Day 30: April is Over

and just like that,

May is at our doorstep,

ringing the bell

with flowers in her arms.

There’s a love note

tucked among the petals

if we look closely enough –

a blessing of hope and sunshine,

friends and song and laughter –

an invitation

to dance with the rising sun,

break bread in fellowship,

and praise the poetry

that is springtime,

that is life.

Day 25 (makeup): Zip Ode: 97219

Zip Ode: 97219

Our streets obey no gridlines; they follow the hills.

Our gardens are large, our neighbors friends.

We walk

Everywhere

In this overlooked love note in Portland’s back pocket.

Day 24 (makeup): Poetry by Night

Sometimes I wish the poems

Would write themselves

On the insides of my eyelids

So I could memorize them in my sleep,

To record upon waking.

Written in the ink of starlight,

Emblazoned on the night –

I’m sure those would be the best poems

I have ever written.

And who’s to say

That doesn’t happen?

Maybe I just can’t read starlight

By the light of day.

Day 29: You're Not Real

Inspired by the exchange between Alice and Tweedledee/Tweedledum regarding the King dreaming her, in Alice in Wonderland.
 

No matter how true you may feel,

you’re only a thing in his dream –

You know very well you’re not real.

It does you no good to appeal –

You won’t be more real if you scream,

no matter how true you may feel.

As unlikely as a green eel

improbably trudging upstream,

you know very well you’re not real.

Don’t bother attempting to kneel

before him (his slumber’s supreme).

No matter how true you may feel,

you aren’t, and that is the deal.

Don’t bother about “self-esteem” –

You know very well you’re not real.

So throw away any ideal

that things are at all as they seem –

For no matter how true you may feel,

you know very well you’re not real.

Day 23 (makeup): Heart Home

A makeup poem for missed Day 23. This is still pretty raw; I'll work on it more after April.

A banker by trade,

and a good one, too,

lives in a nice condo

halfway between

his work and his girlfriend’s.

He followed her here

to the city,

from a small town

far south of here,

a very different place.

Determined, he applied

eight times for this job

and finally succeeded.

Two and a half years later,

I casually mention my garden

and see his face light up

with a passion I’ve never seen

from this professional.

He waxes eloquent

on watermelons and tomatoes,

proudly shows photos

of the hydroponic farm

he helped run,

reminisces about acres of corn,

hay, zucchini, beans,

and growing up farming –

uses the word “love”

in connection with plants

in a way no born-and-bred banker

could ever do.

Now he has to make do

with shade plants

on a small patio

while he tends his dream

of soil and sun.

The condo is temporary,

employment as stable

as these things get,

but the heart –

oh, the heart –

where is the home

of the heart?

Day 28: April

Yesterday's prompt on NaPoWriMo.net was to write a hay(na)ku (or several, as here). Here's my attempt....

Paper

And pen.

One poem daily.

Really?

It can

Be this simple?

You

Should have

Told me before.

Day 22 (makeup): Days

Young girls speak blithely

of summer days

like bright beads on a string.

But the clay beads of my days

hang loosely

on their yellowing twine,

shrunken and rattling

like my breath.

In, carefully,

and out.

I used to have

too many beads to count,

each one round

and full of forever.

Now I have

fewer each time

I run their crumbling edges

between my fingers,

and they whisper

of dust and nothing.

I refuse to count,

choosing instead

to watch

the young girls

as they live,

wreathed

in their bright

rosaries of life.