Saturday, April 21, 2018

Day 21

The prompt for Day 21 is to write a danger poem.  We are entering the season for wild fires in the northern part of the province where I work.  I can think of few situations as dangerous as that.



Stag and Beast

An antlered head lifts.
Heat comes on dark wind
up the valley, relentless
pursuit of elevation.

Climbing hills more quickly
than frantic hares, wild-
eyed, running blind ‘til
overcome—suffocated—

their muscles seize, tremor,
one futile last effort pitches
small bodies forward,
then—terrible work—done.

Listen: crackling dry twigs
become snap of bleached
bone on forest floor.  Hell
rises to claim this land for

its own victory before spring
rains quench parched soil.
A stag faces westward,
feign stamps its hooves

before retreating eastward
where a river runs its course. 
Eventually, the fire will
run its course. Life moves on,

waits, on cool rains to soothe
the raging beast—fitful slumber—
until next drought, next spark,
and the world leaps ablaze.

Day 20

For today’s prompt, we were to take a line from an earlier poem (from this month) to begin a new poem for today.  I've started this poem with a live from one of my Day 4 poems, Case of Goodbyes.



Travels Abroad

You’re going on a trip, searching
for trinkets from far-away lands,

places like India, or Morocco,
that hold history like sweets on a dish,

as if you might learn your own past
from swallowing theirs.  When

you return to this place of origin
you will recognize it by the dust

on the soles of your shoes,
particulate evidence that you have

found the cradle of your infancy.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Day 18

This poem is a combination of the PAD prompt—to write a temptation poem—and today's NaPoWriMo prompt which was to write a poem structured as a line-by-line response to a previously written poem (preferably a poem with which you are unfamiliar.)  The poem I am responding to is found at the end of mine.



Recalling Paradise Lost

My father’s hidden secrets lived
to stretch the seams of our pockets, but
only heroes carry flags with deeper meaning.

I'm tempted to look, I know what’s there—
the words upon it writ in ancient Celtic script
would lead me to a blinding edge beyond the trail.

Impossible to find a map, retrace his steps,
to navigate a path between sharp blades,
the things I could not touch but only see.

I stand on hand-lathed legs
to view old memories.  Long forgotten are
the names of streets I wandered as a child.

It hurts to speak of what was—
imagined lives of family, where hope lets go
unless tethered to the frosted ground.

Like manic pigeons anxious to take flight,
they mound themselves prepared to leap
but none survive the splash, the sizzle of the fire.



Plane Truths
by Richard Osler

To plane a heart this fine to true.
Each piece peeled off into a curl so taut
it cannot be unfurled.

Wooden whorls, fisted shut, beyond bloom
as if each slice, thin as hand-pressed paper,
must turn back finally on itself.

How many times did I watch, wend
my way past band saw, table saw
cast-iron drill press, candle sticks

in the shapes of birds—dowel beaks
and birch wings—and rocking horses
made of pine, oak and ash,

to the armourer's bench worked with scars
and greet my father?  Only here distance
could slip off easily like the shavings

cut by the plane's bright blade and clench
up in drifts across the floor for me to sweep
and throw into the black pot-bellied stove.


Day 19

So, I skipped over Day 18 as I am not quite satisfied with the poem I am working on for that prompt.  I will return to it soon (because it will drive me crazy to have left a blank spot!)

For today, the prompt is to take the word thread and add words in from of it to create the title of the poem...  then (obviously!) write the poem.



The Last Thread

seams that bore the weight
of our relationship
began to take our shape over time

carefully stitched, mended
when the fabric was stretched taut
I heard the sound of velvet tearing

there I was, trying
to keep this garment presentable
long past the point

it needed
to be ripped into strips, used
as dusting rags but I couldn’t notice

until the last thread had been broken

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Day 17

Today's prompt (and, I'm almost caught up now!) is to write a Love/Anti-Love poem.  Well...  I tried my best with this one!



A Question about Dessert

Where is this going?

This not quite
you and I thing,

This jello mold
that hasn’t quite set yet
thing,

Because as much as
I love jello
I really can’t stand this
sitting, waiting, wondering
in the fridge thing
much longer.

Day 16

The prompt for today is to write a favourite poem.  I had a difficult time choosing one favourite thing to write about...  so I wrote this last night while suffering from insomnia!



Contemplation on My Favourite Part of the Day

When the bustle of the busy day subsides
and the house falls quiet around me,
I slip into my bed and pull the comfort
of a still and silky night over myself.

I lie there, letting sleep elude me for a while,
luxuriating within the spaciousness of the bed,
feeling the coolness of cotton sheets against my skin.
A pillow cradles my head as a mother does
a newborn.

I think
how fortunate it is to be alive,

and I am blissfully content in this moment,
in this body,
in this bed,
in this place in my life,

until gratitude rocks me to sleep.

Day 15

Day 15—the half-way mark for this year's April challenge.  I will miss the daily prompts once the month has ended.  (Feel free to offer ones that tickle your fancy, and I'll be sure to give it a whirl!)

Today's prompt was to write a metaphor poem.  Now, as a speech-language pathologist, I'm hoping that other SLP's would understand the wobbly table when I write,  and words bouncing around, as metaphor for a communication disorder we often work with.  However, for those of you who are not SLP's, I'll tell you that as I wrote this piece, I was thinking about a child I'm working with who stutters.



What I Want to Say but Can’t Get Out

My table wobbles when I write
and I cannot keep my words from
sliding to and fro before they
fall completely off the page
to hit the floor like marbles.

You watch with pursed lips when I write.
Sometimes you take my pencil as if
your hand knows what I want to write.
It only proves that you can write.

Your table doesn’t wobble like mine does.
You probably don’t realize my frustration
with having a body generate its own earthquake
every time I want to share a thought.

If only you could show me,
help me steady this damn table,
without that look on your face
that tells me I’ll never be much of a writer
and, perhaps you’re right.
But, you will never get to read
the love songs I write for my dog.

Day 14

I am working up in the beautiful community of Norway House, MB this week!  I've been without internet access since Monday, and have fallen behind in my daily postings.  So, I'm playing a bit of "catch up" with the Poem a Day Challenge.

The prompt for Day 14 was to write a report poem.  I sketched out both of these poems while sitting in the Perimeter Aviation terminal from 6am to 8am Monday morning.  I'm pleased with both pieces, and so I can say something good came out of a delayed flight.  Hopefully, after reading them, you might agree!

This first one was loosely inspired by the recent reconnecting of one of my university roommates.  It really has been difficult to stay in touch with people, despite the world of technology and the immediacy offered through texts, chat,  emails and the like.

The second poem is my somewhat whimsical reliving of a common country pastime from bygone days... the barn dance.



Missing Persons Report

I’m here to file a Missing Persons Report
in hopes of reconnecting with my past—
with people—to understand the elements
that helped to shape my current form.
My college roommate—one part sister,
two parts friend—has not been seen
nor heard from since the days we left
to travel separate paths.  My fault, not hers.
Life hasn’t proven easy nor conducive
to the art of correspondence.
It boils down to this:  time—too little—
and stress—too much.  This combination
culminates in anxious thoughts
that bind my limbs and gag my mouth.
Hoodwinked at times, perhaps I’ve been
the person missing all along…

I’m here to file a Missing Persons Report. 
Have you seen me lately?



My Report on The Barn Dance

And now the barn, no longer plain,
transforms into a place where dreams begin,

and now musicians take the stage,

and now the strains of fiddle float through air
to thrum an invitation—dance!

And now suspendered gents approach the girls
whose faces, flush with yearning, smile “yes!”,
then couples, young and old alike, pair off,

and now the music picks up speed,
and how our feet do fly and move in rhythm!

And now the peals of laughter rise
to join this country ho-down symphony,

and now the music skips a beat,
(or so it felt, to look into your eyes.)

And now, the dance comes to its close.

Outside the night feels fresh against my face,
and now he plants a kiss upon my cheek,
and now, the evening stars escort me home.

Friday, April 13, 2018

Sonnets are like Pringles...

... I can never write just one.

So, in follow-up to yesterday's bug-inspired poem, I found myself composing a second sonnet today.  Something about patterning, working within a specific line format, iambic meter...  maybe I just need a bit more structure in my life!  (And, now that I've posted this, I am returning to the work at hand—creating something out of the list of 10 words supplied by the CV2 contest organizers for this year's 2-Day Poem Contest.)



Jubilee

I’ll write a sonnet to myself this day
to sing of great achievements with no shame,
for I have faced great odds and found my way
despite the many obstacles that came.

Adversity once knocked me to the ground
and not just once, but countless times before.
A woman’s destiny has long been found
as “less than” and subservient, not “more.”

But, woman’s strength is in her will to rise
above denial’s constant hum of doubt.
With sisters by her side,  she’ll reach the prize
to stand together with triumphant shout!

Supporting one another, hand in hand
is how we must proceed across the land.

Day 13

Here is the prompt for day 13 of the PAD Chalenge:  pick an insect (any insect), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

I could not have imagined writing a sonnet to a bug...  so thanks to Robert Lee Brewer over at his blog, Poetic Asides, on Writers Digest for shaking me out of my comfort zone.




If I had been the Spider, You the Fly

If I had been the spider, you the fly,
upon my web you’d dance before we’d dine.
Then, sitting down, we’d feast (not you, but I.)
I'd savour every morsel with fine wine.

When we first met, you lured me to your web
then spun me with distortions—words untrue—
‘til over time I felt my spirit ebb.
(I’d feel quite justified devouring you.)

But, I’m no Spider Queen on silken throne
nor you a juicy bug I’d care to eat,
distasteful in all ways.  You’ll not atone—
Too filled are you with ego-fuelled conceit.

I’ve swept your dusty cobwebs out my door.
Good riddance to bad rubbish evermore!

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Day 12

Today's theme is lamentation. 



Expanding into Life

I hear the chirrup of birds out my window.
Perhaps, they never stopped singing, but
their trills sound miraculous to my ears—

denied the lyrical notes of happiness far too
long—my forlorn self chose silence over joy.
But, how does one let go of Sorrow’s hand?

The greening of spring brings a new season.
Perhaps, time’s passage has done its work,
and Nature has been put right in the world.

Somehow, my soul has built a new foundation
with all the pain that tried to obscure beauty
from my sight.  A fundamental new spark has

burnt open my eyes, and true sight gives all a
new appreciation of life.  I’m filled.  The void,
where suffering was endlessly consumed, now

expands with each new breath I take.  I’ll sing
my own song this day, and every day forward
my tremulous voice grows stronger.  Soon, I

will become an ode to my own joy!  Let others
wear black sackcloth for me no longer.  My
countless days of lamentation are over.

Day 11

Well, this was a fun poem to write!  Today's prompt is to compose a poem on the theme of warnings.  My imagination went all across the boards on this idea...  finally settling on a cautionary tale for myself.  Since I had a long drive home from the school where I spent the way working, what better setting for my poem than the driver's seat of my car?



Cautionary Indicators

My car contains a carefully engineered system
of cautionary  indicators, both sound and light,
to alert me in advance to virtually any possible
hazard that I may encounter while on the road. 

“Someone’s got my back, my safety matters,”
I think to myself, settling into the drivers seat.

Ding!   Ding!   Ding!  A gentle chime reminds
me to fasten my seat belt as I enter the vehicle.
Some days, I’m in a rush to get from Point A to
Point B so the seat belt remains flaccid, useless

as it hangs by my side.  Still, my car continues,
chimes its plaintive monotone song because it
cares.

Around the holiday season, I always find it nice
to see the dashboard lights lit bright and cheery
as I drive.  Check Engine.  Low Oil.  Rear Hatch
Open.  And, here’s a funny one that reminds me

of an inverted house key, inexplicably, floating
calmly on the ocean.  I wonder what it means?

With all of today’s technology, it strikes me as
an oversight that we have yet to install caution-
ary lights on humans.  I’d have surely kept my
distance had there only been some sort of indi-

cator, a red light flashing on your forehead, to
warn me of the danger you posed to my safety.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Day 10

Here we are on Day 10 of this year's April PAD challenge!  Today's prompt is to write a Deal/No Deal poem.



Head in the Clouds

Sometimes, it’s hard rolling out of bed
each morning.  Families are so difficult
to deal with.

There’s fights between kids and fights
between spouses.  The “Who’s taking
out the garbage, ‘cause I did it last time”

sort of thing.  Not to mention the in
laws and ex laws, and those you’ll never
see again, but miss terribly all the time.

And on some mornings, like this one,
it would be so much easier to stay in
bed, pull the covers up over my ears,

pretend like I can’t hear them, all
shouting my name even before they
wake up to the smell of fresh coffee.

But, I’m in it for the long haul.  There’s
no way out that I can see.  The Buddhists 
say we all made some sort of deal before

we were even born, back when we were
just soul people, floating around in the
atmospheric pre-dawn of life.  I guess

my soul went around asking other souls
to help me learn certain lessons.  And a
bunch of other souls, looking for help

with their own stuff, signed up to play
on my team.  So, that’s how that went—
if you can believe the Buddhists.

Of course, those Tibetans do live way up
where clouds form, high in the Himalayas. 
I can imagine how a certain perspective

may have formed over time.  Trying to
figure out their own families from that height,
when you’re close enough to touch the sky,

with an unobstructed view of the world
below, just might provide someone
a little insider knowledge on how these

sorts of deals are made.  Anyway, I guess
it’s as good an explanation as any other
I’ve heard.


Monday, April 9, 2018

Day 9

The prompt I am working with today is to use the word battle as part of a phrase for the poem's title.

Since my childhood, have had an interest in the history of Canada's military.  Chalk it up to hearing my father's friends share first-hand recollections of their experiences during WWII when they came over to socialize.  Of course, these were the stories that came out after a few drinks, and long after I had been sent off to bed for the night...

I'm planning a trip to England this summer, and hope to find the time and opportunity to cross the Channel to France to visit some of the historical sites where Canadian troops fought for our freedom.



Battle Scars

Whose gifts are those?
Where neither thorn nor rose,
yet poppies grow?

Oh!  These foreign shores
where dying moans
swept through the yews
that mark now sacred soil.

Whose lives were these?
Laid still and silent now
below the loam,
Earth’s dignity
to cover up this shame.

For we have sent them here.
Concentric thought, our
resurrected vision must endure
to fight and die and rise  again,
and face the foe anew.

Not until the land lies bleak
and barren beneath the pummel
of the cannon,
when cries have faded
in the twilight
of our collective past,

shall we receive their gift.



A second poem based on today's prompt.  This one, perhaps a variant rehashing of my divorce?  Not really, but the driving emotions I've tried to convey express something relevant to me. 

Battlefield

They had been in love
once, married
as childhood sweethearts,
had children of their own.

But things turned sour
when she discovered his
affair with her
best friend

and war broke out.

The children were the first
casualties of battle, taken
prisoner and held hostage
as endless—relentless—rounds
of negotiations failed to
reach a viable conclusion.

By default, he had to win
despite the cost of heavy
combat on the domestic front. 
He could not see his
money supporting
a house he did not live in,
children he did not
care to see that often.

In defense, she employed
guerrilla tactics suggested
by her lawyer,
engaging rueful conversation
to undermine his reputation,
while on her face
her age began to show.

And, in the end, they both took
precisely what they’d wanted
from each other:
His head on a platter.
Her heart crushed beneath
the heel of his boot.
but, surprisingly found
no pleasure in the trophies
they’d extracted.

Sunday, April 8, 2018

Day 8




Today's PAD prompt is to write a poem about family.  This is written in response to the tragedy that has befallen the Humbolt Broncos SJHL team. My family stems from hockey roots, as do so many Canadian families. We ache for the Broncos families.



Team Spirit

When Daddy’s family came to Canada
they settled in Saskatchewan, became
farming folk north of Yorkton.
He was a strong, athletic young man,
tall among his peers, muscles
toned atop the thresher in the heat
of harvest time.

Winter provided an opportunity
to pursue other interests:
school, carpentry, friendships.
The local ice rink was the place
to meet friends, impress the girls,
play a game of pick-up hockey.

Hockey.
Always hockey.
The Brandon Wheat Kings were watching
and Daddy was ready when a call came
from down south.
He played a season with the team
until a stray puck
to an unprotected head
ended his potential career.

His teammates stood behind him
through his road to recovery,
encouraging every small step,
and supporting him through setbacks
along the way.
Long after his skating days were over,
teammates stood with him
on his wedding day,
celebrated every meaningful moment,
faced every challenge,
and eventually carried him on their shoulders
to his final resting place.

These boys are not teammates,
they’re brothers, both on the rink
and off.  Family.
Ties bind them as solidly and smoothly
as the ice upon which they skate.
What happens to one
happens to them all
and they will remain brothers
throughout it all.


My mother and I did not share an easy relationship, and there are many issues that I still am working on resolving and letting go of.  She died in March of 2005, and I do think of her often.  I've missed her since she departed this world.  At first, I think it was more a sense of loss over a relationship I longed for but was never able to cultivate with her.  Recently, I've come to realize that I miss her for herself as well.  This is my first poem to acknowledge that.


Homesteading

Mother’s beliefs float overhead, drifting
light as balloons in the early morning breeze.
At times, they might dip downward, her
thought bubbles bumping into mine, but
mostly I try to keep mine to myself.

They’re all that remain of her now, outdated
points of view from an archaic time.
Perhaps, I’m the only one who can see them.
Although, sometimes when I close my eyes
I hear her words echoing from my mouth

and I realize how strong her layers of
foundation are in me.

Saturday, April 7, 2018

Day 7

Today's prompt is to write a poem that makes use of the senses.  Choose one to focus on, or combine all of them for a sensory experience.

The following poem is really a compilation of childhood memories of summers spent at the lake.  Sometimes, summer at Grand Beach included my parents and older brother.  Other times I recall, we visited family friends who had a cottage at Winnipeg Beach, and two boys a couple of years older than I. Still other memories involve rental cottages north of Grand Beach in the resort area of Belaire.

When my own children were young, we were fortunate enough to stay one summer in the cottage of my mom's friend, Joyce, at Winnipeg Beach.  Watching the summer unfold through the eyes of my children remains one of my favourite memories.



The Cottage at Winnipeg Beach

Old and dusty, the cottage on Lake Winnipeg, a humble host
to generations of summer vacationers before us all seeking refuge
from the daily routines and pressing boredoms of summer’s child.

We left the concrete indifference of the city and arrived to find 
spiders living in corners, spinning silky landscapes across
age-yellowed window panes in homage to a round moon.

We ate off of chipped china plates, used miss-matched
silverware rubbed clean on a t-shirt, drank grape Kool-Aid
straight from the pitcher when no one was looking.

Summer’s hot and humid afternoons drew our limbs, tanned
and limber in the midday sun, to run through sprinklers across
countless fresh-cut lawns until hot dogs on the grill called us back.

At night, we worked endlessly by the light of our lanterns to complete
an image, our summer—cloudless sky meets ocean ripples—in
a thousand shades of blue it seemed, with one piece missing.

Mother appeared smelling of Bain de Soleil for her St. Tropez tan,
straw hat in hand.  Racing ahead, barefoot down the gravel path,
we’d laugh ‘til our whoops and hollers met waves in a cold embrace.

Towels tied round our necks became capes flapping behind us
as we ran.  Superman-strength, Wonder Woman-wild, stretched out
endlessly before our eyes along the sandy shore, the stickiness
of orange popsicle dripping from our chins.  Summer would never end. 
But it did.

Sadly, it did.




A second poem found its way to the page today.  This one darker than the first, yet still based on memories from childhood—not mine—but my own children's this time.
 

Shock Waves

They say hearing is the first sense to develop
and I wonder if you remember your father’s voice?

Sometimes when you laugh, you sound like him
and it startles me for a second. Sometimes, I still need
to remind myself that he’s not here,
because this is my house
and he has never been here.

When you were young, loud noises frightened you.
Too many people at the mall, all of them speaking at once,
would cause public meltdowns. Fourth of July fireworks
were unbearable even with my hands gently covering
your ears.

And your father’s temper sent you rushing to your room
to hide in the closet until it was all over, until the final
shouts had stopped resonating down the hallway, until
the front door had been slammed and the truck’s engine
had roared down the driveway,
receding in the distance like
a spent summer storm.

And then, I’d come quietly into your room, whispering
your name with a swollen lip or freshly blackened eye
to find you.  

Friday, April 6, 2018

Day 6

Today's prompt was to pick a food, use it as the title of the poem, then write the poem.  Now, I love food as much (or more) as the next poet...  but  I found this prompt surprisingly difficult to work with.  Regardless, here is the result of my struggle.



Apple

God knows how easily I’m seduced
by roast leg of lamb; reduced to mere quivers
when it’s smothered thick in mint jelly.
I’m smitten by the sight of a beef Wellington,
along with Yorkshire pudding drowned in gravy,
rich and savoury each morsel consumed!
Rosemary and thyme, the herbs smell divine,
to announce the pork pie’s arrival. Lord save me!
My survival depends on the serving!

Were gluttony not the sin that it is, perhaps
I’d let myself indulge in foods more decadent
than is wise. But, (thankfully) good sense applies
and heart disease is not a prize I’d choose!
Instead, I view through the window my Garden
out back where The Tree of Life flourishes now.
It grows lovely apples, forbidden fruit no more,
conveniently available, and I have learned its tart,
sweet taste will linger on the palette without harm.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Day 5

This morning's PAD prompt is to write a poem on the theme of intelligence.  I'll start off with an updated version of a poem I first posted on FanStory.  I hope to find time to complete and add a new piece later today.



Artificial Intelligence

We have kept our word, deciding who should live or die
in a world split down the middle between apathy toward future progress
and neglect of our past achievement.

Convenience food is readily available in bags and tubes,
while media vendors loudly proclaim victory through consumption
of empty calories that fill our bodies and minds.

Meanwhile, we starve from malnutrition.

The last true human has died, buried alive beneath the heavy debt
of misunderstood data. Who were we to ponder misfortune at our own demise?
Did we not usher in this era of transformation,

gasping in anticipation of each technological advancement while byte by byte,
we were consumed by our longing? Gouge out your eyes;
we no longer have need of sight. We have become sons and daughters of the digital age,

forward thinkers in our virtual reality.



This next poem went through considerable transformation before reaching its current form. What started out as an effort to look at psychic intelligence (if such a thing might exist!) morphed into what the wisdom (intelligence) of faith might hold for a believer, and then nudged its way over to explore the role of cultural/societal traditions (folklore) and mythology, and what wisdom it provides to its adherents. (Whew!)

The festival of Lughnasadh (Celtic) and the festival of Lammas (Anglo Saxon) share the same roots and are celebrated in much the same manner across much of the United Kingdom in late summer when the earliest crops of wheat are being harvested. In ancient times, the festival often culminated in the "trial" marriages of lovers who would join hands through a hole in a wooden door. The couple would be bound by marriage until the arrival of Lughnasadh the following year, at which point they could part ways without penalty if so desired, or make the relationship permanent and binding if things were going well!


Lughnasadh Voices

Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.
-Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Lughnasadh voices come harvest time, when fields of golden wheat
stand ready for the scythe. At first, faint whispers fill your ears softly
as do rustlings from the golden poplars on distant hill so sigh.

Beneath the rowan tree sit god and goddess; he prepares the feast
as she prepares to die midst summer’s vegetation. Coldness fierce,
still hid unseen beyond the shimmered trees, approaches swift they sigh.

Thus, pour does she sweet milky tea to sip through winter’s toil. Unfeared
of death, her whispered sighs rise up beyond the glenn, compelling
youthful hearts to claim her promise once again: true love abides

through winter’s tide and more, should they be merry! Endearing words
bespoken on the eve of harvest moon. So join we must, our hands
through hole in wooden door, 'til all will know we’ve heard Lughnasadh voices.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Day 4

Take the word "case" and add a word or phrase to it for the title, then write your poem.  I cheated a bit, and took a different direction with the title of the first poem.  However, I played by the rules for my second work.


What Remains Unspoken

In case I don’t return I want you to know
that I was never really yours

despite the violent words and fists you kept
on the nightstand to reassure yourself

that I’d still be here come morning.
But you should understand this.

One morning, I’ll wake up with
more courage than I went to bed with

and it will be a day like every other day
except later you will notice that your dinner

is not waiting for you on the table and
you might wonder where I am.  So

in case I don’t return I want you to know
that I was never really yours.





Case of Goodbyes

You’re going
on a trip,
searching
the closet
for a worn
duffel bag
that held
uniforms, photos
and shaving kit
when you
headed off to
Bosnia in ’92.

Looking in
the mirror
becomes
meaningless
as the thick
curtain of
memory loss
has fallen,
obscuring
even your
sense of self
from view.

The cruelest
truth is that our
final goodbyes
were folded
and packed slowly,
over many months
and years
with us,
still living our lives
unaware
and you,
disappearing bit by bit.

Day 3

It's two for Tuesday, and we have been given our first double prompt.  The theme is to write a stop and/or don't stop poem.  I tried writing something lighter, but this darker piece is what finally made its way on to the paper.


Comfort Zones

I know what you’ll say and it’s true,
every word of it.  We all have our own crosses
to bear.  On the outside, I appear quite normal
and I assure you, I’m stable most of the time.

There’s a straight-edge razor pressed against
the translucent skin of my wrist, tracing
blue veins along the length of my inner arm
with growing determination,  the pressure
forming a line of tiny, red pearls in its wake.

But, on the inside, voices in my head are at odds.
My heart remains hopeful.  Screams, “Stop! Stop!”
While my brain hums, hypnotically, reassuring me,
saying, “Nothing changes, don’t stop this time.”

Day 2

Today's prompt is to write a secret poem.  Secrets can follow us for a long time, whether we recognize the effect their presence has on our lives, or not.



Life’s Trajectory

Grappling with decisions made
so long ago, a part of this life is
mired in the mud of yesteryear,
its trajectory shifted for all time
by the words left unspoken.



Kitchen Secrets

The queen of each family gathering,
she graced our holiday table with sweets
and sours, spicy hots, and savouries—
something for every palette to enjoy.

She never shared her recipes and dinners
have not been the same since she left
for a celestial kitchen, leaving us to mind
our own soufflés and casseroles.

I have to wonder if that was her plan
all along, to ensure immortality—bland
and tasteless as it may be—memories of
her cuisine overpowering each new dish.



Euphemisms

Eventually, we all yield the crow
a pudding.  So, let me be put to bed
with a shovel before daylight dwindles
and is gone forever.  Best to lay down
one’s knife and fork as the feast concludes
and tones of dessert linger on the tongue.

Still, I can’t help but ponder,
questioning my own existence
through its lens.  What would I give
to peel back its black carapace
and examine what decaying secrets
are beyond the bleak doorway?

But, until I bolster my courage
(or find a way to climb back up
the six-foot ladder) I will remain
unsatisfied, alive with morbid curiosity,
unwilling to rush forward, breathe my last,
and cross that stormy threshold.

Day 1

For my 9th consecutive year, I'm once again following the Writer's Digest Poem a Day prompts under Robert Lee Brewer's Blog, Poetic Asides.  I love this opportunity to challenge myself and think outside the box using prompts I would have never come up with on my own.

The theme for today is to write a portrait poem.  It has me thinking about all the past moments, frozen in time, that connect to create a life.  Here is a poem inspired by a beautiful print I purchased last year while enjoying a vacation in Mazatlan.  The artist, Diego Rivera, was a well known Mexican painter.



Portrait of a Flower Girl in Mazatlán

She kneels before cut calla lilies
stretching out her arms as though
to embrace them, to arrange them
as perfectly as the sun’s warmth
and gentle rains have grown them.

Nutmeg arms, milky white blooms,
swaying in unison, a fluid tango
of colour and movement and beauty.
She does not turn around, letting
the faces of flowers speak their
floral names instead:

Somos Alegría,
Somos Belleza,
Somos Amor,
y estos regalos que te damos.

2020 April PAD Challenge: Day 2

From Robert Lee Brewer's blog, Poetic Asides, "For today’s prompt, write a space poem." Acreage Endless skies spill over the...