Little Things

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Day Seven

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Little things

A stuffed grey elephant
small enough to hold in one
hand, tucked inside the
bottom drawer in the kitchen.

Everyday it’s something new, a little
thing misplaced, abandoned.
I wonder if I choose
or just forget. I worry
about that.

Little things

Tiny seas shells. You wonder
why I pick something so
small, insignificant.
Alone, they are little pieces.
In unison, a creation,
a mandala of memories spiraling
into eternity.

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“Finally, our prompt for the day (optional as always) comes to us from Elizabeth Boquet of Oaks to Acorns. In keeping with the fact that it’s the seventh day of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo, Elizabeth and I challenge you to write a poem about luck and fortuitousness. For inspiration, take a look at Charles Simic’s “The Betrothal” and Stephen Dunn’s “The Arm”. Need something more? Perhaps these instructions from Elizabeth will get you going!

Create the following lists:
1. List 1 – 3 random objects. (Smaller tends to be better.
2. List 1 – 3 random but specific locations. (Think in the cookie jar, or under my seat…)
3. List 1 – 2 objects you’ve lost and a few notes on their back-story.
4. List 1- 2 objects you’ve found and few notes on their back-story.

My choices:

  1. List 1 – 3 random objects. (Smaller tends to be better.)
    Stuffed elephant            broken tree branch            dad’s wedding ring

2. List 1 – 3 random but specific locations. (Think in the cookie jar, or under my seat…)
fireplace mantle            seashore            kitchen drawer

  1. List 1 – 2 objects you’ve lost and a few notes on their back-story.
    everyday it’s something new – I worry about my memory, little things    I don’t remember until I need it
  1. List 1- 2 objects you’ve found and few notes on their back-story.
    Mom’s rhinestone pin – lent to friends, seldom worn by my mom as I grew up, mental illness            Seashells = making a mandala

Grace of Water

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Day Six

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I.
Water trickled over my forehead.
Now accepted, a daughter-child of God,
to follow dogma. Water legislated
to make it so.

II.
Water sprayed over your writhing body
gasping for air. You are the enemy –
of who, of what – a child of men
who play God, make rules.
Water to cleanse. Water to heal.

III.
Water tumbled from sky
spawning streams, swelling rivers.
Men piped oil defiling you.
Our ancient family stands strong
with you in gratitude, they affirm.

IV.
Water is Spirit, dewdrop
in spring, snowflake in
winter, fall’s foggy drift,
summer’s replenishment.

V.
May we dwell in unity
and wisdom and gratitude
under your benefaction.
The grace of water, the gift of life.

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that looks at the same thing from various points of view. The most famous poem of this type is probably Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”. You don’t need to have thirteen ways of looking at something – just a few will do!”

That Place

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Day Five

 

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That place just past
our house and down
the block, where sidewalk
bends and curves
and disappears behind
a stand of trees,
that place my heartbeat
joins call of crow
and fox’s chase, a tree –
mother rooted to us all.
That place I breathe in me
and know that you are there.

 

Author’s Note:

Prompt from NaPoWriMo:

“Last but not least, here is our prompt for Day Five (as always, the prompt is optional). In honor of Mary Oliver’s work, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is based in the natural world: it could be about a particular plant, animal, or a particular landscape. But it should be about a slice of the natural world that you have personally experienced and optimally, one that you have experienced often. Try to incorporate specific details while also stating why you find the chosen place or plant/animal meaningful.”

Well, some days are better than others. 🙂

Liberation

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Day Four

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Even though branches fell
to blade’s persuasion,
you held tight in puzzled
tangle. Disembodied
from your source,
buds remained imminent.

You waited for liberator’s hands
to disentangle you from your
demise, carry into warmth,
water to ease your thirst.

And you burgeoned as if
there would be no other
outcome entertained.

I look to your gossamer spirit
to know your strength,
feel your will, share your hope
under snow and ice,
trust in spring.

Author’s Note:

Day Four prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And now for our prompt (optional, as always). One of the most popular British works of classical music is Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variations. The “enigma” of the title is widely believed to be a hidden melody that is not actually played, but which is tucked somehow into the composition through counterpoint. Today I’d like you to take some inspiration from Elgar and write a poem with a secret – in other words, a poem with a word or idea or line that it isn’t expressing directly. The poem should function as a sort of riddle, but not necessarily a riddle of the “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” variety. You could choose a word, for example, “yellow,” and make everything in the poem something yellow, but never actually allude to their color. Or perhaps you could closely describe a famous physical location or person without ever mentioning what or who it actually is.”

Or not.

 

 

 

Joseph, an elegy

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Day Three

 

Bees

Several measures past,
it is the scent of honey
that brings to faded memory
a focus of silver boxes precisely
nestled between horse meadow and
reaching stalks of wheat.

A golden sweet perfume
decanted, quite foreign
to plastic bears, onto silver
spoon recollects twinkling blue eyes
keen in knowledge of his cache.

My grandfather was a beekeeper.
I, a granddaughter of bees.

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And now for our (optional) prompt! Today I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem that mourns or honors someone dead or something gone by. And I’d like to ask you to center the elegy on an unusual fact about the person or thing being mourned. For example, if you are writing an elegy about your grandfather, perhaps the poem could be centered around a signature phrase of his. (My own grandfather used to justify whatever he was doing by saying, “well, I can’t sing or dance, and it’s too wet to plow,” which baffled me considerably as a child). Or perhaps your Aunt Lily always unconsciously whistled between her teeth while engaged in her daily battle with the crossword puzzle. These types of details paradoxically breathe life into an elegy, making the mourned person real for the reader.”

Root

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Day Two

 

 

root

Gently it unfolds.
Just before dawn
a sweet call
announces your
return, your nest
in preparation.

Reassured, I mark
his parade. Four small
wheels turning under
aluminum scaffold
bent and formed to catch
his unsteady slant.

Another winter passed and
he remains fundamental
to spring’s element.

From tip of bud
it is not extrinsic
ingredients we fashion
into seasons, but
from root below,
those we do not see.

It is finesse of ancients
who came before to teach
us how to assemble.
Their wisdom of time.
Their refinement
into patience. Their
passion to endure.

This our recipe of
transfiguration.

 

Author’s Note:

Day Two prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And last but not least, here is our prompt (as always, optional). Today, I’d like you to write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe! It can be a recipe for something real, like your grandmother’s lemon chiffon cake, or for something imaginary, like a love potion or a spell.”

Moving Day

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Day One

 

Movers heft a couch
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to make it fit,
a place to sit
when one
is done.

Rain sustains
and softens dry
earth left
too often
under winter’s sun
as drops bless
each one while
they move
from truck to door,
and back again
once more.

On moving day
new beginnings
meet, again and again,
little neat
soldiers shown
marching off to
unknown precincts.

A new drawer to
fill with old, and still
the movers make
their way under
bold gray billows, to
and fro.

We start afresh,
a month, a home,
thresholds to cross at
each ingress.

Eyes wide
open, at least we
imagine, and
through we go
to sow new
seeds with
unblemished
inhaled breath
in accordance
with every
immutable
death.

Author’s Note:

From NaPoWriMo:

“Today’s interview is with Kay Ryan, whose spare, tightly-rhymed work makes each poem a small, witty, philosophical puzzle. You can find more background on Ryan’s life and work here, and read one of her poems here.

And finally, our (optional) prompt. In honor of today’s interviewee, I’d like to challenge you to write a Kay-Ryan-esque poem: short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.”