Garden Magic
Deep in each small seed
A mystery lies buried
Only sun and rain
Can create the magic spell
That will free the hidden prize
A red tomato
Or a yellow sunflower
Captured in a shell
Waiting to at last uncurl
To the gardener’s delight
Tag: NaPoWriMo
Art 101
Art 101
I join the group scattered around
the classroom, standing behind wooden easels,
brushes and paints laid out in perfect order.
A room full of adults with nothing else to do
at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning.
We are supposed to paint a rooster
following the step-by-step instructions of
the artist at the front of the room. A blank canvas
gazes back at me and I fantasize about turning
out a rooster-like creature, in bright blues and
greens, with bold eyebrows like Frida Kahlo,
challenging the rest of the class to imagine a
world where different is normal.
Get set . . .
Sing Me a Song
Sing Me a Song
Place me in a chamber of music
and let my soul soar to the rafters
Immerse me in a pool of quarter notes
until I am soaked to the bone in the tempo of peace
Wrap me in a cocoon of melody and
harmony, stuff my ears with a hymn so
I can obliterate the choir of discord
A Found Poem
A Found Poem
Where have you been little poem?
Your feet are muddy and you are
dripping syllables . You are covered in
worn-out phrases and inky smudges.
There seems to be no rhyme
to this form of yours. No line of reason
or hint of season in your wordy count(enance).
Let me wrap you in warm metered stanzas.
Let me embrace you with a loving simile.
Let me be the refrain in your rhythmic scheme.
Day 11 of NaPoWriMo
Finding Me
Finding Me
Stand in the moonlight, preferably in bare feet
Release a small cathartic howl
Intone a prayer and send it spinning
Listen for the chattering of the wind
Wait for stillness
Turn your face upward
Feel gentle moonbeam kisses
Stretch your fingers skyward
Trace pictures on the dark cavas of night
Close your eyes
Conjure up my being in your heart
Day 7 at Na/GloPoWriMo
Words
Words
It’s not your words, filtered through your teeth,
tumbled by your tongue, that reach into my soul,
that quiver my heart, that spin my world. It’s
the rise and fall of your breath, the gentle tone
of love, the tenderness of silence, that reach across
this space between us and bring me strength.
—
I used the poem Kirum, by Eva Gerlach as my inspiration.
A Blue Box
Day 3 of Na/GloWriMo
Rewrite a well know short poem using opposites
I chose The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams
—
The Red Wheelbarrow
Launch Audio in a New Window
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
—-
Here’s my very short attempt –
A Blue Box
we do not depend
on the blue box
left baking in the sun
far from the black cat
On Prayer
On Prayer – a Cento
“What can I bring to prayer?”
“Little soul, do you remember?”
It’s “Sad isn’t it (not a bit)”
“What was it like to listen to the angels?”
Or see “The writing in the air of swallowtails”,
“And all the beautiful things that lead our thoughts and give us reason”
“Modern times are too cautious.” Our
“God’s toes are buried deep in the earth”.
“Ignorance will carry me through to the last days”,
“And Reason’s self shall bow the knee”.
—
Lines from the following poems –
“Faith” by Michael Schmidt
“Wood. Salt. Tin.” by Jane Hishfield
“What Lights Up…?” by Keki Daruwalla
“An Altogether Different Language” by Anne Porter
“Swallowtails” by Allan Peterson
“A Time” by Allison Hedge Coke
“The White Campion” by Donald Revell
“The Present” by Jim Harrison
“Psalm to Be Read with Closed Eyes” by D. Nurkse
“The Indian Burying Ground” by Philip Freneau
Not a Morning Person
Not a Morning Person
Morning starts with the raucous music of birds,
like a choir with too many sopranos.
I rouse myself from sheets tangled as if
I survived a shipwreck during the night and
stumble awkwardly down stairs that seem to
descend into the center of the Earth.
Only the whistle of the tea kettle, like a siren
call to a sailor, keeps me on course to the
kitchen and your smiling face – a beacon
into the safe harbor of your arms.
Pondering My Fate
Pondering My Fate
I am the only one of the bunch left.
I sit alone on top of the refrigerator
waiting for someone to look up,
to see me here and think, “Oh
there’s still a banana!” Maybe
they will slice me and smother me
in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Maybe they will cuddle me up between
two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter,
or lovingly slice me into a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Maybe someone will grab me on the way out
the door, on their way to yoga or soccer practice.
My freckles are just starting to show. I am the perfect
specimen, slightly curved, firm yellow skin, soft buttery
insides – just what the doctor ordered.
I know my days are numbered, here on the fridge.The longer
I go unnoticed, the more likely I have been forgotten and I will
slowly rot, until someone notices the smell. Then, I must join the
soggy tomatoes, the stinky potatoes, the furry grapes –
unfortunates destined for the compost pile.
rhymeswithbug 