Lying back, blue sky beckons me
carries me through dreams
until flock of geese interrupt serenity.
Rolling on my side, eyes shift to daffodils.
Yellow ruffles near still pond,
quiet in their breezy sway.
Noisey crowd above migrates north
racing through scattered clouds.
I rise reluctantly, retrace my steps.
Well worn path through banks of trees
leads to asphalt covered parking lot,
return to life’s routine.
Written for Napowrimo Day 18’s unique prompt. Select a poem (or stanza from a poem), cover up all but the last line: write a response to that line. Now cover up all but the second to the last line: write a response to that line. Etcetera. In essence, you read the poem backwards, creating your poem. Your poem responds to the original poem, and is its reverse.
I’ve used the first 6-line stanza of Walt Whitman’s famous poem,
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud:
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Beside the lake beneath the trees
A host of golden daffodils
When all at once I saw a crowd
That floats on high o’er vales and hills
I wandered lonely as a cloud.
First line of my poem responds to last (6th) line of his stanza; second line of my poem responds his 5th line; third line of mine responds to his 4th; fourth line of mine responds to his 3rd; fifth line of mine responds to his 2nd; sixth line of mine responds to his 1st. My last stanza simply completes my original poem as the “speaker” of the poem must leave the beauty and serenity of nature and return to life’s routine.
Words tumble round my head
searching for mates to copulate,
birth meaning upon the page.
Sleep eludes me as words deluge me.
May I write, please?
Spackle paper in alphabet hue.
Night remnants. Darkened window pane.
My muse flickers like candles upon the sill,
fickle handmaid of creativity.
If light begets light
perhaps dawn will quicken her step,
drawn to these sputtering flames.
Words slowly seep from pen
cursive dips and curves.
I write tentatively,
then speed the pace
racing to beat the dawn.
And then, I rest.
Words falter, flicker,
like a moist match head
producing sulfuric stench
dropping its ash.
Ideas flit through synapses
dead end at fingertips.
Oh fleeting poetic muse,
thou has forsaken me.
Clouds filter lunar rays,
I am spent.
Hazy my day.
Soften sun behind billowing clouds,
flirting lazily in muted blue skies.
Hush talking heads, muffle traffic,
muzzle nearby barking dogs.
Doze me ‘neath birch tree leaves,
rustled by honeysuckle breeze.
Calm my spirit,
“Hazy” is my May word prompt from my granddaughter, Stella.
My lineage lies in bleached bones,
ash commingled with soil and sea.
I am the living
wed forty-seven years
Mother of two
grandmother of five.
in raucous revelry.
This crowded world
my species’ millions
and millions more,
multiplied by the unknown.
In the midst of all,
I savor oneness.
Scraps of solitude
Sips of silence
to be and to know
who and what is me.
Posted from Bermuda. We are in midst of TransAtlantic crossing and will not have access to Internet for five days. I shall post again from Lisbon.
Endings pivot to less beginnings
emptiness beside waking self.
someone’s last dawn
awakens another’s grief.
Photo taken in Provincetown, MA, on Cape Cod.
Stripped naked of hope
she sat hugging knees to chest
done with dreams.
Photo in public domain. Misky’s Tuesday Twiglet prompt #6 : “done with dreams.” A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought.
rare glimpse of winter anger
snow angels disappear in gales.
Softly swirling snow
heaven’s hushed lullaby
midst city streets and sounds.
She stands by her window
wrapped in color splashed comforter.
Forehead on cool pane, eyes closed,
her thoughts begin to drift
like falling snow on once green mounds.
Photo: From our window…looking out on Boston as snow piles up on ground, trees and window sill.
Glazed apricot sun slowly dips,
smudging cloud slips in her graceful retreat.
Tall lithe trees fade into shadow forms,
hushed in awe as once glistening lake
darkens to ebony glass.
Forest spirits lulled by night fall
to a solitary loon’s evensong.
And we sit,
grateful for serenity.
splayed on Adirondack chair,
porched on rustic cabin,
built on rustic site.
Vista before me,
cropped not by gilded frame
nor dimmed by darkened glass
or visor’s cap.
Sentinel woods stand tall,
surround calm rippled waters,
beckon bare feet to rough hewn dock
and yet I sit.
Adirondack sky stretches above me,
bluing clouds to their brightest white.
And I breathe, deeply,
deep green forest scent.
I sit quietly content,
as notes within the loons’ song.
Eyes closed, I drift within this space
and imagine myself to stay.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where De asks us to write a poem that has to do with “blue.”
Photo taken this past week at Green Lake in the Adirondacks. I was indeed sitting on the porch of a rustic cabin at this beautiful remote site when I took this photo.
In the poem “blue” is used in the sense of “bluing.” According to Mrs. Stewart’s Bluing site, there are 300 shades of white; the most intense includes a slight hue of blue. Mrs. Stewart’s Bluing is a laundry aid used to “brighten whites.” Hence the idea of the blue sky making the clouds appear even more white!