Day 30: Here's to Us! (Reverso)

This is a reverso I wrote in honor of the group of friends I have been sharing poetry with this month. A reverso is two poems in one - one read top to bottom, the other read bottom to top. Both are presented below, so you don't need to rotate your screen. :)

Bravo!

Over 400 poems

we have written

together,

this month alone –

What a fine use of words!

Poems

about life, about spring (or fall), about

Poetry.

“Time” was,

perhaps,

“Once upon a time” –

Yes, we wrote our own stories.

Naked, truthful.

All we had to give

we shared with each other –

Alone

in April,

together in poetry.

~~ and in reverse ~~

Together in poetry

(in April

alone)

we shared with each other

all we had to give –

naked, truthful.

Yes, we wrote our own stories.

Once upon a time,

perhaps,

Time was

Poetry –

about life, about spring (or fall), about

Poems.

What a fine use of words!

This month alone,

together,

we have written

over 400 poems.

Bravo!

Day 29: Poetic Counsel

In the inkpot of life, the poet’s quill dips deep.

Fear not the rise and fall of time,

Of passion, of ego, of loss – Feel

Until you are like to burst with the feeling of it.

Then write, and feel again.

Poetry will keep you awake at night,

If you let it. Let it. There is no better bedfellow.

May the night tease your secret

Words from you like a lover, asking – no, demanding –

All you have to give. Give it.

And demand the same in return.

They say that you have truly learned

A language when you think,

When you dream, wholly within it.

May you learn the language

Of poetry this well,

And swim in its waters like a fish

Glinting in the sunlight.

Day 28: Once And For All

Whenever I think of you

I wish I hadn’t.

You are a chapter in my history book

I wish I somebody had torn out
Before I read it;

A short song

With an unfortunate chorus

That repeats itself unbidden

In my inner ear

When no one else is listening;

A darkened door

Far behind me

Down a bright corridor –

I want to forget what’s behind it.

I want back all those minutes

You have stolen from my peace,

All those thoughts I’ve wasted

Trying not to think about you.

Let these words now

Lay your memory to rest –

I am tired of thinking of you

And wishing I hadn’t.

Day 27: Disillusionment

Today,

pulling books at random

from the untidy shelves, searching

for some inspiration, somewhere,

I came across a child’s ring.

Plastic, purple, gawdy and horrible,

a giant violet rose perched on a broken band –

Twist and it lights up red!

I shuddered at the thought

of what children love these days,

then slipped it on my finger

as if it could make me invisible,

make time slow down,

restore my innocence,

or at least help me crack a smile.

But no.

It just sat there,

glowing annoyingly,

heavy on my finger and my mind.

I sighed and took it off again,

tossed it in the bin

and went on with the afternoon,

still fully visible.

Day 26: When The Poet Sleeps

When the poet sleeps,

what then?

The other mind picks up

The pen,

Dips into the ink,

And then….

Chaos, ALL

the letters      a-jumble, no

Rhyme-or-Reason

(but a whole lot of rep-rep-rep-

etition)

The meter is empty, the metaphor

Has  f l o w n  the coop –

And where have all the chickens gone?

They’re scratching at the ground

Searching for words

While the poet sleeps

Day 25: You Ask When I Knew I Loved You*

When

I

Saw you

I knew you –

I knew I loved you,

And somehow I got the feeling

That our souls were meant to meet and become intertwined.

 *This particular form is called a Fibonacci poem, as demonstrated by the number of syllables in each subsequent line. 

Day 24: Confession

I will admit it,

I was a welfare mother once –

As recently as

Yesterday morning, when I surrendered

My last voucher for bread,

Milk, cereal, cheese to feed my son,

Then swiped away the final dollars that remained

Of this month’s food stamps

To feed us all.

I’ve come to terms with shopping this way –

Painstaking list-making;

Checking and double-checking the glossy brochure

That shows which varieties of cereal are “approved,”

(Wondering why the so-called nutrition program

Condones so much sugar consumption)

Before reaching, yet again, for the plain, boring bran flakes;

Meticulous organization of cart contents, then

Loading everything onto the belt in proper groups by voucher;

Suppressing the flush that rises unbidden

When I hand the cashier

That tell-tale, tattered white card

And he checks the signature

Then steals a glance at the boy

Who is happily swiping the first of three

Methods of payment (none of which we have earned),

Over and over again.

It’s not easy, nor is it fun.

It’s simply necessary.

I am not glad, nor am I proud.

I am simply, deeply, grateful.

Yes, I will admit it –

Yesterday I was a welfare mother.

But tomorrow the first paycheck arrives,

Even more welcome

Than all of those blessed vouchers combined

Because it means we can finally start

Giving back.

Day 23: Stand Upon World

I decided to play with The Blitz Poem form today...

Take a chance

Take a stand

Stand for peace

Stand for hope

Hope for sun

Hope for rain

Rain all night

Rain falls down

Down with power

Down to earth

Earth cracks open

Earth smells rich

Rich as a king

Rich in pennies

Pennies on the dollar

Pennies to spare

Spare change

Spare a life

Life is precious

Life goes on

On and on

On a roll

Roll with the punches

Roll with me

Me not I

Me not you

You are me

You in the mirror

Mirror my sorrow

Mirror my joy

Joy be with you

Joy to the world

World is waiting

World is watching

Watching humanity

Watching time

Time does not wait

Time is forever

Forever is a long time

Forever is not enough

Enough of this nonsense

Enough with silence

Silence destroys

Silence begins

Begins with a prayer

Begins a new world

World of hopes

World is changing

Changing

Hopes

Day 22: That Kind of Mother

I don’t want to be

A last-minute mother,

Ever on the go,

Always rushed and bothered.

I don’t want to be

A make-do mother,

Maintaining “good enough”

‘Cause it’s the best I can muster.

I don’t want to be

A righteous mother,

Getting all indignant,

Blaming others when I suffer.

I don’t want to be

A high-and-mighty mother,

Judging “that mom over there”

As though I stand above her.

No, I think I’d like to be

A calm, creative mom –

A mom who’s fun to be around,

A mother full of song.

Day 21(b): Lost

I have turned this house

upside-down –

unrolled the cuffs,

emptied the pockets,

and shaken it –

and still

I have not found

your car keys.

Day 21(a): To Do

Today is a day

For writing myself one of my famously long to-do lists

Filled with

Easy

Things to do

So I can

Cross them off

As I go

And feel as if

I’ve actually

Accomplished

Something

Worthwhile.

Day 20: First Thing

Some days it is books,

some days it is tractors,

some days the first thing you want

is to let the light in through the curtains,

just a “tiny bit”

and to see if it is foggy, or sunny, or wet.

Every day it is milk – that warm

gentle wakeup I always imagine

you will savor and enjoy,

but which you suck down with an urgency

so profound it is “all gone”

by the time the curtains are drawn.

Today, however,

is different.

Curtains, sure, whatever;

books can wait;

you don’t have patience for this diaper business

(not that you ever do);

you have no interest in tractors;

and you even pass up the milk

sitting expectantly by your door,

warm and inviting in its familiar green bottle.

The kitchen is calling you –

the toy of all toys –

and it’s time to make breakfast.

Day 19: The Postman

I wonder if the postman knows

everybody’s birthdays on the block –

whether their grandparents are still alive

by the number of illegible envelopes that arrive

on a particular Tuesday.

I wonder how many dogs bark

at his footfall six days a week –

whether he counts –

and what that does for

his self-esteem.

I wonder if he spends his Sundays

thinking of the lovebirds

whose heart-encrusted notecards

he delivered on Saturday;

wondering if Mr. Mays will

pay his electricity bill

on time this month

and avoid another yellow envelope;

or wishing he could visit

one of the exotic-looking islands

he delivered to my mailbox

the day before.

Day 18: The Trees

The trees, as you say, go

“all the way up”

to the sky,

as well as down – all the way

to the earth –

and you stretch your hands high

and low to show me

that you, too,

can so easily ascend to the heavens

and return again to my side.

I had never really thought about trees

that way before

yet somehow now

you are all the more precious

to me.

Day 17: Love on the Big Road

I was a bulldog

Out on the big road,

Ridin’ my double nickel in the granny lane.

She was a triple-digit ride,

Driving by braille with a hot load

In the hammer lane,

Burnin’ to get somewhere.

Don’t ask me how we found ourselves

Greasy side up in a pickle park

In the Bikini State,

The motion lotion flooding our tanks

And a clean shot ahead.

I told her maybe

I’d catch her on the flip flop

But she left me in the breakdown lane –

Blew my doors off and put it in Georgia overdrive,

Lit out down the zipper lane and

Out of sight – left me

Running on sail boat fuel with

Nothing between my swindle sheets.

Day 16: Phyllis

Today, I honor Phyllis – a dog

I never knew – because

She was a part of you for so long and

Today, you had to let her go.

Her puppyhood distemper raised

Its terrible head once more,

And senility caught up with her

All at once, it seemed –

When she bit you yesterday it was clear

The choice was made for you.

Sometimes it is easier that way,

Though it is never truly easy.

And so this morning

You said

Goodbye

To your companion

Of twelve years

Who no longer even

Recognized you

And it was hard,

So hard.

What now?

Your children still play, because you told them

Phyllis has gone to heaven,

And that is enough.

You still bring them inside and cook their dinner,

Because that is what you do,

And that is enough.

But after you sing them to sleep tonight,

Then –

You can finally honor

That hollow place in your heart with tears

Though that can never truly be enough.

Day 15: The Sin of Spring (the full sestina)

If Autumn is the age of gluttony

‘Twixt Winter’s sloth and Summer’s glorious pride,

No sin, you think, can sully childlike Spring

For there is nothing on which vice can feed –

This is the season soil brings forth the seed.

Oh, but the sin of Spring is surely Greed!

Give me more, more, more! says Greed

My eyes are bigger than my garden. Gluttony

Whispers from the left, just one more seed;

And from the right – bold, over-ruling Pride

Encourages me: feed, feed, feed.

I can’t deny my plant lust in the spring.

Oh, what a joyous revolution, Spring!

This season when I have the luxury of Greed –

It finally seems possible to feed

My frame and fancy both. (Note: Gluttony

Begets the fall oft credited to Pride,

For nothing grows well when I crowd the seed.)

So strong, and yet so delicate, the seed

That pushes through the cold dark earth to spring

In one great burst for sunlight, as if pride

Were felt as well by plants as men. No greed

Can grow enough for Autumn’s gluttony –

I have a perennially hungry soul to feed.

But first comes learning how to feed

The soil, which must then nourish the seed

With its insatiable hunger (is this gluttony?)

I feel I must know everything in Spring –

A thirst for wisdom, too, can be deemed greed

If in my knowing I take undue pride.

My vegetables will be my garden’s pride –

If only I can grow enough to feed

Both family and wild creatures’ greed,

Then – then – I will have planted enough seed.

I want to live up to this promise (tease) of Spring –

This more, more, more! demand, this gluttony.

With humbled pride, I plant this prayer, this seed –

From this age of Greed, may bounty spring

To feed a family’s autumn gluttony.

Day 14: Tea Party

Gladiolus,

glad to see you,

said the cricket

to the flower.

Hyacinth is

‘round the corner,

Let’s have tea in

half an hour.

(Just don’t slip it

to Narcissus –

she might turn

the party sour.)

Lady Tulip,

barely blooming

might sleep through

the whole affair,

but we’ll show her

photos after

and she’ll wish

she had been there.

Bring your friend

Miss Dahlia –

of course we’ll have

enough to share.

We’ll put our Sunday hats on,

sit demurely on the lawn,

and drink our tea

with petals raised

until it is

all gone.

Day 13: The Sin of Spring (the start of a sestina)*

If Autumn is the age of gluttony

‘Twixt Winter’s sloth and Summer’s glorious pride,

No sin, you think, can sully childlike Spring

For there is nothing on which vice can feed –

This is the season soil brings forth the seed.

Oh, but the sin of spring is surely Greed!

* This is the first stanza of what I hope to flesh out into a full sestina at some point before the month is out. 

Day 12: Piety in Springtime*

The piety tree is legendary

for its beauty,

unfortunately cultivated primarily for the same –

the fruits of piety are both tart and sweet,

but so few seem to taste them,

preferring instead piety’s showy petals

and bright green leaves.

Piety is found

in almost every part of the country,

its flowers prized for elegance

and likened to the suffering

of Christ – but

who among the many

who adore piety in springtime

find themselves still pious

in the fall?

*This post was in response to the day's prompt from napowrimo.net, which was to write a "replacement poem" - replacing a tangible noun with an intangible one. I chose to replace "dogwood" with "piety."

Day 11: Looking Forward

I wonder when (I hope not if) I will stop

counting the stages of motherhood by

how much I can accomplish during the day

and how much sleep I get (or not) at night.

When I will cease looking forward

in exhausted anticipation

to things like nighttime potty training,

preschool, getting yourself dressed,

and a time when all of the characters

in all of your story books are not,

by sheer force of your will,

named “Dada.”

When I can cease to hover

and let you climb the jungle gym alone;

when “I can’t hear you anymore”

is no longer cause to run and find you

because you’re surely up to something;

when I can sleep in on Saturday morning

because it’s the weekend, and you understand.

By that time, of course, I will look back and wonder

why I was looking forward all those years.

Day 10: Free Verse

One of these days, I think,

I am going to write a poem

with structure –

a sestina, perhaps, or

maybe a villanelle –

something with rhyme or repetition,

something recognizable and

fully formed.

But this requires discipline,

and I have none of that in April

(are you kidding me?)

when I cannot help but heed

the garden’s constant call –

dismantle here, build there, sow these seeds

just so, and all day

bear witness to the glorious riot of springtime.

How can I write a poem with form

when the world is formed anew each day,

each moment?

There is no rhyme or reason to springtime,

certainly no repetition –

only loosely orchestrated chaos, forming itself

(most un-subtly, and in a cornucopia of colors,

sounds, smells, textures)

into free verse.

Day 9: Waiting for April

To wake each day expecting

to find a poem in it, like a treasure:

this is April.

The world is so wide open

And my heart is as big as the sea.

Poetry rises and falls ceaselessly within me,

Tumbling the words, softening the rough edges.

I once found a driftwood question mark on the beach,

and my mother used to keep a jar on the windowsill filled

with brightly colored glass, smooth

and polished by time and waves,

washed ashore when the time was right

(or thrown back to sea if it wasn’t).

These words have always been there, just

waiting for April.

Day 8: Untitled

It’s an interesting journey,

having your life turned upside-down.

Walking on the ceiling

is about as difficult as it looks,

tiptoeing around the dusty chandeliers

in our fancy house on the hill, somehow emptier now

than it was, though no physical objects

have been removed. Not yet.

Sure, there was the empty nest,

but this is a bigger hole, one whose depth

I sense most keenly

when you sit at the breakfast table

and read the paper in silence.

I peek over your shoulder

from my vantage point near the light fixture –

it’s 1985. There is a photograph.

You’re wearing a white dress, standing beside

a clean shaven beanpole that looks

something like me.

We were so present then,

no emptiness, only the great expectancy

worn so freely (and treated so carelessly)

by the young and hopeful.

It’s time to fold that paper now,

to place it carefully in an album

that will be kept because it should be,

but never opened because it shouldn’t,

until many years have passed

and I have come down from the ceiling

to share a right-side-up breakfast

with the ones I love.

Day 7: You, Two

When you wake in the morning, you will be two

(provided you sleep past 5:44 a.m., which is no guarantee).

It will be, for the most part, an ordinary day –

We’ll have morning milk and stories,

you will play while I make breakfast, and then make a mess of the same,

which I will dutifully clean.

We’ll walk to the pool for swim lessons and tell everyone we meet

that it’s your birthday. Will you know the difference?

The afternoon will, in all likelihood, be spent in the garden –

You’re such a good helper

(even though we didn’t really need to water the basement window).

We’ll have a nice dinner, run you a warm bath,

and Daddy will put you to bed with your favorite songs.

And all the while it will be your birthday –

Imagine that!

I will remind you of this marvelous fact throughout the day,

periodically exclaiming, “Guess what, sweetie pops – you’re two!”

To which you will respond with a resounding: “TWO!”

(wondering why your mother keeps telling you this, as if it were important)

and continue with the all-important business of

being you

being two.

Day 6: Come Springtime

It’s springtime. The apple tree limb

still lies where it fell

last winter.

Mostly forgotten, given up for dead,

we’ll chip it when we have the time –

Too many other pressing things to do

in the garden this time of year.

But I pass it today, and pause.

There are leaves on the ends of

the twigs, blossoms stubbornly

sapping the stored life force from the limb,

disbelieving in death,

wanting so much just to bloom and bear fruit.

And I can’t help but wonder,

will I be like that when I die?

Stubbornly insisting

I still have life force in me,

raising my hands in frantic gesture to the living:

Wait, I’m still here, can’t you see me?

They will bury me regardless,

soil and water and stone will be

just enough to keep my memory alive.

But come springtime, I’ll show them.

I’ll be right there beneath the soil,

giving the daisies a leg up

into the light.