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.