Each day for the month of April, the Cedar Bark Poets are writing a poem a day in celebration of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing month. Poems are posted here daily. Let Katheren know if you would like to participate!
“And now, for our prompt (optional, as always). Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that tells a story. But here’s the twist – the story should be told backwards. The first line should say what happened last, and work its way through the past until you get to the beginning. Now, the story doesn’t have to be complicated (it’s probably better if it isn’t)! Here’s a little example I just made up:
The Story of a Day
She lay her head down on the table.
She climbed the stairs to her room and sat down.
The afternoon of the boarding house was cool and dusty.
She walked home slowly, watching the sun settle on brick walls and half-kept gardens.
Work lasted many hours. Office lights buzzing with a faint, mad hum.
Breakfast was a small miracle.
She thought it a wonder, as always, that she’d woken up at all.
Well, that’s kind of unsettling! But I think it works as a poem. Maybe you’ll have better luck working backwards toward a happy beginning. Happy writing!”
Red Dawn Creations
I wear it with such pride atop my head
Lovingly she gave me a hand made tiara.
‘You are my queen,Mom’,
She told me with such a gentle smile
It took her so many hours!!
Wire wrapped,semi prescious stones
Plyers out and imagination all her own
She had shopped and gathered
My daughter always loved beading
Artistic since since a child
Generations of matriarch artisians
She comes from a long line of crafters
A piece of magnificent artwork
At her home she sat down to assemble
She thought of me!!
Then he kissed me
Twinkling and sparkling in delight
The night stars gazed upon us
Along the winding path we strolled
The moonlight guided our way
The path illuminated through moonlight
He took my hand and squeezed tight
His eyes looked intently at me
Thoughts were running through my head
My heart thumped loudly in my ears
He smiled at me
Sunset draws us into romance
Sitting by the beach, waves were crashing softly A perfect moment
10 hrs later
10 hrs later everything was roll, roll, rolling again.
With little food, no water, we were forced to find some.
We were stuck in the middle of nowhere
They fired up the steam machine one last time.
the machine stopped at once, they tried to spark a fume.
a lot of silence came from the rail car, until a screech of the brakes.
today was a unique day, we all were discovering many views
climbing aboard the century old train, we had a sense of peace
It was a pleasant day in new brunswick,
Soaking, dishes on counter rest, baked on bits out poking
two leaves of endive, tipped into the compost pail, only to old soil now to help organically revive
scraping plate for the remaining sour-cream, bacon bits and chives, leaving only the garnish of endive
Crispy skins eaten last, smothered in all the toppings passed
drawing out, the last of the fluffy white starchy potato might, forkfuls of a tasty white cloud, taken from within a skins tight shroud
into the hole to extract, a still steaming, slightly crunchy crusty mashed mixed potato, yielding softly to fork tines contact
Spoon or fork to choose, which the lesser amount with to lose
Baking sheet, clings to foil, but I get it off anyways, to plate to meet
I retrieved with a patterned tight knit on this oven mitt
Back into dark 350 cavern dimly lit,
Found, two, Mismatched oven mitts, of too loose a fit
Piped back, a filling within, finishing off with a rosette’s spin
Half baked insides out, mashed, in more ingredients stashed, then with the mixer, a final bout
Foil carefully pealed back, a hole cut at the marked half, down as lined up on baking sheet, the whole raft
Part way done, they are outward by oversized oven mitts spun
In to bake, a starchy steamy flavour to take
In square of foil wrapped up neat, the seam rolled tightly over like a pleat
350 degrees the oven to preheat set, as with just a touch of olive oil each one I lightly pet
Lightly perforated, onto a square of similar sized foil mated
eyes that do not see, not to be seen again.
A raw potato trimmed and scrubbed, holding tightly so as not to be flubbed
the biggest roundest ones taken from the bag
Into my pantry, Canada Grade A, the best bag of potatoes for sure to say
Into my cart, then through a checkout and home we dart
Set out on shelves, by rows of twelves
truck trip number two, a sack of potatoes drive to the store the whole night through
To depots by truck, where it goes from here is just wholly luck
bagging, onto pallets until shipment, lagging
Dug out and set on ground to dry, before sorting, and into piles they fly
Bushy greens, but underground is where business it means
new shoots watered as they break ground, the new lines of rows are found
from a seed potato, cut between the sprouting eyes into pieces, into deep soil roots soon it releases
a knobby old potato saved at seasons end, dug up, cold stored to start it all again
A Potato Baked, lifespan from table fork to garden fork. Next to steak or staked.
– W. B.