Monthly Archives: April 2014

Farewell

by

I introduced myselfnapo2014button1

and offered you

a rose

a red, red rose

the color of my heart

I offered

cotton candy words

and bitter coffee

tinged with cream

 

You graciously accepted

 

Now I must

step away

for the heart

does grow

somewhat fonder

with absence

 

I will not forget

your sweetness

your voice that

brightened my day

your touch

of comfort

 

I am

stronger

because of

you

 

I will not

disappoint you

on my travels

far, far away

 

In my heart

I carry

that red, red rose

now

just petals

scattered

.

.

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Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo: A goodbye poem.

I did it!

30 poems in 30 days!

Thank you NaPoWriMo for the challenge.

I  vow to keep up writing everyday and posting several times a week, maybe more.

She Loved Him Bae

by

It is raining butterflies.napo2014button1
They will land on my tongue.
I will taste their sweet nectar from blooms newly visited.
I will feel their flutter against my lips.
I will see their colors as if in a kaleidoscope I make my nest.
I will smell summer’s new morning upon their breath.
I will hear their sucking deep into my throat.
When once again they alight, their raucous beating wings
will leave me hungry for more.
In time, Magdalene will turn from her tears and rise
to the sea.
With the bitter nectar stinging her tongue
she will stay to tell of her loss.
She loved him bae.
If the butterflies were to stay
I would lose my mind.
Mariposa, estas ahi?

.

.

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Author’s Note:

Used the prompt today from NaPoWriMo, Twenty Little Poetry Projects, but didn’t make it to twenty. Stopped at ten.

I was also influence by Frederico Garcia Lorca’s Mariposa. Here is my favorite reading.

On The Sunday After Easter

by

The rosy bud offered such promise.
But at the tip of the branch
where one is most vulnerable
there is little protection from
icy wind in early spring
that takes you almost by surprise.

When rain begins, only drops at first,
then drizzle, and finally downpour,
delicate leaves no longer able to grasp
the sprig tumble to the ground sinking
mud deep, too far away to be rescued.

The bud, once a life promised,
let go to the pummeling wind,
no longer able to wait for the sun.
He took his life of thirteen years
on the Sunday after Easter.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

God bless you, little one.

I Am Cold

by

I can hardly keep my eyes opennapo2014button1

I hear the wind
as if in a far tinned tunnel
voicing its distraction

I can’t answer questions
step onto the platform
I have no answers

I am cold

I am going to take a nap
under a soft blanket
and when I awake maybe
I will have felt your warm breath
and know

I am dream

I walk the labyrinth
hedged by clean scented lavender
my step takes me back
upon itself
weaving round and around
and back again
as I step nearer
to your sweet  invitation

I long as each curve bends
my step closer
to your whisper
curving me
back to reflection
circling close
to what seems the beginning
a start over
yet drawing me nearer

I reach for your hand
to hold me near
but I know
this is my journey alone

I keep hope you are there

.

.

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Author’s Note:

From NaPoWriMo Day 27: And now for our prompt! Our early-bird prompt this year (on March 31) was an ekphrastic poem. This is something similar — a poem written from a photograph. There are four below, one of which I hope will catch your fancy. But if you’ve a particular photo in mind that you’d like to use, go right ahead. Happy writing!

 

Lines and Patterns

by

I grabnapo2014button1
reach for straws
try to find a place
to fit in

Hands pretend
to care
but lines are thrown
out on their terms
only

I look
for somewhere
I can slip into a
pattern

Where I can be part
of a weaving
formed into one
piece

There are signs
that I may be allowed
welcomed
to stay

But only
within the
box of their own
design and
not allowed
to color
outside the line

Trust must be
given away
meted out
carefully
and not with
too much hope

It is better
to build

your own brick
house
where doors
can be locked

and windows
barred
safer to be alone

than teased
into thinking
you are worthy

.

.

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Author’s Note:

Day 26 – NaPoWriMo – almost there.

Part of Me

by

Part of me has been erasednapo2014button1
as I walk bare foot in the sand.

The place where my heart once
stationed itself, that
part of me has been erased.

Silence barrels through
that part of me that is now gone.

That part of me that is now gone
feels no more.

That part of me
no longer yearns or waits.

It no longer dreams,
that part of me.

That part
has been erased.

.

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Author’s Note:

NaPoWriMo’s Day 25 (optional) prompt. Anaphora is a literary term for the practice of repeating certain words or phrases at the beginning of multiple clauses or, in the case of a poem, multiple lines. The phrase “A time to,” as used in the third Chapter of Ecclesiastes, is a good example of anaphora. But you don’t have to be the Old Testament (or a Byrds song) to use anaphora. Allen Ginsberg used it in Howl, for example. Thispost by Rebecca Hazelton on the Poetry Foundation’s blog gives other great examples of anaphora in action, from Martin Luther King Jr’s “I Have a Dream” speech to Homer Simpson. So today, I challenge you to write a poem that uses anaphora. Find a phrase, and stick with it — learn how far it can go. Happy writing!

Walk With Me In the Rain

by

Walk with me in the rain.napo2014button1
Let’s not take an umbrella
to shade us from the pleasure.
But take my hand in yours.

Underneath the street lamp
let the rain steal a sweet kiss
on our cheeks.

Oh, we will get wet.

Hold me around my waist
pulling me close to keep
me warm in this crazy spring
rain that doesn’t know
if drops or flakes it will be.

Like us,
unsure of who we are,
let the rain fall as it is
without an umbrella to hide us.

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Author’s Note:

It rained last night, the first big rain of spring. A little mushy hail. A bit of lightening and some thunder.

I, too, like Langston Hughes, love April rain.

Propaganda

by

Stray mother bird in her nest reeksnapo2014button1
of cracked rotted eggs. She’s driven,
good propaganda for a million more,
like a rash. I peek, private of her pair
of hawks. Me? Oh, I dream in the drizzle.

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Author’s Note:

I struggled with posting the poem first today. I have never posted the Author’s Note before the poem. Today I almost did, not being at all sure about the poem.

Today at NaPoRiMo, Day 23: “Today’s prompt (optional, as always), is an oldie-but-a-goodie: the homophonic translation. Find a poem in a language you don’t know, and translate it into English based on the look of the words and their sounds.”

I’ve tried this before and it just doesn’t work with my brain. But today I decided to give it another try.

This really doesn’t work with my brain.

Below, I have given you that part of the poem I used by Slovenian poet, Meta Kusar, written in Slovenian. I chose her because I am half Slovenian; my relatives are from her town, and she was born near the time I was.

Next I put down my “homophonic translation.” (You would think being a first grade reading teacher this would be easy for me. I translate six year-old writing every day.)

And just for fun, I included the real translation, which I did not read until I had finished my poem.

 

 

Poem by Meta Kusar:

 

1.
Sramota in nesreča
kako drevo propada.
Mila moja rajska ptica!
Devet parov rok me odriva in drži.

 

My “homophonic translation”:

Stray mother, in nest reeks,
Cracked, driving propaganda.
Million more, rash covers peeks
Debit pairs of hawks me oh dream in drizzle.

 

English Translation:

Shame and misfortune
to see this tree decay.
My sweet bird of paradise!
Nine pairs of hands holding me up.

Collection

by

We used to collect bells. Do younapo2014button1
remember? You made a folding
structure, wood with brass hooks,
on which to hang them. Little ones
mostly, not grandiose like Liberty
or Notre Dame.

Then we collected odd labels from
cheap wine, not yet having developed
a palate. Soaked and scraped, then
laid to rest in photo albums, the kind
with sticky pages and acetate covers.

You always collected watches, pocket,
wrist, forgotten family treasures. Never
expensive, just ones with a story, or
just to keep time.

I always collected rocks, especially
the sparkly ones. Rose quartz, purple
amethyst. As a child I didn’t know
they had meanings. I now understand
stones tell stories, like books.

Can we count books, too? Many
collections have come and gone.
Some come again in realization
that one should never get rid of books.

Art became a passion. Still would be,
if wall space and bank notes agreed.
But dime store prints display as
much joy when the eye is well pleased.

As time moved with suns rising
and moons falling, telescopes, six
of them, most hand made, took up
residence under our roof beneath
city skies with too much light and
eyes no longer keen.

Oh, there were caps and hats like
your father used to wear. Pens to
write with, flowers to bloom, recorders
and flutes to serenade. Maybe,
someday, ukuleles, too.

But the sweetest collection we
ever gathered took hardly no
time at all. It was simple and
easy, my heart collected next
to yours. Happy birthday.

.

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Author’s Note:

Happy birthday, Leroy.

Fairytale

by

Once upon a time there wasnapo2014button1
an armless maiden with
butterflies blurring her vision.

Like a prayer journal they
fluttered around, a crown
of acolytes offering
whispers of wisdom.

And the maiden would
stroll to the garden green
in front of a small stone altar.

Acknowledging with bows,
Black Maria in prayer,
stepping through the
fact of a doorframe.

It was the way of the mystics
that held her stare
through trembling wings
encircling her hair.

And when rains came
she refused to concede.
Perverse winter storms
avowed never to retire.

As waters rose higher,
she embraced the rushing.
Engulfing the maiden,
the butterflies drowned in
tears falling down as
they entangled to become one,
now the woman hollering creek.

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Author’s Notes:

So this evening I wanted to play at something fun. A bit of found poetry seemed to be the answer. So I looked through my bookshelf and wrote a list of books that caught my eye:

The Armless Maiden, edited by Terri Windling
A Prayer Journal, by Flannery O’Connor
Acolytes, by Nikki Giovanni
Black Maria, by Kevin Young
The Fact of a Door Frame, by Andrienne Rich
The Way of the Mystics, by John Michael Talbot
Woman Hollering Creek, by Sandra Cisneros

And a fairytale was born. Fun.

This actually seems to be the genesis story of the very beginnings of a character I birthed a few years ago. Hmmm…might be time for a visti.