Red

Red

Sisters Sun and Moon, detail by Lex Leonard

 

You’ll look pretty as a picture in this, Red.
Sun hides behind clouds longing to shine through,
except that she wouldn’t.

Unable to warm soil, words hinder
poppy sprouts anew.
You’ll look pretty as a picture in this, Red.

Memories held inside her frame injure.
She longs to break the glass of that view,
except that she wouldn’t.

A spark of flame leaves but only a cinder,
too dark to see what she really knew.
You’ll look pretty as a picture in this, Red.

His words she gathers unhindered
and places them carefully to later pursue,
except that she wouldn’t.

New moon gives rise for her to surrender
to stillness within safe solitude.
You’ll look pretty as a picture in this, Red.
Except that she wouldn’t.

 

 

Author’s Note:

Oh, the poetic form! It’s always worth a try.

From today’s NaPoWriMo challenge…

The classic villanelle has five three-line stanzas followed by a final, four-line stanza. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternately repeat as the last lines of the following three-line stanzas, before being used as the last two lines of the final quatrain. And to make it an even more virtuoso performance, Dargan’s alternating lines, besides being taken from songs, express “opposing” ideas, with one being about sleeping, and the other waking.

Following Dargan’s lead, today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way. If you can use two elements, great – and if you can do all three, wow!

My lines are taken from a book I am currently reading. I picked it up, opened to a random page and pointed. There were the two lines side by side from The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah that just happened to be “opposing” ideas. I kid you not: You’ll look pretty as a picture in this, Red. Except that she wouldn’t.

Feint

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Little bee
you came out
almost
too soon,
winter’s trickster feint

But sun is warm
bones thaw
you move again with grace
about your daily chores

Your wings loose
and stretch
ready for flight

Violas call
You cleave

And I ride your back
honeymeade our drink
eternity our design

Certainty

Certainty.jpg

 

There is a certain kind of beauty in unwashed windows,
windows that reach so high I can only get to them

once in a very long time, oh, I still see out
when sun’s angle allows which gives me reason

not to tend to the common task, keeping it
for another day, a day when there is less to do,

a day when more important things have been tended.
But when clarity is diminished as sun shines its eye directly

confusing view, when looking out becomes staying in,
disorients need for accuracy, rests in shapes and shadows

that whisper through, no compulsion for definition,
just a gentle telling of story, a compassionate perspective,

not by smoke or fog, nor snowfall, but years of life
leaving only breath as it passes on conceding spaciousness

between that which I cannot change knowing all remains
secret to my interference until sun presses on

and glare is gone and I see once more that which was obscured.
There is a beauty in not seeing leaving certainty behind.

I am thankful for…

E2A6F79C-1EBF-4B68-B868-0F3CDDDE583C

My feet
to step on Mother Earth
connecting me to her
and all that grows beneath
and rises above to meet the breath of day.

My lungs to breathe in Life.
My eyes to watch Moon
cycle in remembrance of
my fragility and fiercness.

My skin
to touch the Sun’s warmth in my heart
and know his fire burn to ash
when I must begin anew.

My nose to smell lilac and rose, pine and rain, and doggie breath.
My ears to hear crow and whispered wind, roaring waves,
and
the deep stillness of You within.

Lips and arms to hug and kiss you…
my love, my Bean, my dear sweet friends,
the children of this Earth,
each and every one of you.

You.

…..

Happy day of gratitude and joy.

May compassion be the way for this day
with gentleness and love for all – even the hard ones.

Munay. Aho. Amen.

Lexanne

Tarry

Thistle.jpg

 

Once I lived with old grown trees,
arms bent to their years,
crooked under time’s long breath.

Cattails at attention.

Rushing stream after storm
pushing over, pushing round rocks
where gentle purple thistle rise
on prickled backbone.

There I lived in must of
leaves of seasons past.

I stayed
with moon who
arched and hid with sun
in reverie chased.