Still I rise writ Maya Angelou, ParaOlympians say too. Said John Lewis while making good trouble and Martin Luther King as he dreamed aloud that day. Say organ donors and recipients. Smiles Albus Dumbledore on the big screen every time we see Fawkes reborn.
NAPOWRIMO Day 20. Prompt:Write a poem that includes an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.Image from Pixabay.com
Click here to see and watch Maya Angelou read her iconic poem STILL I RISE.
Also shared at OLN April 23rd with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
In his dodder of thyme, the current head DC gardener continues to uproot and rip out Justicia,Honesty, and roses of all kind. As if they were the weeds. In their place he sows and propagates Crown Imperial, Wormswood, Snakesfoot, King-cups and Creeping Cereus.
This prickly pear of a man is in no way a humble plant. More like a mouse-eared-chickweed forever noshing on Fool’s Parsley, basking under the shade of his pruned Judas Trees.
Outside his sphere, weeping willows flail in dire need of gentle balm. They must find a new sage, soon. Both Burpee and the Farmer’s Almanac warn the upcoming planting season will be a crucial one.
NAPOWRIMO Day 19. Today’s prompt: Using Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers, write a poem in which you muse on your selections of flowers names and meanings from her extensive list.
*** All of the flowers and plants I’ve used from her book, are italicized in the poem. I’ve kept the capitalization only on those that are actually used in the poem as the plant/flower itself. Reference is paid to the Old Farmer’s Almanac and the Burpee Seed Catalogue.
IMAGE of the Jacqueline Kennedy Rose Garden at the White House, courtesy of the National Park Service website.
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.
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.
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 