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.

Three random blooms

The forsythia has three random blooms
a yellow flame at the end of the long, bare branch.
When the cardinal lands it's as though
it is playing with fire. If she wants to burn
she should visit the daffodils in the front
bed, full of bonfire trumpets flashing
and proclaiming spring.

The sky this morning was mottled.
Between the lines of white
was a message of bright blue
a note to look up, a song to begin.

The yard is not shy with its colors
and the birds are not shy
with their hymns this Sunday.
It is spring-like here, the day long
and the sky alive with cloud
and these fleeting notes:
grackle, starling, finch,
and disappearing into the indigo,
a Blue Jay raucous and more beautiful
than the sun.

Empire I want

After the snow day

The slow sun rises on a cold day
more gold than summer
though less molten, its hurry
facilitated by the geese
pond bond. Against the clouds
holding storm each goose belly
above me is also gold, less finch
more empire I want to live in

As the day ended, clear, the sun
sizzled orange, through the trees
blackbirds streamed behind
their path nuanced, fine.
Each feather sent its own song
a breeze across a spiderweb,
a breeze on a breeze over leaves
left from daydream.

I stood my heart beating
to match theirs, my arms
awaiting wings.

The sky is shadowed by blackbirds

The wind has moved its family here, Gusty, Blowy, Freezing Breeze, and Hold Your Hat. They’ve come along with Bone Chill and occasional, Drizzle. When the sun does break past their defenses it is more like a kindergartener playing Red Rover with the upper grades it rarely gets through and then the taunting and tears begin. It is the new winter in Illinois – or what I know of winter here. Our one snow lasted a few days but that came before Solstice and surprised even the weather watchers, that snow was about six inches. There has been a dusting, a skiff of snow now and again but our main winter weather has been these cold winds and rain, a miserable combo if you must be out in it.

I’m back in school for the Spring semester. My 8 am class is Art History, Prehistoric to Gothic and the instructor started his first lecture today, he’s good at that – his banter has been painfully awkward and even he admitted, “I’m a shy person but I love this subject.” I think it’s a perfect first class for the beginning of the day. The room is very warm, so I hope the snoring is kept to a minimum for those students that struggle with the “early” hour.

I’ve been driving a new route in the morning, a little more winding through the countryside now. The sky is shadowed by blackbirds and here I pass the farm where murderers gather. Sometimes more than a dozen crows attend meetings above a barn in some old and very tall oak trees that seem to have grown just for these conferences. And the hawks! The hawks are the rulers of the roadside anywhere a perch can be made they are there, watching. Along the drive, I pass the fields that had corn this year and I have often seen turkeys hobnobbing as well. Another plus with this drive is I pass Randy’s Rescue Ranch in the morning. Rutabaga is not out at this time of day, but the horses are waiting patiently for volunteers to feed them. There is a draft mare who lives with a small golden gelding, and there is a pinto that arrived in the late fall. The only thing that would make the morning commute better is if I could stop and smell their necks on my journey; I’d leave earlier for that privilege.

Here's a picture of a fierce house finch that was not happy about sparrows hogging a feeder.