on, to correct information from be brought!
Day 12 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt –> Today, we’d like to challenge you specifically to write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live.
Squish, feet wet once more
Holes in umbrella find me
Water infuses all
Inside and out
A single drop
So full of mysterious life!
Rivulets of rain
Is it spring, the cold days keep feeling like they are falling back. or damp away into dusk.
Hail littered the ground last night, … in pockets of cold where it still lay by the time the night brought one home. Tiny cold pearls, melting slowly in the night. The twilight bouncing off buds between the shadows of branches in passing. Glancing grey, the sky lead and followed through tree lined streets, past the apartment blocks into the houses and slower pace shrubbery flanking driveways covered by oversized cars, waiting to drive away with the morning. The drizzle runs out of the night, illuminated, in highlights by streetlights in streaks, of round clusters falling past. Intensifying by steps, with the ground now churning under footfall.
Cold rain rivulets
Crawl across my path tonight,
Seasons in motion.
Day 11 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt–> Write a poem that addresses the future, answering the questions “What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind?
If you are a citizen of the “union” that is your body, what is your future “state of the union” address?”
Remember my forgotten aspects
Fly, fly long and lean
My heart at peace
My soul washed clean
No more fear or suspects
Last breath full of respect
Pushing, sorting playing
Foundations, choices laying
Formations and creations
My family in Spirit Nation
I will smile
Would Statler & Waldorf be right!
What if the Statlers & Waldorfs had been right?….
This was one thing that gave my rise might
For I couldn’t let that pass
and so I had decided to resist their bad ideas on mass
Oh, I could hear them laughing from up there
But down here was where all the hard work needed to appear
Glinting eyes from a balcony above
Heckled, but did they do it with love?…
But still…, I rolled up gloves, and went to work
while they sat in the balcony, and continued to shirk.
With a big push back stage, to show a show that will be all the rage!
Hours of practice to put in, and refinement, and a slightly better alignment
will lead to a gleaming world of cannon flying chickens and stand up bears
where with a little hard work, you can now see how your dream fairs.
Where doubt does happen, but quickly out flares
even if two unhelpful people may try to hurl out insults in pairs
Centre stage, the future, the curtain is going to go up
even as two people in the balcony try to disrupt
There will alway be the majesty of the show
and the diversity of all the places it will go
And the future will be even brighter, because we will all just stand up and glow
The future should strive to be half as good, and crazy, as the muppet show
where everyone has a friend to talk to, and somewhere to go
and finds their own voice, and inner light to glow.
Day 10 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt–> Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of simultaneity – in which multiple things are happing at once.
Behind Closed Doors
The pages were turned and
Candy’s book was read
While loud music played
Blonde hair bounced
On bopping head
Fried my steak
On which a sale price
I’d bought to take
Home for dinner
Colourful veg on steamed simmer
Corn boiled in the big pot
I’d not forgot
Ring, Ring, Hello Hello?
Answered the phone
All happy and mellow
Multi tasking at home
Painting my nails
Chatted the new fellow
Watched my slots game
( a free site I will not name)
Monitor, aged and yellowed
Spun,spin with auto click
Gently washed the aloe plant leaves
Such good medicine, Thank You, Please
Grown luscious,green and thick
Grated the rind
Squeezed the lemon
Stirred the juice
Danced a jig
Like them on Footloose!
A bit of honey
Did the trick
Ahh beverage heaven!!
Smell the joy
Time left on baking bread
All done in 1/2 an hour
Coordination gives one power!
Turn down the tunes
Lights off in all rooms
Time to go write in chalk
While slowly now
I take a walk.
Rumble, tick, the engines shutter, violently the ship
pause, to wonder if they did all the bolts up, a cloud drifts by, somewhere in a diner a breakfast order is gotten wrong, eggs not over-easy at all, a dog waits to go outside, scratching at the door, TOCK, time refuses to stop, no matter the cause
The music drowned out by the hissing squeal of zeal, of stage two igniting, a plate of hash-browns comes, eggs sent back, charred slightly at the edges, a possible threat of rain, the tick, tick, tick sound, clawing at the door. TICK , back further into their sockets two eyes did peal, the pedals now firmly fused to heel.
TOCK, Ground control was busy repeating themselves yet again, as several more ‘G’s belted through a brain. Blowing past, one could not tell if it was or wasn’t rain, the dog didn’t care, the eggs were good and runny
T+ Daffodil…, a mind really was starting to feel a little ill, but it wasn’t like I could just pop out to the bathroom and take a pill, TICK, the sky around started to spill, Too absorbed in the thrill, the dog chewed at something, possibly unsatisfying, but what ever it was on the side it could be called food I guess.
Strange colours out the window started to mill, TOCK, I think this must be the view from inside the grill, strange perspectives in the mind turned, ran in circles
Blurred by a motion of nothing that stayed still, buttons off the console seemed to spill
Where was this infernal TICKing clock, the mind of surroundings tried to take stock, Sitting, nothing else to do, how long does one stay once one has finished eating, waiting for a K9 exhilaration to end.
The clock goes on around still, hands pressed to the dial
the same moments all around, but all happening at the same time
Rocketing by day after day as we all go on about our way.
Day 09 –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —> We challenge you today to write a poem in which something big and something small come together.
Tiny as a thumbnail
Impact larger then a great whale
If stung, oh you shall flail
Probably loudly assail
All ears nearby
But not the corn
Never blowing it’s horn
A single kernel
Can start to feed communal
Across the globe
Unseen but now known
A invisible microbe
Changes entire planet
Did someone plan it?
Oh, perfection, sublime
A drop of water
Fills a lake
Billions years life eternal
Gifts from our Mother Maternal
All small but larger then life
Without any single one
Fractals one and all
Thanks for big
Thanks for the small!
Pulling together the world
The tapestry of the world is made up of tiny stitches
My stitches, crossed, boxed, row on row
on and on they go, each tiny one done, pulled flat by my big fat fingers
threads snuggly tugged, redone, if by imperfections only I can see bugged
my tiny corner of the world unfurled, by out of scale fingers, threads into stitches curled
the blueness of the sky, determined by what ever shade of thread at hand may lie
or of sales that day to buy, or just new things I decided to try
My slice of the world in a twelve inch round hoop frame, as slowly a tiny tree forms from green stitches in a chain, of ungainly large fingers with a needle that more dexterity need to gain
On a chair by night my tiny stitches into fabric take flight
By day, into the world I make my way
I walk this world around me, Huge and vast, but my tiny little fingers create change
details far larger then the hands that toil at them today,
Counterpoint to the miniature worlds I stitch together by night, this is the real world I build, around me in flight, bringing tiny little overlooked details to light. I tug and pull at all the things that don’t seem right
Day 08 –NaPoWriMo
Write a poem in which mysterious and magical things occur. Your poem could take the form of a spell, for example, or simply describe an event that can’t be understood literally. Feel free to incorporate crystal balls, fauns, lightning storms, or whatever seems fierce and free and strange.
After a lifetime
Sometimes young sown
Keeps one going
When odds are 1- million
Forgives past faults
It certainly takes
But all end s good
With a little
Placed on belt
Upside down, wheels up and in, it all seems straight forward enough
Yet what really happens to your bag before it again emerges on the carousel
Can you really even tell?
After through the hanging black plastic strips it slips, it disappears, into a black hole and off it zips.
By the time you hit the airport lounge, Through a nebula it has already a few billion kilometres scrounged
Time and space, around it race
Bar coded tag fluttering behind, as around it asteroids grind
A side trip through a universe ruled by bees, impounded, brought to its knees, then on offering flowers to please, they agree, your bag to finally ‘releazzZze’
In an interstellar inversion it’s turned inside out, have you never wondered why your socks never match, have no further doubt!
Grappled by a sub-dimensional Dragon, clawed, sorted, and at snorted, before being dropped on a wagon
By giant dwarves balanced, under a low hanging valance, of mystic mid-size gypsies seized, snatched away as a packet of pepper on the breeze made them sneeze.
Skirting an interstellar war, and staying out from underfoot of a giant space Boar, and other unmentionable hazards that, nearly, through it tore, and you still probably haven’t even yet made it to the plane door!
No one can quite say, what happens when through a universe of 27 dimensions it plays, occasionally though a bag there stays, or comes out frozen or ablaze.
Now things get strange, and in more ways than I can relate, your bag gets deranged, its a strange universe out there after all, with oddities indescribable across its range
I suppose you could always try to ask the invisible crystal ball, but it will not be able to show you at all, of the strange happenings, as across the indelible horrors your bag will crawl, all while you fly onward, unaware of this all
It’s probably best not to think of the rest…. Or of what mercurial places, possibly uninvited, your bag was a guest
as you landed, your luggage was being wheeled across a distant frozen moon, for traction freshly sanded
A form of Quantum entanglement with your ticket, started back at the departure check in wicket, on your arrival, starts a process archival, leading to searches for your baggage stub in a subterranean blue banana tree thicket
Matched up with your bag, somewhere beamed in a phased expanse lagged, by a well worn shoelace its dragged up a particulated crag
reconstituted in form, with its ‘Fragile’ sticker still adorn.
shorn back into your reality, by anomaly torn, into a cargo container horned
Finally shoved down a baggage chute, I tell you these are happenings beyond repute.
After all this can you tell me you don’t believe in magic, I can tell you it exists, even if your mind still resists, how can I prove it?
You have arrived at your destination AND your bag is there, if that isn’t magic then something else must be at work so beware!
Next, of the hows and whys of baggage insurance?… Talk about your witchcraft occurrence!
Day -07 –NaPoWriMo
Wrie out a list of all of your different layers of identity. These are all ways you could be described or lenses you could be viewed through. Now divide all of those things into lists of what makes you feel powerful and what makes you feel vulnerable.
Now write a poem in which one of the identities from the first list contends or talks with an identity from the second list.
I was born
Weep for me
Now so strong
Molested by tenderest age of 3
like a old Oak Tree!
8 men gave abuse
Before I could reach 10
Now I am telling
Again and again
Raped and beaten
Mother a witch
Whose poison apple I’d eaten
From a crawl
To my knees
I tried to stand
Make sens of this world
That I now command
Of course I found
A marriage unfair
Tied and stalked
Never safe breathing air
Beat to speak
Beat for my silence
Today I strive for ‘up’ beat
A life without violence
So many years
So many fears
I win now
I am free
All I am meant to be !!
Children home from foster care
Life in community
Both things I had ever despaired
I struggle still
Probably always will
But now I live
In Peace and Goodwill
Flutter and fight
You have no hope in the wind
The image of the delicate butterfly.
Gusting, the strong wind,
the end seemed to be written within.
But the Butterfly would not give in
“You can not hope to make it”, derided the wind
Without response the butterfly flew straight in
“Not a chance” bellowed the wind
as the butterfly cartwheeled through the sky in a spin
blown back to settled to a branch…
But with a grin, whispered only onto the wind “but I am still here”
Holding fast, to the branch pinned.
“But you have not moved forward”
“Nor have you” for that that you tried to do”
“And people see me trying, I am a champion, and you, unseen
Tomorrow you may be calm, your rage having moved on,
and I will flutter through calm fields of green
with you still beneath my wings…
and I will thank you for helping me”
Day 06- –NaPoWriMo
Prompt —>Today, we’d like you to write a poem that stretches your comfort zone with line breaks. That could be a poem with very long lines, or very short lines. Or a poem that blends the two. You might break to emphasize (or de-emphasize) sounds or rhymes, or to create a moment of hesitation in the middle of a thought.
Sift and shift
Shells, rocks,into finest
A tiny cosmos perfect
I went there
A beach white refined
Somehow It stuck
the same all
Sea Salt water rinses
Up from depths ever
Wave that caressed by holding
me tight with
Its briny grip
I too forever broken
The way we were not
blocks of moments def
ined by breaks of major
importance, of moments, or critical
points in time that we deem
to our lives. We arrange re called history around
these points. But are they
the tragedies and atrocities…
If we look objective ly
back, in fact, are these the points that define us, or were they
tragedies that changed or challenged what we were and are?
An antithesis of what in fact, we were
, and are. Are the moments
, that in our history
, in fact just turning out
to the the things that left scar.
Do the so called
in actual fact
, become some
form of misguided
, or the spaces
they contain that form
us? Are we defined by the moments
that crushed?, compacted into a brick like form by
the tragedy of the wall, are we the historical moments
chosen to contain and define us?, or
is it the moments to be greater
, in-between, to overcome
and breach the wall, that makes us tall.
Are we maybe
the way we thought
? but rather
something better, lost in details
to histories bur??
Day 05 –NaPoWriMo
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that reacts both to photography and to words in a language not your own. Begin with a photograph. Now find a poem in a language you don’t know. Ignore any accompanying English translation.
Now start translating the poem into English, with the idea that the poem is actually “about” your photograph. Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph. It will be a bit of a balancing act, but hopefully it will lead to new and beautiful (and possibly very weird) places.
– Le cancre –
Il dit non avec la tête
Mais il dit oui avec le cœur
Il dit oui à ce qu’il aime
Mais il dit non au professeur
Il est debout
On le questionne
Et tous les problèmes sont posés
Soudain le fou rire le prend
Et il efface tout
Les chiffres et les mots
Les dates et les noms
Les phrases et les pièges
Et malgré les menaces du maître
Sous les huées des enfants prodiges
Avec des craies de toutes les couleurs
Sur le tableau noir du malheur
Il dessine le visage du bonheur
– Jacques Prévert
(picture of a bonsai tree)
Such a small forest
Only by the smallest
Such good teachers
Nature ! breath deep
All the answers
Found within if only one looks
Feels, smells and tastes
My Mother in all varieties
Many bare feet have traveled
Praise to life
I, your humble servant
The deep earth warms me
Under the sun or moon
May your loving reach us
Day 04- –NaPoWriMo
Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is about something abstract – perhaps an ideal like “beauty” or “justice,” but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns. Adjectives are fine too! For example, you could have a poem about sadness that describes that emotion as “a rowboat tethered with fishing line to a willow that leans over a pond. Rainwater collects in the bottom, and mosquito eggs.”
Behold floating gossamer full of light,movement, old growth trees, robust in Grandfather’s Hair,gently weaving,winding,spindling within the kiss of life. So clearly appearing as candle lit flame outlined against kaleidoscopic nebula, continuous folding, unfolding that captured all known and unknown, to be or ever that was.Concentric fractals rainbowing into soft mist after cascading out,down,from,into. The lines of form, so evident, viable but invisible when looked to directly, glimpsed only ,ever,from corners of eyes or perhaps while passing through.Only then maybe to be seen,known,felt,touched closely.
Squatting wings, uplifted flying, forming,framing benevolence unknown before,dreamed of,folk lore had anciently described in quantity,but never humanly beheld. Until now.Only now. Closed eyes, heat, heart, encircled in arms spreading branchlike, rooted in divinities! Welcomed.Welcomed we surge, only brilliance to guide the transmutation.Spirit nestled,bundled,cosseted while expanding concentrically ever outward,onward,inward. Choices, varied,wondrous,openings of ever sweeter,more blossomed possibility. New seeds of purple,orange,green, overcast by molten hues of effervescent shadows so bright they blind.Behold this new mornings dawn, the veil forever lifted.
Ballon raising, held on a taught white string braided, looped twice and knotted
the other end tied tightly to a banister of an oak staircase, A bright red orb pulling excitedly towards a Blue sashed window slightly ajar, the wind pushing back, rocking back and forth, dark shadow cast onto a grey tiled floor, the grid of the heavy white grout lines between.
Slowly the knot slips, the white ceiling grows closer, a heavy brass chandelier beckons
The frayed end of the string draws down, Polished shiny oak banister holds little grip as the string again in gust slips.
Unraveled, the succumb knot unfurls into it’s crescendo, a moment of joy, freedom,
Floating past oak treads and risers of stairs, a green carpet runner, towards the landing at the top.
This is freedom and flight, un-captured, beyond the bounds of floor and furniture, Floral couches, Black end tables and stainless steel fridge handles, no purchase, left behind
In the tick of the long arm, held behind a glass dome, of black numbers one to twelve trapped, a moment is marked by the slightly off kilter bronze clock
in this moment, is Jubilation
Day three –NaPoWriMo
Today’s prompt is rooted in endlessly writing ideas for band names. Today, we challenge you to try this out yourself by writing a list poem in which all the items are made-up names. If band names don’t inspire, how about a list of titles for romantic novels? Or new television cop dramas? They can be as over-the-top as you like, because that’s (at least) half the fun. Happy writing!
Trust me on this dark horse
trust me, just let it rain
trust me, drive to Birmingham
trust me right here all along
trust me in my shades of grey
trust me, love is my witness
trust me inside the tornado
trust me, love is dizzy
trust me: whispers the voice inside
trust me as I colour with red magic marker
trust me, let’s get lost
trust me in our fall from grace
trust me in this dark horse
trust me, this is love
a beautiful goodbye.
More than words sent me up the stairway to heaven
it shook me all night, leaving me free falling.
You gave me a ticket to ride the highway to hell.
Baby, light my fire through the eye of the tiger
as we chime hell’s bells, another one bites the dust.
Lightning strikes, I walk the line down Penny Lane,
thankfully, these boots were made for walking.
Don’t cry, I can see clearly now,
this is how you remind me
of the way we were.
40 Hour Week
The clock hands had stopped.
I looked over, worrying, said to the left, look,look! Listen!
There is no click, click, click.
Time had died.
Silent, mute, taunting, it just hung there.
The next cubicle said we will be here forever if one cannot clock the time cards out.
The right hand desk voice squeaked out,Is it the batteries?
Does it use batteries?
Let me check, called the floor manager from over there.
The first man slumped over,into his hard office chair with the broken wheel.
Doomed, he voiced in real despair.
My wife will kill me if I don’t come home said adjoined cubicle.
Then the desk three walls over remarked I knew I would die here.
What, die, here, whispered the second man.
You go too far said the desk, management will surely fix it soon.
The 3 rd cubicle started to cry.
Here forever, and no pay accumulating!
First man man looked about wildly.
He had ambitions, plans!
All eyes clockward penetrating!
Management slowly made his way toward the wall where said clock hung
All hearts, lips now prayed to a time God
Top office dog went slow, maybe worrying about a bomb.
A bomb! Called out the other 4 men!
I can’t die
I am still too young, said the cubicle.
The first man who had noticed the broken time piece now
Wished he had never mentioned it, after all his own watch was working.
But his own watch wouldn’t stamp the time card to get his pay.
Gloom, doom circled the room
All now slowly made their way.
Tremblingly went to the wall holding briefcases in front like shields.
We can die together if it blows said the desk.
We are good company men.
I shall put in for a raise for everyone!
Said the manager
For the very last time.
Escaping memory, is that a song?
Nothing is worse, then the ever-present curse
of a line from a song, stuck in your head that simply will not move along
So I obsessively started in the music app, then fell back to the CDs after that
Song after song, till one by one they we’re gone
but still the mystery went on,
it wasn’t the Groggy snails ‘Ballad of Slime’
it wasn’t Epiphany for Cheese’s ‘Rind’
it wasn’t the Goolies ‘Reason for a reason’ , though I was sure that that was still in season
it wasn’t Dandy handy wallpapers at all
it wasn’t Come to call, nor their single ‘hang up and try again’
it wasn’t Colours that stink ‘Wash this down your sink’
it wasn’t A paper pop-up down, I went though every album I had twice around
it wasn’t Kingdom of Klown, though I didn’t want to put that one down
it wasn’t Redux ‘Twice over’
it wasn’t Redux ‘Twice over’, I just had to make sure
it wasn’t Blunted scissors ‘Still don’t run’
it wasn’t It wasn’t’s ‘I didn’t think it was’
it wasn’t Untitled’s ‘Untitled’, though it took me a while to recall the name
it wasn’t Bullfingers ‘stink’
it wasn’t A song I could call’s ‘Un-recallable’
it wasn’t Unshiftable’s ‘move’
it wasn’t like I had no class, but looking through all the titles one would think some a bit crass
it wasn’t Forgotten’s ‘________’
it wasn’t Cut’s ‘Whole’
it wasn’t Upper lower shelf’s ‘Drawer’
it wasn’t Bail’s ‘Chargecard’
it wasn’t Move’s ‘stillness’
it wasn’t the next hundred songs I played, One by one into each other they started to fade
it wasn’t Poetry Soul sticks, that turned out to be the one with all the clicks
it wasn’t Massive’s ‘tiny’
it wasn’t What was in here anyway’s ‘thing’
It wasn’t anywhere I was looking
it wasn’t helping my sanity, it really wasn’t!
it wasn’t The unlabelled album, where was that case anyways, I had lost it long ago in a haze
it wasn’t today still, I was deep into the morning, yet without thrill
it wasn’t looking like I was going ti find out what it was.
it was eluding me, wait I have an album called that… .. . Nope. it wasn’t that at all!
it wasn’t to be. What ever it was I was looking for had escaped me…? I had forgotten it and was now FREE!
But now I had parts in my head of all the list above you see, and that had to be worse than what ever the original would have turned out to be!
Day 02 –NaPoWriMo
We’d like to challenge you to write a poem that plays with voice. For example, you might try writing a stanza that recounts something in the first-person, followed by a stanza recounting the same incident in the second-person, followed by a stanza that treats the incident from a third-person point of view. Or you might try a poem in the form of a dialogue, which necessarily has two “I” speakers, addressing two “you”s. Another way to go is to take an existing poem of yours or someone else’s, and try rewriting it in a different voice. The point is just to play with who is speaking to who and how.
Your love endures each passerby
you send each thought without a lie
you create an engulfing feeling, a tearful eye
you fulfill each joyful cry.
Through My Eyes:
Daylight star flickered a glow around him
as flecks of blue splashed from his eyes.
Roses embedded deep in his cheeks,
his coral lips curl into a smile
as he watched my elevator eyes.
Warmth radiated from firework chemistry
as words spilled like a perfect harmony.
His hands softly rubbed my shoulder
where my blonde hair spread like wings,
a sense of peace cleanses our souls.
Interlocked hand sent a neuron text
“You got mail,” my brain said, though I knew it was love.
He captured my heart with a lassoed string
pulled me close; never would he let go
as we basked together in love’s golden glow.
Oh, the twisted wool we weave, U and I.
I flew home to ewe
Yew knew it was I, before I even came around the corner from where she did lie
Yew ran toward me
You smiled at me as I looked ewe in the eye
But she just kept walking disgruntledly by
You said she had been waiting for me half the day at the gate
But now yet pretended to ignore me at any rate
You reminded me that I was very late to ewe
ewe’s eyes at my view, and acknowledgement of my presence, did away skate
I turned to follow, They never glanced at me again. …. The rest of the sheep, they just made a dismissive noise, even you were not sure whoms side they were on, ewes or mine, I was sure! They were all against me at this point….There I figured there was no doubt at all, they had been perfectly clear to me.
You scolded ‘Don’t be late again’
Never, never, again would I be late for you, my tender little ewe, We had too much history, you reminded me.
I will never be again a black sheep I tell you! They never let you forget that sort of thing later in life! You certainly would not, nor ewe certainly, they would not, and those eyes, they would not either ever forget I. And I Should not, but we sometimes loose track of ourselves, themselves and others in moments where we, in a complex simplicity, simply become ‘us’ before we realize that we should be eye to eye, yet I seldom seem to get down to your level, You remind me.
I still think that you should have told me to tell you what I though ewe wanted you to have told me to say, though through and through, to you from me about us and not them but others had other ideas about us and they never told you or I about them, then in the end, people never did. But still we only cared what you had to say about them if they could tell everyone, everyone but that one person, though I could never remember if that was you, them, me her or I…. , but certainly you are to remember that ewe seemed to have me at a disadvantage in that. That I never tell what I should be saying, before everyone cut them, and you off.
Oh what happened to us!! Could we go back, we could go back. If they approved… of you, you had more time to explain. Explain all of this to me, and some of us could go back and start again, one did come back, not to you, you just stood there, while yew lay waiting, You never did explain… You could have explained, tried to explain, to fly home, but only to discover disdain, but to come, you.. and us.
Oh they never said any of this would be easy! Nor in others eyes, any hints were seen. Everyone wove this strange perspective around this whole thing, knotted so many times that they may never unravel us, I certainly will not manage everyones expectations, these expectations, in their grouping and gathering of viewpoints into stringing together things, where one story shifted into their chapter that I stared both as villain and scapegoat, so to speak.
The tapestry sits here, all its yarns on display to cover all of the details, out of sight, the ugly underside of knots and unsaid things. Woven from viewpoints that may not have ever existed, yarns spun into unraveling edges, what ever happened to us, did they find themselves where we were, or were we there when the rest moved on into the night, that cold night that one is pulling a blanket out of the chest to keep us warm and talk through the night. I took no note of the pattern on the blanket, The sheared stories spun out, twisted, braided pattern between weft, until it was all that was left.
-I am strong
I fear much
-I am capable
1st time ever of doing such!
-I strive to do right
Sometimes I do wrong
-I stand tall
Will I crumble and fail
-Smart and creative
I feel crazy, my arms flail
So many tears fall
-I stand up
5 minutes such pain consumes all
Soon, life is done
-I serve and give
So much need..do more, run, run!
So used to being alone
-I work to make a difference
Be forgotten in a week!
-Learning to talk out loud
Yes speak woman, speak!
In and out combined
From victim to survivor
Honoured from maligned
So much internal dialogue
Only ‘we’ can know
How much it takes to volunteer
Organize myself for the show
Day 01 –NaPoWriMo
Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure. It could be eating too many cookies, or bad movies, or the time you told your sister she could totally brush her teeth with soap. It’s up to you. Happy writing!
Tasting the DIrt
Cruising on a skateboard down a hill
attempting another to connect the inner thrill.
Helmets aren’t really my thing
for this ride is a one time thing.
I cringe with the speeds
not fearing the bleeds
and that sloppy wobble.
As I am tasting the dirt
and ripped up my shirt
my face is crimson like sailor’s dawn
I figured I just had to go on
and kill it without a trace
for tears could not be shed in this pace
but the tiny wobble
destructed me again.
Cookie dough aroma seeps into the room
curling hot air fingers, lifting my body from its seat.
Spells of dizzy clouds entice my mind
as I watch the dough rise and bloom.
Timer jingles starting the race of my heart.
Oven mitts glide delicately over my hands.
A wave of heat flushes my face; blushing skin,
aroma rumbas through my pores; just a start.
Chocolate seeps through doughy veins
“Cool down,” I state not wanting to wait.
Taunted by ghosts that linger on the tray
leaving my aniticipated heart in bleeting pain.
Air blows the heat out of the way
only warmth lingers; as I scoop one up.
Its soft, gooey texture blends into my fingers
as my dry mouth invites a bite; come and play.
My tastebuds light fireworks of drool
as I gobble that cookie like Cookie Monster,
“Om om om om om om,” I mimic his sound
Cookies are so delish, warm or cool!
(left on a bus seat)
Oh the first thoughts!
Despair overcomes as I
To be an
Across the desk, universe
Where in the ‘world’
Is found content
For this topic
To grind uneven teeth
Satisfying the hawkers
Hoping for morbid..
Hidden to become
Before coffee even!
Zip my lips
Quell trembling fingers
There are no
– Katheren Szabo
An off scale 11
When sitting alone
comes the resonant tone.
Calming in its overpowering cone
There is a settling from the sound,
as it surrounds from all around
Everything else, out it drowns
For music makes a quiet mind
as together serenity, the notes bind
antithetically to the loudness of the music in kind
as the volume,11 hits
the calm around me together knits
and in a distracted world my sanity again somehow fits
alone, note by note it comes in whits
even if I have lost track of the volume, and it’s shaking things to bits
Day 00- The warmup (One day away from the start!)
Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the form of a love letter . . . to an object. Ideally, the poem will be a kind of riddle, where it’s not totally obvious that the addressee is your beloved childhood pogo stick, or a dish of pad thai from your favorite restaurant, until near the end.
I swing in your arms
feel the crips kiss
towards the sky
your warmth of your tire swing
attach me close to your firey fling
you hold me tight with open arms
natural and sweet, a charm alarm
Flirts of love notes
chase me with your lovely song,
as doves enlighten the mood
guidance in your wing.
My beloved Pen:
Clouded thoughts collide into words
as they spill through your fountain lips.
My fingertips grasp your thin frame
and you pirouette across the paper.
Together we travel into adventure
as we weave amongst jungled imagination.
With you, I transform from my physical self
into the “Tickle Chest” of creativity.
Our possibilities are endless dreams.
Without me, you are a stationed object,
without you, I am not a writer.
We are a perfect match.
– Love, Rhiannon
I hope this letter finds you well, I know you don’t get out at all in the winter, and that Fall is burdensome to you, it’s hard to move through, all those leaves… I know. But Spring is here now my dear, A season we both love and adore. There is so much joy ahead and I can not wait to share it with you, as forward through the garden two hands led, the sun beaming down on us as your lay out in the grassy field. Flowers held gently, but tightly in your grip.
The smile like curve of your lip, and an adorable tiny drop of water there in the corner, waiting to drip
Rosy red, Brighter in the mid day sun, it must be said
Your two fine legs, smooth sheening arms outreaching, as if waiting for me all this time.
I have missed you, my faithful companion, all this time apart. But I have returned at last, though you have never been far from my heart
a re-blooming relationship in a garden of emotions around to cart
My dear trusty faithful red Wheelbarrow. And following behind us, the track of footprints and a tread narrow,
through a garden romance un-harrowed.