A place for poems and pics
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
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
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.
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 – 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
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
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.
Do Not Believe
Don’t believe it ……..
when they tell you there is
no gentle man in the moon or shining
stars are just spheres of gas.
For they are fools with hearts
that cannot see the magic
and souls that do not hear the songs.
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
Love is nothing like the movies –
sometimes
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,
simple
ordinary times when a parent’s love fills all the empty
places.
rhymeswithbug 