NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, the end…

Always a bittersweet moment when the end of NaPoWriMo comes, but stay tuned for more and thanks for coming by this month to check out the poetry and painting!

Waiting for May

The last of April has come once more
a flirtatious whirl of sun and green
uncertain moments, pleasure’s relaxation
after many rounds of shaky romance
the pleasure of sitting on brown earth
does not recede, nor is it softer but
still it’s that april-spring moment, yearly
unlooked for, unplanned, not so recognized
but unconsciously celebrated for
what it is – that moment when the earth turns
the air softens, the world holds out its arms
and again whispers come sit with me
and the body, having marked time’s passing
says, hello, don’t mind if I do. Thank you.

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NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-nine

There was a lot of this “No one could have known…” floating around yesterday as a meme, but mine took a different path.

No one could have known that a childhood and
all could have landed past middle-age in
a red-hot moment and without any fuss.
No one could have known that after romance
and the pain and the trying to make it work
that love can end and life goes on anyway
No one could have known that regret is real
regret is real and forgiveness so hard
to forgive the past harder, to let go
No one could have known that forgiveness
is sometimes just accepting the facts
and cutting loose the pain, being free
No one could have known that all lessons done
leave plenty of room for more lessons to come.

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-six

Daffodils slowly extinguishing
hope released, now fading
the forsythia have bloomed
sturdy and sunny and
along the house shy Fairy Wings –
paler yellow, briefly flowers
until its leaves fill
the side garden with hearts.
The one clump of bluebells
pale blue and pink cups is
finally taller than the
daffodil spikes but they’ll both
go down to hostas and day lilies
so turns the garden’s year./blockquote>

NaPoWriMo, Day Nineteen

Had this notion on the way to work about the color of the world seeping up toward the sky in spring but on the way home I saw my first of the wonderful white flowering shrubs that to me really speak to Spring’s official arrival.

After four, maybe five months of the sky
throwing down sifts and squalls and bucket loads
of snow and more snow and piling it up
in the normal fashion of New England
And it seems to many deeper and more
snow than it has to be to make a point.
Miraculously it all vanishes
but the woods stand brown and empty awhile.
The earth at last yields color to the world –
the new grasses shining in golden light
treetops pink and impossibly yellow
waiting for leaves to burst summery.
Shrub rows of white petals wind-tossed laughing
spring flecks falling across the joyous sky.

NaPoWriMo, Day Eleven

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo was to write a Bop: “The invention of poet Afaa Michael Weaver, the Bop is a kind of combination sonnet + song. Like a Shakespearan sonnet, it introduces, discusses, and then solves (or fails to solve) a problem. Like a song, it relies on refrains and repetition. In the basic Bop poem, a six-line stanza introduces the problem, and is followed by a one-line refrain. The next, eight-line stanza discusses and develops the problem, and is again followed by the one-line refrain. Then, another six-line stanza resolves or concludes the problem, and is again followed by the refrain. Here’s an example of a Bop poem written by Weaver, and here’s another by the poet Ravi Shankar.”

I have to say that it was a beautiful day. I fixed two plumbing issues. I stripped the bed and did laundry. I finished a landscape which was sort of meh, and did a quick little still life of my favorite brushes. I looked at two watercolor-related books. I shook my head over the news. I watched the daffodils start to yellow up. I opened the bedroom window. But the words… been a hard few days.

A Reminder of Ideas, Just in Case

Before the month started I wrote down this:
A reminder of ideas, just in case –
For those days when words didn’t flow from me
When there’s fresh laundry that needs my folding
and everything looks better than the page.
the list of ideas that might be useful.

Oh spirit of writing, where have you gone?

Practice, perseverance, daily commute
The work of dailyness, the clouds and sky
sonnets and haiku and some limericks
Taking time to look, A box full of paint
No ideas but in things. Just do the work.
Beauty. Coming home. Walls full of paintings.
A wall full of my paintings. Hold to joy.
The color of a lake. The length of days.

Oh spirit of writing, where have you gone?

Tonight this list is a whole universe
tonight the words are somewhere in between
Today I painted, I’d say with success
a still life of my brushes. And I fixed
the washer so it works. I folded sheets.
I reviewed the reminder of ideas.

NaPoWriMo Day Seven

Because I think we’re all here.

And here’s what I did before work today:

Life in 2017

The constant, low-level adrenaline
pushed out all my thoughts
made your fingers twitch
interrupted any conversation
made your stomach hurt. made my temples throb.
How to soothe this inner shivering mess
in the words of the wise: make art, breathe deep,
string words together into poetry
write tales to bind up the ragged edges
while you’re making and thinking and writing
and looking around at the world at hand
the world as it really is, beautiful
and whole, filled with light and darkness and birds
all thoughts belong to me and you alone.

NaPoWriMo Day Five

This was a stretch and I know, before the editing is done, there will be even more alternate ending couplets than I have already….

Clean out the closet, the drawer-fuls of things
making room, space, to welcome in the new
Throw out the ratty, the tattered and worn
the last decade’s style, the no-longer-fits.
Perhaps these can be re-purposed, perhaps
they can be donated, gifted, elsewhere
but it’s as likely that they must go out,
out in big black bags, or some old boxes
to a donation bin, or a thrift shop
maybe to the annual rummage sale.
The same is true of words, writing poems,
words and fashions come and go, like seasons
I’ll put on my own clothes, comfortably
and use my own words to write a sonnet