Tag Archives: owls

Almanac Questionnaire.3

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Day Eighteen
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Sunday worship, a custom

child with hat and white gloves, black patent shoes
kneeling, hands folded, head bowed in supplication

guitars, women nearer the altar, kiss of peace

a pause, a long time gone

new words for old prayers, re-imaging Christ

no longer defined by Sunday or its tired form

In reverence of Redwood architecture
joining air to earth to that which lies beneath
I stand in awe of your strength
pay homage to your constancy

Three minutes down the city banded
alleyway, a wall to halt my vagrancy,
you press me to change my viewpoint,
look up instead of down, past high rise windows
my eyes ascend to glimpse a peek of sky where
buildings join air to earth
to that which lies beneath
In observance I discover
You are also here

Outside my glazed glass frame
a tree bows in reverence under snow,
crow, owl and squirrel, bees and spiders
await their spring ritual
Tree, oh Tree, you brush my face
in morning hello
tap my window in icy storm
wear that which I cannot control,
innocent release to what Is,
you welcome me to journey
enraptured I bow to You

To be continued…

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Author’s Note:

Click for explanation of this growing poem!

What I’ve used so far…
Almanac Questionnaire
Weather:
Flora:
Architecture: Redwoods
Customs: Sunday Worship
Mammals/reptiles/fish:
Childhood dream:
Found on the Street:
Export:
Graffiti:
Lover:
Conspiracy:
Dress:
Hometown memory:
Notable person:
Outside your window, you find: my tree
Today’s news headline:
Scrap from a letter:
Animal from a myth:
Story read to children at night:
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: Wall
You walk to the border and hear:
What you fear:
Picture on your city’s postcard:

Extinction

by

I heard that poetry is going extinct,napofeature3
government data shows, a Friday
afternoon tweet to end the week.

But I wonder if they heard
the darling little bird outside my
window before dawn,
it’s featherweight held bravely
by budding branch, itself
tweeting an arrival that returns
without fail in creamsicle
goodness each day.

I wonder if they heard
my first graders who listen to
Dickinson and Guthrie,
Williams and Hughes
as they place their chewed pencils,
erasers gone for the use,
on lined paper almost too
narrow to hold their words.

            I have made a erath
            today. It looks pride qute.
            I wote wrds.

 I know what he means.

            I have made an earth
            today. It looks pretty quiet.
            I wrote words.

Or, I wonder if they heard her,

            owl owl come
            I love you you love
            me hoooooo said
            owl I am a girl said
            the owl I follow the
            forest I love the hooooo
            I follow the village and
            I follow my self I love
            the forest forest and
            I love my self the
            people say I am a
            gorgeous white owl
            I love when people
            say I am a gorgeous
            white owl I just follow
            my heart people follow my
            heart I say to the people
            hooooo they say
            I love owls they say
            I will follow your heart

I heard someone tweet today
that poetry is going extinct.

I wonder where they heard that.

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Author’s Note:

NaPoWriMo Day 24. I did not use the prompt today. A tweet at the end of the school day caught my attention instead.

According to government data, as reported by the Washington Post, poetry is going extinct.

Not in my life. Sorry. Data, whether in standardized assessment in the schools or studies funded by who knows what, only tells a tip of a story.

There is more. There is always so much more.

Harlot

by

After sunset, as azure deepens into cobalt, I lay
myself down on a wrought iron table, a weathered

appointment to my backyard. It is a quiet wild place
with a simple narrative. Urban born coyotes, at times,

in the distance. Rabbits, always rabbits, ignored
by my dog. Once, an owl. And recently, doves. My gaze

above through undulating branches of ash catches
a clear spot, a free  peek at the universe. The afternoon

storm carried away July’s rage that christened our day,
yielding a healing baptism of breath. Cool flows over my

bare arms, down my legs, around my feet. I would prefer
to guide each button until undone, dropping my livery

into a puddle around my ankles leaving me unembellished.
But modesty, even in shapeless darkness, is pressed here

in the suburbs. A red hot star, the color of harlots, of
Magdalene misunderstood, a flashback to the burn

of midday, catches my eye with a blink. What does the
color red have to say about a soul seven times released?

Are there demons I walk with unaware, each one’s
diminution a step closer to the Sacred? Sanguine flowed

from His veins mapping a path. In my bittersweet days
I gaze into a mirror and see the Divine, leaving demons

behind. In my face and yours I caress Brilliance and in
the night sky I am remembered, exaulted in a crimson flash.