Into the night she fled nerves awry, feelings dead. Tricked by his deceitful lies no one had listened to her cries.
Castle and dreams now miles away heart faltering, heavy as clay. Past the forest deep and dank she came upon a riverbank.
Exhausted, she gave in to pain collapsed as thunder struck with rain. Hands to breast, as breath grew short, she smiled as Death offered his support.
NAPOWRIMO Day 18. Prompt: Today we don’t challenge you to write all of a long, dramatic, narrative poem, but we invite you to try your hand at writing a poem that could be a section or piece of one. Include rhyme, include unlikely and dramatic scenes…basically a poem with the plot of an opera!
Daffodils interrupt doldrums break through badgering news. They brighten my day, my thoughts, my views.
They do indeed flutter and dance, providing a joyful scene. They grace the banks of the Charles, greet me with bright ruffled faces.
They are sunshine atop green leafy stems. How can I be lonely as they smile at me?
NAPOWRIMO Day 17. Prompt:Write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet. My poem is in response to William Wordsworth’s famous poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. See below for his complete poem.
Photos taken two days ago on my walk along the Charles River, from the Boston side. (Cambridge, Harvard and MIT are on the other side).
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
There is a calming an acute listening as I sit enveloped in darkness waiting, watching.
Darkness dissipates. Low-lying orange-red layer ombres into blue-black sky. Then . . .
. . . ever so slowly . . . a sliver . . . an arc . . . an entire glowing orb. Nature’s metaphorical reminder.
Even in the darkness hope does rise and become reality.
NAPOWRIMO Day 16. Prompt: write a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught youor told you.
Images are photos I’ve taken over the years at our beloved Provincetown at the very tip of Cape Cod. Same rental, on the ocean, for 25 years. Sunrises from the deck never disappoint.
Family of four, both mother, father gone now. Their love still lives on in the way their children love. Circle of love unending.
A Tanka written for Tuesday Poetics atdVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Kim asks us to write a poem using the title Where Does Love Go and answer the question within the poem.
Love me some spring! In my steps on this morning’s walk in bursting magnolia trees mama goose fluffing her nest forsythias smiling bright and ruffled waving daffodils. Love me some Spring!
NAPOWRIMO Day 15. Prompt: Write about love in some other way than romantic.
Photos actually from my walk yesterday along the Charles river. And I should add, Happy Birthday #18 to Rika!
power and magic and lilt and creativity and rhythm and feelings and making sense with words. Rhyme scheme, haiku, free verse and so much more.
WTF? NGL. Will the flying thumbs of today have the patience to spell it all out? I’m just asking, will poetry survive? FAWC, I’m SMH and wondering. You may be BWL, but this is FR. SRSLY, PLZ tell me how to write a sonnet, create a rhythmic flow or express my POV using this shorthand chicanery? IKR? Maybe like Basho, there’s an enterprising new poet waiting in the wings who will add RIZZ to this new language. Teach us oldsters to translate. PAW. I’m watching. I’ve got TFW something new is on the horizon and the actual problem is, I’m just really over the hill.
TRANSLATION
What the fuck? Not gonna lie. Will the flying thumbs of today have the patience to spell it all out? I’m just asking, will poetry survive? For anyone who cares, I’m shaking my head and wondering. You may be bursting with laughter, but this is for real. Seriously, please tell me how to write a sonnet, create a rhythmic flow or express my point of view using this shorthand chicanery? I know right? Maybe like Basho, there’s an enterprising new poet waiting in the wings who will add charisma and charm to this new language. Teach us oldsters to translate. Parents are watching. I’m watching. I’ve got that feeling when something new is on the horizon and the actual problem is, I’m just really over the hill.
NAPOWRIMO Day 14. Prompt todayis to “write a poem that bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.” AI image generated on Bing Create.
She stood on the Trader’s Block. Men walked by and stopped to examine her. Many with whips in their hands. Some more gentlemanly with canes. Either way. They stopped and stared. Demanded she open her mouth; forced her to do so. Were her teeth in good shape? They all wanted a healthy robust woman to work in their fields. They didn’t know she could read. She’d seen the poster on display. Slaves for Sale Today. That horrible publication. Is the auction of the mind included with the auction of the body? For her, it will never be so. She can read. She can think. She can read the stars. She will not be long with whomever buys her today. She will try to escape again and this time she will succeed.
It’s Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today, we’re asked to write a piece of prose (144 words or less) that includes the line “Publication is the auction of the mind” from Emily Dickinson’s poem Publication – is the Auction. We can change the punctuation of the line, but we may not change the order of the words. Emily Dickinson lived in the time of slavery. She was not an activist on the subject however, the subject was actually or metaphorically a subject of some of her poems.
We were two third-grade girls who often roamed through a nearby overgrown plot of land. In our minds, the vast Old West. That mound of dirt about half-way in? Boot Hill where we’d tether our steeds. We were certain the Lone Ranger rode these parts. We’d gallop many a mile in those days. We’d capture bad guys with unholstered guns using only one index finger and thumb. After a long day of protecting Dodge City, when the sun was about to set we’d adjust our cowboy hats and mosey on home to Martin Avenue in Waukegan, Illinois.
NAPOWRIMO Day 13. Prompt: Write a poem about a cherished landscape. It could be your grandmother’s backyard, your schoolyard basketball court, or a tiny stip of woods near the railroad tracks. At some point in the poem, include language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal spoken speech – like a rhyme or syntax that feels old fashioned or high-tone (“mosey on home”).
True story from my childhood days. I have no idea what ever became of Mary Alyce. AI image made from Bing Create.
“He went to sea in a thimble of poetry.” Opening line in the poem Poet Warning, by Jim Harrison.
Wynken, Blyken and Nod my childhood friends, lived in the well-turned pages of mother’s Child Craft Poetry Book. So many friends who made me smile. The Old Lady who lived in a shoe, Miss Muffet sitting primly on her tuffet, Old King Cole and Jack Sprat too.
We laughed about the crazy cow who jumped over the moon. I lived in those pages then, where no one yelled at anyone. Sitting on mother’s lap I’d hug my yellow teddy-bear smeared with mother’s lipstick, so at least, it always smiled at me.
When mama took out that book I knew she’d take me to magical places. And for those moments her love for me was real and clear. So calm, so comforting, so warm, so fun, so motherly, in those make-believe lands.
And here I am, decades later near to being an octogenarian, wondering why I write poetry. I’d forgotten this side of her, so many other memories crowding in. I live by the words, “no regrets” always have and always will. So I am thankful to remember this other side of who she was.
NAPOWRIMO Day 12. Prompt:Write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.
Image from an illustration in the book, which I still have. Published in 1947, the year I was born.
lillian the home poet 