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




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



a red wheel



glazed with rain



beside the white



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.

At the Rim of the Canyon

At the Rim of the Canyon

The sky above is a canvas of blue, an unnamed
shade no artist can faithfully recreate.

Great Condors seem like dots above me, wings spread,
wheeling through the warm air, defying extinction.

I hear the hush of wind in the pinyon pines, as
if the Gods of many nations are breathing.

Ripped open before me is the history of this
planet, laid down in stripes of rock and mineral,

chiseled away by a restless river, relentlessly
eroding the chasm I stare into, eon by eon.

Before the vastness of this grand canyon, I
lay down my human hubris and weep.


An Everyday Kind of Love

An Everyday Kind of Love

Love is nothing like the movies –
it looks like laundry and dirty dishes.
Real love
happens in the school drop- off line and
hides in
the bleachers of soccer matches and band festivals,
ordinary times when a parent’s love fills all the empty

waltmarie poetic form