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.

Day 27: Spare Change

What fool, she who trusts

in circumstance

to alter the course

of her history.

There’s no such thing

as spare change.

Day 26: Falling Behind Daily

Lather, rinse, repeat,

Never admit defeat.

But the muse is dumb

And the words won’t come,

And all my poems are incom—

Day 21: First Day

I’ve penned my whole name

(in blue or black ink)

more times this morning

than I care to think.

I’ve learned how to log in,

I’ve gotten one key,

I’ve chosen the first two

passwords of many.

I’ve been in the vault,

gotten robbery training,

completed extortion forms

(that took some explaining!)

I’ve read part of the handbook –

I’ll do that in stages –

the whole thing is well over

one hundred pages!

I’ve driven to Hillsboro,

hither and yon,

gone to “Culture Connection”

with Shawnee and John.

I’ve greeted some customers,

had nice interactions,

but couldn’t assist with

a single transaction.

I’ve asked many questions,

I’ve paid close attention

(though some of the answers

I’m forbidden to mention).

I’ve gotten a name badge,

this must be for real.

Ah, working again –

how good it does feel!

Day 16 (makeup): Don't Wait

(a makeup poem for Day 16, that I missed posting earlier)


 

There will always be

a reason to wait –

I’ll do that when…

after… as soon as…

This much will be enough…

Then it will be the right time…

“Why not?”

is the wrong question –

ask instead, “How?”

If it will bring you joy,

don't look for ways to put it off –

run toward it with open arms, shouting,

“at last!”

Day 20: Things I Know

In response to the NaPoWriMo.net prompt of the day, to write a poem stating the things you know.

Thirty days hath September,

April thirty poems.

A passport is required

for international travel,

but you can speak

as many languages as you like

without leaving home.

Breath is always

our first language.
(I know this because

Mary Oliver wrote it

and her words carry truth

as unassumingly as air.)

Fever dreams

in a foreign language

feel almost like poetry

until you awaken

and douse them

with cold water.

The proper use

of spelling, grammar

and punctuation (!)

is art, but only

because it is becoming lost.

Poetry is

what

we each

believe

it to be.

Thirty poems each,

times twelve friends, give (and) take,

equals… oh, I don’t know –

always just enough,

never too much.

Day 19: Bits and Pieces

Not really related to each other at all, just a few bits and bobs that have been rattling around my head today.

Some days

the poems don’t come easy

in the sunshine.

Sometimes it’s easier

to write in the rain.

A “single mom weekend”

appears to be what it takes

to get me to reach out,

grasping wildly at something

resembling a social life.

When does a thought become

so unspeakable

it can’t even be written?

How cloistered is

the poet’s heart, in truth?

Day 18: Remember This

(A "found poem" using quotes from "Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids" by Dr. Laura Markham.)

Every choice we make,

at core, is a move

toward either love

or fear.

Choose love.

The subconscious

thinks in pictures,

and it believes

whatever we tell it.

Choose love.

Studies show

that people who worry more

don’t actually gain insight

or solve problems

any better. They simply

make themselves

more unhappy.

Choose love.

All we need to do

is remember:

Connect.

Choose love.

It may seem impossible,

but if we feel

even the slightest desire

to turn things around,

we can grab it.

We don’t even have to know how.

We can just

choose love.

Day 17: Housecleaning Dreams

Gleaming counters, tabletops,

Laundry hanging on the line,

Tidy rooms and vacuumed stairs,

This house must be a dream of mine.

A place for this, a place for that,

The books stand neatly on the shelf,

No dust, no stains, no toothpaste smears,

I want this house all to myself.

Because I know I’d keep it clean,

If only I lived in it,

But when it’s between “neat” and “kids,”

I know I just can’t win it.

So, sixteen years more (give or take)

I’ll have to grin and bear it –

But once the kids have flown the nest,

You bet your twigs I’ll clear it!

Day 9 (makeup): Quatern

(a makeup poem for missing Day 9, and in response to the NaPoWriMo.net prompt for the day, to write a meta-poem)
 

This is how I write a quatern:

First line, the refrain, then line two,

then three – each eight syllables, mind –

and four, to complete Stanza One.

Stanza Two begins – line one. Yes,

this is how I write a quatern.

I remind myself at line three

that each line has eight syllables.

Hello, Stanza Three already!

The refrain is coming up, here:

This is how I write a quatern.

Four line stanzas go by so fast!

And here is Stanza Four, to close,

the final refrain to round out

four quatrains, eight syllables each –

This is how I wrote a quatern.

Day 15: A Wedding in Stowe

My father is Rector of Stowe,

And one thing you really should know –

It might be upsetting,

But when there’s a wedding

The whole of the parish will go!

Day 14: Love Your Librarian

In honor of National Library Week

“It’s still National Library Week. You should be especially nice to a librarian today, or tomorrow. Sometime this week, anyway. Probably the librarians would like tea. Or chocolates. Or a reliable source of funding.” – Neil Gaiman

Share a cup

Of conversation

With someone

Who loves books

More than you could imagine –

Librarian’s tea.

Chocolate.

Librarians lo-o-o-ove

Chocolate.

Draw it out –

Count them, yes – three syllables –

Ah, yes, choc-o-late.

What you need

I wish I could give –

You deserve

Better – a

Reliable funding source

May you find it soon.

Day 13: Sprung

(Following  yesterday's napowrimo.net prompt to convert a piece of descriptive prose into poem form.)

No longer open and bare,

the trail is embraced by salmonberries

sprung up overnight.

The stream banks are sheltered now,

the hillside a riot of shapes and shades –

green, yellow, brown.

Green, so green.

I hesitate, thinking

I must have gotten on the wrong trail.

No, there is only one trail –

I have walked it all winter.

Indeed, as I look, I recognize those stones,

roots, logs, pools –

familiar, but bathed in a new shade of spring.

A plump robin hops skittishly

from branch to branch ahead of me,

not quite afraid,

clutching a bit of moss

and a fat spring worm in his beak.

A dainty Douglas squirrel pauses

its climb up a gnarled root

to cock its head curiously at me.

Even the stones in the path glisten

in the light rain, drips displacing the delicate leaves

of the fringecup and the duck’s foot plant

like a herd of tiny animals beneath.

My eyes are wide, moving

from stream to hillside,

ground to sky,

soaking up the new-yet-familiar beauty

of springtime sounds and senses.

I can’t suppress the child-like wonder

and awe and delight I feel, nor do I want to –

I let the smile play freely across my face,

shining on everything I see.

Only the trilliums are fading,

their petals crumbling from stark white

to pink to deep magenta, until finally

they shrivel and fall to the ground,

signaling the end of the beginning of spring.

Day 12: Garden Song Blues

(With sincere apologies to David Mallett, Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger, and anybody else who has a fondness for the actual Garden Song....)

Inch by inch, row by row,

gonna make this garden grow

if it’s the last thing I do –

What do you mean all it takes

is a rake and a hoe?

This piece of fertile ground

is a piece of work!

Someone had better bless

these seeds I sow,

if they’re ever going to grow

with all this rain comin’ tumblin’ down.

Pullin’ weeds and pickin’ stones

is right! Where do they all come from,

and why do I need a special tool

to haul each one from the ground?

(A rake and a hoe – yeah, right.)

Grain for grain, if the weeds

don't take over first.

I’ll find my place in nature’s chain

one of these days… I hope...

I’m kind of lost among the weeds right now –

Where’s that music of the land

when I need it?

So plant your rows straight and long –

Hahahahaha!

These rows will need more than prayer and song

if they’re going to straighten out.

Old crow watching hungrily

is going to dig up all of my seeds,

that feathered thief up there, indeed.

Where’s that bird netting

and those shiny CDs?

Inch by inch, row by row,

I think this garden’s gonna grow,

whether or not I have anything to do with it.

The seeds will be warmed from below,

the rain will come tumbling down,

the seeds will burst with life

and I can put all those tools away.

At least for a day.

Day 11: This Time Around

This time around,

the poems don’t come easy.

They lurk in the shadows,

silent, stealthy, waiting

for the stillness

I cannot seem to give them.

There is no calm,

no harmonic frequency

to tune to –

this time around,

it’s mostly static noise

that scares the words away.

Where is that meditative peace,

that zone, that flow

that midwifes poetry

onto the page?

This time around,

I’m on my own,

and the poems don’t come easy.

Day 7 (makeup): So, Live

(a makeup poem for missing Day 7)

Let no moss grow upon your heart –

When I have turned to dust, the art

Of loving doesn’t have to die.

The art is now in living. Why

Withhold your heart from life and joy?

Go out and grab it! Don’t play coy,

Or guilty, no, that’s even worse –

Your heart’s a sports car, not a hearse!

So scatter ashes from the box

And don your smile, pull up your socks.

Your life is yours – you write the plot –

So, LIVE, and show them what you’ve got.

Day 10: Absolutely bonkers

(in response to the NaPoWriMo.net prompt of the day, to write an Abcedarian poem)

Absolutely bonkers!

Carlisle declared,

eating foie gras haughtily

in just knickers.

Let’s make nonsense

obsolete, pronto!

Quirkiness? Ridiculous!

Simply terrible, unthinkable,

verily! …

...Who’s xenophobic?

You, zealot!

Day 8: Triolet for Guy

May you – at three, and always – be

as free as wind, as high as sky,

complete in wisdom, as a tree.

May you – at three, and always – be

not holder of a golden key,

but spirit strong – why, then you’ll fly.

May you – at three, and always – be

as free as wind, and high as sky.

Day 6: Dogwood Spring

I watched you all winter,

limbs almost glowing

with the silver light of youth,

turning rain to reach

as you stored what little sunlight

you captured for spring,

that sprint you must have known

would come.

And so you grow.

And still you hold my gaze,

each salmon blossom

gracefully lifting
a small cup of sky
in silent toast.

Day 5: The Hunt

Nine children under six,

twelve parents, one grandmother

to watch the youngest.

A pot of cheese fondue

presided over a groaning table,

no room for plates.

One play structure,

one agitated dog,

one baby gate at the top of the stairs.

Each child with a basket or a bag.

FOUR HUNDRED EASTER EGGS.

We’re Texans,

she explained –

Go big or go home.

Day 4: Afternoon Nap

It steals upon me,

quick as half a blink –

that’s all it takes –

and next I know

the hands have shifted,

the light grown slant,

the quiet house filled again

with dancing footsteps

and unhushable whispers –

Mommy, are you awake now?

Well, yes, I suppose I am.

Day 3: The Bookmen from Brooklyn

The Bookmen from Brooklyn,

or so I’ve been told,

are gents I’d be lucky to meet –

The Bookmen from Brooklyn

sell tomes rare and old,

but not along any known street.

The Bookmen from Brooklyn,

they peddle their wares

through the paths of your mind, not the city –

They ply you with words, then

catch you unawares –

blink and they’re gone! What a pity.

The Bookmen from Brooklyn,

they come and they go,

leaving musty old book smell behind,

and if you have met them,

you’ll already know,

their existence remains undefined.

Day 2: The Manhattan Hat Man

The Manhattan Hat Man,

he has a wee shop –

a storefront near Carnegie Hall.

The Manhattan Hat Man

sells ball caps to top-

hats and Panamas – he’s got them all.

The Manhattan Hat Man

sells hats with a twist –

a challenge, a folly, a game –

If you wear his hat

back-to-front, he’ll insist

that backwards you must say his name.

For “Manhattan Hat Man”

spelled backwards-to-front

is not palindromic – not quite.

And “Nam Tah Nattahnam,”

that tongue-twisting stunt,

brings this haberdasher delight.

Day 1: Rigor Mortis Mouse

For Anitra

No more scurrying ‘round the baseboards,

no more snacking on the brie,

no more fleeing feline claws –

at last cruel Cat has captured me.

No more nibbling crumbs at midnight,

no more sly outwitting traps,

no more slinks past purring sleeper –

Cat’s caught up to me at last.

But what undignified repose!

It’s left me here upon the floor

to stiffen – wide-eyed – mutely lurk,

become Anitra’s dreaded chore.

And so she comes, in stocking feet,

and squeaks to find me in her house –

she casts me out, and that is that –

No more Rigor Mortis Mouse.