April 30 NaPoWriMo ~~ Fini

Penny (L) and Mr. Fancy MauHaus Cat Cafe

At the cat café, I am immediately in violation of the rules

No picking up I am told so place Patrice on the table
where he looks at me smugly, no cuddles for you, he seems
to say. It’s like a bookstore here, so many interesting titles
if books wore fur and had these tails, but each cat has a story
and with time they will share some of their wonder and poetry.

Mr. Fancy is here with his sister, Annie, a bonded pair
hoping to be adopted together. Benny is a special wild child,
Celeste a one-eyed beauty and Big Boy trying to be a hard ass
but he can’t not come to people for attention: cat fail. I’m here
investigating, all of this is for a paper, I tell myself that the rest
of the day: all research, all research, all research.

 

Day 29 NaPoWriMo

My neighbor’s cat rolls under the car eyeing me
like I should join her. I scoff, the days of rolling
under cars are long over, though I consider it, she
looks so comfortable in the shade her golden eyes
half closed. Around her like snowflakes the petals
of the dogwood flutter, drifting against her copper
body before flying away. I try to coax her out,
but she is not interested in me. I don’t blame her,
often I am not that interested in me either. But I like
the cat and I like the confetti from the dogwood
and the sun that cuts through the lime-colored
leaves and the fact that the breeze is carrying
the whole day minute by minute and it all
feels good.

Day 28 NaPoWriMo

The geese have decided, these last few days of class

that the quad in the morning is the best place to pace

looking for wayward or late students. Surprise! I

tell them, the students are not here, the day too

beautiful, the sun too warm, and the sparrows' song

so high and lovely that they have galloped off

as though the pied piper has played that secret note.

Everyone is ignoring classes, grades

and certainly, geese marching up and down the walk.

Day 26 and Day 27 NaPoWriMo

These are cheater poems, rewritten/rethought/shuffled from other poems. Because? So much writing for these last few weeks of school. It'll all be over by May 17th, still have half a book for Lit, two more exams, three papers, and one film review. And if there is time the Diversity Club is having a Drag Social Saturday on campus! And, and, for that oh yes, today: goldfinch dining on dandelions in the lawn, so much gold. 

Duplicate

During the copy process
when pixels replicate page to glass
to page – one meditates –
counts the fan flutter of paper
like heartbeats, enjoys the slow shuffle
from tray to tray.

A system of clone-age, original
to replica; the knowledge
that even god can’t do this.

Waiting for Bardot

Summer takes one season
to bring full garden; call forth fruit;
get a calf to weaning.

Why does this mirror
take so long to grant curves?

Day 25 NaPoWriMo

 

there is a place where the canyon layers

like a long conversation between neighbors

it works its way down the river as though

the rim rocks are what move here and set

all tales in motion, leaning against every

curve that angles the water, brushing against trees

until you gaze toward dawn and hear every

story they hold

NaPoWriMo mo' catch up 22 thru 24 April

A catchup day again: too much homework that needed to be fine-tuned, a lovely production Death of a Salesman to go see, and quite a bit of reading for lit. And after the last poem a song...

Toothpaste  22 April

Gravity protection.

Olive, emerald, lime  23 April

The front door blind hiding day;
sunrise through willows;
the County Fair’s painted cinderblocks;
just baled alfalfa;
John Deere tractor in the barn’s yawn;
sparrows stealing gooseberries;
1974’s crushed-velvet pantsuit;
rhubarb leaves unfolding;
my sister’s eye-shadow;
hummingbirds over honeysuckle;
shadows hitting stained glass;
deep water all the way to lake bottom.

Love survives 24 April

                        It’s the mundane:
the carpet path tread at midnight
a baby slung like wet laundry across
your shoulder, your tongue shush, shushing
as you pace.

                        The need for ceremony:
a song sung each bedtime
the hug that has risen from a hip squeeze
to a chin that brushes your head
as good night is whispered.

                           We turn our backs
after our final words, content
to wrestle quilts until we sleep
and then find that all through
the night legs are touching,
hands have found each other
like mating birds, fingers nesting
in the other’s palm.

We interrupt this NaPoWriMo for this

Becoming A Horse

by Ross Gay July 2012 The Sun 

It was dragging my hands along its belly,

loosing the bit and wiping the spit

from its mouth that made me

a snatch of grass in the thing’s maw,

a fly tasting its ear. It was

touching my nose to his that made me know

the clover’s bloom, my wet eye to his that

made me know the long field’s secrets.

But it was putting my heart to the horse’s that made me know

the sorrow of horses. Made me

forsake my thumbs for the sheen of unshod hooves.

And in this way drop my torches.

And in this way drop my knives.

Feel the small song in my chest

swell and my coat glisten and twitch.

And my face grow long.

And these words cast off, at last,

for the slow honest tongue of horses.

 

Day 20 and 21 (a twofer) NaPoWriMo

20 April

At the overflow pond, at the decorative fountain of Fountain Parkway
the goslings – the goose-lings – wander the manicured lawn
like puffs of weeds, eight balls in motion with their overseers
the gander and the goose, up and down the hillock.

At the nearby bank, beside the ATM drive another goose
couple have built their nest; fierce looks whenever a car
drives by, how close to the busy road are they, how close
to foxes and coyotes coming from the farmer’s fields.

These geese do not care here where the bank manager use to place
a decoy coyote to drive the geese away and how the whole
bank staff watched the morning a gander took the decoy apart
and then plopped down on the welcome mat until well after opening time.

21 April 

Senate

Smug mugger Josh Hawley (R-MO) tells a lie
a bona fide, hero woman, Tammy Duckworth (D-IL)
calls his lie and holds the truth to the light
it is what it always has been – no one is listening.

Class Roster

The Rylees, the Kylees, the Emmas, Hannahs, Saras,
Sarahs, Sashas, Lamiya and Trinity are all here.
There is no other Mary, after so long what relief.

Day Nineteen NaPoWriMo

I try to start each morning
not with what would be known
as prayer or meditation,
though poets would know it
as exactly such when reading
or writing a poem. Often, I am
worshipping joy with Brother Ross Gay
as a way to make myself pay
attention to the day ahead.
Though a chickadee somewhere
in the maple can also set focus
or the sound of mourning doves
in duet no grief in their song.

NaPoWriMo Catch up 14-18

Day Fourteen

Wind, hail, rain & more wind
but subterranean we only listen
like moles pondering echoes

Day Fifteen

The neighbor’s black cat
comes to lie beside
my birdfeeders.

It has taken
a year for her to know this edge
of the cul de sac.

Now she is queen.


Day Sixteen

The lonesome pine
has burst, so much new
growth, its arms full of song,


Day Seventeen

white blossoms
exists along with pink
bees visit each
safe at any door
in this neighborhood

Day Eighteen

Along Old Lincoln Trail Road
a man carries a large toy dinosaur:
needed wonder.

The day lightens and then lightens more (First Anniversary repost edition)

Heavy writing homework, tornado warnings and homecoming have kept me from posting poems. And today is filled again in other ways. I was at Playa last year when I wrote this, watching snow, listening to silence. But I repost it today for those two crazy kids who hopped over to Iceland... love them both so much. 

Overnight the trees bloom
monochrome blossom, soft down.
& the birds are silent this dawn
yesterday’s sun & activity
ushering in this morning.
Quiet & rest. The snow
still sifting down, heavy
with water & promise.

Along the pond the only sounds are ducks plunging underwater and then popping back up; the puddled softness of snow falling into the water from the overhanging branches. A snowy pond music, a mid-April melody. The day lightens and then lightens more. I make the first human trail. I see goose tracks, a rabbit, something went under the snow across the path and their tunnel has since collapsed. Bird tracks everywhere: how do I read these notes?

The snow is so wet, heavy, melting everywhere (in the back of my mind, please don’t freeze – don’t get colder) a steady stream of water off the lodge roof; at my cabin, I could hear the snow compressing, crashing down.

It is quiet off the lakebed (how many times have I written quiet this week?) the view limited. An insect lands on a bare stalk of yellow grass, “Careful,” I warn, “the swallows are out.” As if on cue a hawk on the willow flinches as it is dive bombed by a bold swallow. It shrugs off the attack like the snow on its feathers.

The clouds rise. The far ridge can be seen still holding a shawl of cloud over its shoulders but clearing above. The lakebed visible again. It is eight o’clock. This weather is only a needed pause.

It is Saturday, the 16th of April. Miles away, thousands, in another country, another time zone, another wide place, my baby girl, my Bambina, our lovely and loved daughter is getting married. Their wedding day, like her life the way she wanted it, they. It’s as though the snow brought such perfect silence so I could lean into the world and almost hear their voices. That simple promise, “I do”.

Day Thirteen NaPoWriMo

There has been talk lately about a poetic form called a golden shovel, this is not one but it's what came as I thought of a shovel...

The shovel

Is the only tool that rests in knowledge
of worth. Year-round it is called upon,
needed to dig and scoop, pile and pat.
The garden, the yard, the flowerbeds in spring
John’s little kitten mashed beneath the tractor’s
tire. Each job the shovel comes to stoic
and silent, ready for each level of gravity.

Winter mornings, across the shoulders, it is
taken to the frozen creek to open the watering
hole (again) for the cattle.

Day Twelve NaPoWriMo

 Today the most popular place on campus was here:

The llama is a busybody, the pony aloof.
The lamb and the kids they’re the showstoppers,
the hug-worthy, finger nibblers the oh-my-god!
they’re too cute! selfie accessories. The ducks,
oh, the ducks away from the fray in shade;
happy little quackers, happy away
from the cloven-hoofed and furred, with a quick hiss
to send you away: no pictures please, no paparazzi!

Day Eleven NaPoWriMo resurrection edition

My poem for today is still struggling to survive so I thought I'd post this poem from NaPoWriMo 2006

Oh, Lord, please forgive us

The indigenous people along the Black Warrior River
built mounds in a soft green park setting near what would
become the town of Moundville, Alabama. Abandoned
sometime in the 1500’s after 500 years of use, archeologist
are still trying to understand the cultural and religious uses
of the twenty-six earthen mounds.

But what boys from Hale County High remember is that
on the Saturday night before Easter, the park would be busy
with the reenactment of Jesus’ last days. This was the one occasion
it was alright to keep young ladies out all night, wrapped
inside a blanket, hands wherever you wanted them to be
as you wound your way from mound to mound to witness
the performance. The park grew crowded near dawn,
the sunrise service drawing close, a lanky boy
ready to be Christ; hung on the cross, his blonde wig
tangled in thorns. A procession would move up
the highest mound, where floodlights would substitute
for sun if the weather failed; below on-lookers
in the shadows would watch the white Jesus, atop
the largest mound, the one believed to hold tribal elders
and holy men, and as one, as a wave, would shade their
eyes to enlightenment.

Day Ten NaPoWriMo

The first cowbird appeared

singing in a smug way atop
a lamppost. Every tree is in bloom
today. The pinks and the greens
and the soft purple across the street.
Even the moon tried to nudge
a goose off the roof, feeling
the exuberance of spring.
Curled like a kitten a cloud
launched the afternoon
into a gentle slope toward evening.
And here I am now watching
the sky blush as the first
star tickles its face.

Day Nine NaPoWriMo

The morning the red roan foal arrived
snow fell, though the first buttercups
were blooming in the pasture where the mare
and stallion, matching roans as well
welcomed this strawberry horse.

It was Easter, a cold March of a year
full of coming changes, that were already
as heavy as the weather pushing 
down onto this newborn. 

I stopped my car
along the road, leaned
into the wind and cried
hello hello hello but only felt
imminent farewells pushing
my words back at me.

                                               A morning ramble friend from Lens Belgium.

Day Seven and Eight NaPoWriMo

Last night I forgot to post a poem, I was preoccupied with a discussion for my Literature class. We usually have something to write “to” every week based on what we are reading and discuss with classmates as well. This past week we were reading and talking about Deaf writers and the culture of Deaf literature. The question we needed to discuss was about language and culture. But one of my classmates went off on a small rant re: white privilege (he doesn’t have it! – how could he, but as a young white man he has experienced racism) so I got distracted. So, I had a very even-tempered response to him today, I believe and look forward to Monday’s class.

Closer to home my neighbor was asking about the best bait for flat cats -- they are coming out of hibernation and ready to move into new burrows. They’ve spotted a couple and one has been nosing around the cars again. I gave them a supply of peanuts and this afternoon they announced they had caught one already! What this really tells me is I need to relook at the areas I blocked last year to ensure there are no breaches.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

At the top of the trees
like the past year’s last fruit
the robin is glowing
in this morning’s dawn
a song bright with light
the frost glistening below

(NaPoWriMo April 7)

“moth against the street lamps” (from The Hut by Lisa Robertson)

A staccato beat in the shadows
the moon full of envy, wishing
she was close enough to receive
their dusty blessing too.

(NaPoWriMo April 8)


 And here are some hollyhocks from a place long ago and far away, KFalls.

Day Six NaPoWriMo

Be good

The little bee is confused as the planet
that’s why it was slow crawling over the rug
this morning, looking dazed. Where it came in from
is still a head-scratcher but I was happy to help
by scooping a tissue around it like a lily blossom
and then to the still-tender rosebush,
out of the wind and where there is last fall’s
leaf debris and some cover for this cooler day.
And was that a bow thank you, was that a wag
dance, thank you, was the grasping of a blade
of grass a thank you again? Yes, okay, try
to stay out of the house, and you’re welcome.

Day Five NaPoWriMo

I laughed today when this video popped up, I made it in 2020 for the SHAPE Library for Poetry Month. I made four "poetry moments" that month. This one though begins with subtle acting! 

The rains have stopped here and the temperature dropped 30 degrees today, all I can say is ah.

Between the buildings between classes

and rainstorms and thunder rattling the day

the finches believe no one sees them

constructing a nest in the shrubbery,

but I see them. I saw them two days

ago when I stopped to watch as they worried

a long weedy reed past needles, acting

nonchalant about how it would not fit.

And now, with so many people passing

they take their next beak full of grasses

and flit into a tree, telling one another

just wait, just wait until everyone

is past – except me – and they dive

back to the shrub, into the interior

where I listen to their gentle speak,

yes, there, that’s perfect.

Day Four NaPoWriMo

Part of working on a poem a day means being able to play with some poems I leave as fragments around the house and in my school notes. This poem's fragments have been floating about since February. Tomorrow's fragment may be about how elephants have domesticated themselves, or the importance of contrapposto. 

Story, in every tongue told us to look up
star points marked direction:
you could always find your way home.

Now we have the constellation of heartbreak
its long line follows shadow where stars blinked out.

We are lost.

We no longer know them, no longer know
where to look, even on cloudless nights
we don’t turn our faces up, seeking light.

A forgotten path closes.

We have forgotten the stars.
The stuff of us, points of light that use
to illuminate the world.

Let’s step out and find those stars
a promise to remember forgotten light:
Brianna and Emmett, George and Tyre.

Day Three NaPoWriMo

 (National Poetry Writing Month) ☺

The sky was really wondering this morning whether it wanted to let loose or be calm, but it looked lovely. This picture was taken before a goose made two young men pick better paths to their classes. It was a classic standoff and the goose really didn't have to work hard to win. Goose 1, students O. Here's a poem followed by today's clouds.

In 1981, the sky over Enterprise Oregon

held more stars than at any time on Earth.

Walking along streetlights dimmed

snow glimmering on the midsummer

mountains, air glowing in a phantasmagorical

swoon. I danced, twirled down Main Street

where the pines lined the courthouse lawn,

heading towards Gran’s. A little drunk

and still full of music, dazzled by stardust

and embarrassed really about how lost I became:

stolen by the sky and darkness and open air

and suddenly at the park, swinging, swinging

while the night sang.

Day Two NaPoWriMo

 

Every hawk is Beauty.

No other name is required.

Just a murmur of beauty,

along the fields, riding the air currents

freezing the squirrel, beauty

when everything else is absent.

It's National Poetry Month

It's been several years since I wrote a poem a day for poetry month but I think I'll try this month. A bloggy little poetry thing. At school, all my classes have final projects that involve writing so why not a few more words?

Here's day one:

01 April 2023

I forget that the blue isn’t always metaphor
sometimes it is just the residual shadow
of the cloud or a bird that has decided the corner
of my eye is the best nest.