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.

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.