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 |  A new book to house this year's (and future years) NationalPoetryMonth's daily poems. |
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I'm writing once again this year. This book is my special event place for thirty special poems. Here for National Poetry Month in 2018, I'm participating but life has not been kind in the last 15 months, so I'm not always in writing mode. |
| spray-painted for Christmas the new red front door the only one in the neighborhood I was too young to see outlandishness in a world of pristine white trim you didn’t care I found that why much later but because it was your work I was proud you didn't say I'm sorry wrecking the holidays as you did only her red lipsticked smile brought a calm to the celebration I would have preferred coal and soot an understandable reward for bad boys Santa also had rules I knew by heart but it wasn’t my fault was it? one of many unanswered questions [2016.10.4…a] |
| close enough to heal, to hold cajole, laughter cures maudlin gray, sings away moody blues, but the skies, their swirling pastels, volatility, change changeling hearts into melted chocolate, reason enough to sit nose stuck to the window twitching like a cat, excited by the prospect of a kill the poetry in arms contains the osmosis of waiting, the burning for that one extraordinary explosion to become a legend, a moment when blood tears open tears, time to stand tall a trophy? I could not destroy I fought to keep the owls and hedgehogs and mice, tamed to soften my gardener's hands and perhaps my heart only dogs became gods, their growls frightened worse than nightmares and fat green vegetables a similar gasping for air rarely freshened by rose petals, ocean spray pine cones spray-painted for Christmas a few names for happiness [2016.9.4...a] |
| This series will be arranged under the title of "all the little parts of happiness." what good is dead love? you cling to unworn clothes in a closet afraid that maybe ... imagine those endless alternatives starring in a fairy tale where both heroes do not die as the curtain closes was that your choice? there is darkness, inescapable the locks on sadness have heavy rusty keys, leeches for window-gazing the choice to open them is dicey: lock breakers like honeymoon sunsets, all look alike sometimes the perfect one brings freedom and takes the U from mourning the restless heart, that pining persona non grata shrinks ounce by ounce at the thrift-store other homeless shirts hang together ready to be worn close enough to heal tripped up by memory lanes in parallel worlds [2016.8.4…a] |
| her first-born lived only 43 minutes this was my first challenge in a series of strange episodes mysteries I have yet to understand from the remains of an old garage I built a mausoleum around the old gnarled and withering crabapple it was my first dream beyond the black spots when I closed my eyes she lit a votive every day for the rest of her life, her only poetry his death was not my fault I was a useless appendage to her life she gave me only the right to breathe what good is dead love? beyond unrequited [2016.7.4...a] |
| only for a short while but that was not my vision of things they were more than childhood pursuits, discoveries ( with unkind comments like ridiculous, frivolous, ad nauseum ) not supposed to last Chopin and Bach ( how could masters not last? ) the ice rink ( sport, OK? ) the desire to kiss a boy ( snark ) wanting to be seen to be felt be heard loved they wove themselves into a thick second skin their anchoring glue unstuck a few edges after five decades one becomes accustomed to the mundane while blustering against its claws I have loved with passion and only known desire’s embrace heard often the songs of god inspired beyond myself felt as high as Everest while plunging into the deepest crevice I have seen myself flounder at the brinks of fame discovering the daggers of fear nothing soothed my inner turmoil it grew and shrank according to mysteries I have yet to understand but even without gifts I still believed in Santa Claus [2016.6.4…b] |
no paltry diatribes about aching bones, dinosaur heritage, in tells yet undiscovered, museums filled with dust, idyllic beaches where lovers find themselves washed up remains from Fukushima an eye sore to spoil the atmosphere of sunset, or sunrise, he was never there to answer why is the sky blue is it OK to be afraid of the dark does it hurt to die? and yes, ( even though you never asked ) the scars are still raw feeling amputated from a third of my holiness, mother and child alone without a god caught without destination like a whirly-bird in search of a suitable piece of life with a paper bag lunch for roots the china and cutlery plastic and so quickly discarded nothing to help us take hold and keep our bones upright I think the pain of death is nothing compared being in hell that souls separating from flesh slash huge holes in life forcing us into zombies for a few hours, I have befriended darkness, eternity begins six feet under but I’m not impatient for the surprise afterwards, a Chinese fortune cookie offering no choice I am not yet sure why the sky is blue, I see it reflect in my own eyes and, were I a woman, would desire to be buried with sapphires, hoping one day that a compassionate archaeologist would research how they came to be mine, I am a collector of things, of stuff, most useless on a Don Quixote quest to become a man attached to a life that is mine only for a short while the difference between rambling at six and sixty [2016.5.4…a] |
| caught in the ether of laugh lines inevitable stuff happens and pushes sanity all fools are self-made men ( or a lecture to my older self before the shit hit the fan ) it could be proverbial, could be messy depends on if you became an ER surgeon if you did, flee the Mer and Der role model remember the chatterbox years, free your heart best intentions keep bad company in bed every night and waylay sexy mornings it’s less about remaining an enigma — its first and last variations are solitude even if you hear those bedtime stories and start repeating them to your bestie — than short-circuiting your dreams, blow them up poster size to shine bright in the old folks’ home remember Aunty and Granny, listless without libraries and bridge tournaments think knitting, needlework and book clubs music, sing your heart out till you burst, literally become an ace at breaking monotony’s cling every morning a pot of gold worth a autobiography not paltry diatribes about aching bones if you ever want to walk bent in half with a cane [2016.4.4…b] |
| I do not pray each day to remember the answers questions are cemetery deep do you love me? did you? it is so hard to say one way or another helter-skelter takes over and simple words morph into a chattering against silence come let's dance a foxtrot an irregular throbbing before all life-flow is high jacked finally encased in hospice survival depends on love — but to talk about it? why do we shy away, afraid of disappearing words caught in the ether of oldness it is always too late in the blink of an eye everything is set right [2016.4.4...a] |
| will you hold me till I die? beyond the moment of eternal dreams where the river Styx runs slowly, there is no hurry I am an elegy a soft feather twitching away the pain I have earned the time for patience until your smile steps once again into my sanctuary the Seine meandered as I erred from one tributary to another until I almost drowned in your twin rivers I do not know what weakness you saw I tried to hide all of their angles since that day my personal geometry made a complete circle and found you in its orbit, ready to be convinced of my love though I hoped you would never sound its depth as we grew old on the four sunlit banks I almost forgot the wild muddy waters that darkened many hours of my dawn as an unexpected eclipse veiled the contagion of a secret ache for those places a garden, the red front door, my tearstained childhood of words never spoken, the hate restrained, silent and undocumented you asked no questions and I, haggard pray each day not to remember the answers the waters of my innocence [2016.3.4…a] |
My great aunt always said here's to life She never dared to say live! dammit live I hide behind rose-colored glasses, afraid that someone will grab me and shake until I belch out all the fear and believe in love why shouldn't I swear? Tristan's leitmotif is bittersweet its hope, engagement and smoldering love follow the opera for its beautiful hours chasing each shadow from souls curled too tightly in fear-filled chests tried as I did, the weeds thrived between roses, between daffodils between iris they had one will: to live I taught them fear at that time I did not realize that wildflowers in the fields close to our country cottage were called weeds by city folk I killed their blooms I stole their tomorrows a malevolent God, death followed my hands I begged for a spot in the backyard where everything might remain untamed to grow and prosper I could not understand why only proper things were allowed to thrive and bear beauty I was certain that I too was meant to be stunted singers are larger than life seen too close their thick gaudy make up betrays the need to seem natural from far from the lime-lights no one sings for an hour to honor death's invitation a real broken heart moans, breathless but Wagner rejuvenates it, insane and vibrant with every emotion and melody a thread of gold every word sculpted into a collection of superlatives strangled by the pathos I wept for days for this God-like love and its music celebrating the birth of Atlantis it was the first time I felt alive and real enough to stand up tall and say I want my hands to be benevolent tell me how you will hold me till I die I am learning to believe in love the death of two larger-than-life flowers [2016.2.4...a] |
| step away from longing bypass the age of anxiety WH Auden's poetry or Bernstein's piano and orchestra I bought Auden when I was 12 seduced by the title it triumphed in solitude for years on a white pine shelf, sanded fine certain things need to be set apart to blossom away from gray days the monotony of rainfall at the easel, colors have tales to tell indulge them with a brush’s caress they spring alive beyond the dreams of our eyes how does a dandelion conquer a concrete sidewalk? the colors express what they will they are not our children the brush is one of many tools yes, certain things need to be set apart hours of retribution or decadence beer binges and lingering kisses anticipating their happenings to destroy clichés by reinventing every step, one by one breathe in every essence and live! goddammit live a single book [2016.1.4…a] |
Liberate yourself from this long battle. Meditate. In the cosmic order of things details sweat irrelevance. Think: tattoos branded into skin. A cowlick twisting hair away from fate's direction. Relive the victories like pigeons taking wing on a windy day. Smart ups and downs you think you control. Forget the rest. Meditate. You have never truly been the white eagle of your totem. You have grasped a certain wisdom as years fly into future. But it takes skills of business management to set it bouncing farther than your own life. Meditate. Aches and pains prey on your ease and catapult your sleep. Four decades. You stop counting birthday candles. Then five decades. Six too soon. You still think about ending it all before the eighth. When you look closely only solitude shines brighter than the north star. Perhaps in these final years the answer will fill the bottom of a bucket list with things truly possible. Venice one summer. Christmas on Fifth Avenue. A vegetable garden large enough to sell the abundance at the local market. One by one you remove the clogs from life so that the wheels can carry you downhill slowly and evenly. Meditate. Try to avoid that last pothole. But in the end. Only one thing awaits. Letting life wind down [2015.30.4...b] Prompt: The end of something |
| Prompt: A judgement. We all want to hear words as rare as an answered prayer. Unmask the grand juries. Let them see daylight. Don't delete or slant evidence. Shout a verdict that white cops assassinate our unarmed children in racial injustice. Judge them with the severity invoked when they judge our boys, our husbands, our brethren with bullets in their backs. Let us hear a loud "guilty on death row." Will you worry they don't survive in black & brown prisons your prejudice has honed? Let those cops understand "treated like human filth." And when one justice exists finally for every man, then maybe hope will return. For now Baltimore must burn [2015.29.4...a] |
| I told her about starlight. What I had missed. My blues that haunted only shadows. Her words have always been fragile structures of origami. Pressed into layers of strangeness I adored but did not always follow. She liked mixing stone paths with slippery moss and rope bridges over crashing waterfalls and sashaying across the rough spots in pink high heels. Her life is a ballroom floor. Elegance. I never matched her for that. Nor all her other techniques for survival, because she did, does and will. I watch her reveal her inner firmament. Shining in places I only imagine. I celebrate this day with humble words that float like mist. From my heart to hers. After sunset Venus will inspire the night sky for a few hours. She will spin a metaphor between Greek gods and the cycle of life. I will hum a Romanian lullaby learned long ago. We have different reasons not to sleep. A blue mouse following her perfume [2015.28.4...a] For C.D.M. Prompt; a star, constellation |
I should talk about cats. You know? Persians, tree cats, green Dr. Seuss cats, Chihuahua & Poodle cats. Did you know that flees cannot settle upon a rat's tail? And baseball bats. The best are made of ivory covered with a thin layer of plywood. Imagine killing all those elephants for a ball game! Those ivory trinkets we worry about? They all come from Australia. It's a special white plastic. The formula is just as secret as Coca-Cola. Piano keys? No ivory there either. White paint with silver extract covers ordinary wood. And hats? Like the thousands that are supposed to be in Queen Elizabeth's dressing room? Made from papier-mâché. Reusable like paper towels. Heard Elton John say that in a TV interview. He wouldn't be wrong, now would he? No one can have 3000 pairs of sunglasses. talking though a hat [2015.27.4...a] Prompt: a hat |
| never seen Scotland green and raw wail of pipes echoing over highlands and lochs a sad bluishness, even when wedding mirth claims the air in mist as they call the dead to everlasting so does the land vibrate she knows ashes and angels taking care to start, to end [2015.26.4...a] Prompt: a musical instrument |
A trail of black umbrellas twisting downwards through the park In solemn worship of the rain I have no hat and wear no cape And worry that my bread will not stay dry Tra-la-la & dippity doo, tra-la-la & dippity dee In Dowland's madrigal style, listen to the singing Lark I heed their wisdom to be sane Its logic I cannot escape A soggy meal is little means to cry Tra-la-la & dippity doo, tra-la-la & dippity dee A trail of black umbrellas twisting downwards through the park In Dowland's madrigal style, listen to the singing Lark song for a gloomy morn [2015.25.4...a] Prompt: write a song poem |
| talk to me of the swimming pool, the shiny garden sheers the new lattice work on the front gate, the muddy shovel still leaning against the elm tree, the bucket of water waiting on the new azalea the thick axe that killed the sycamore, the Lebanese cedar bonsai put up the sun umbrella and serve yourself a glass of lemonade the sun is hot, how well I know, I'm jealous of the bamboo chairs in the rose gardens, you should really have anchored me under the willows where the sun doesn't burn my brass armrests ah, the sprinklers, thank you, but water is best for the lawn at moments where the sun is not at its zenith, come back at sunset with cushions for your back and write rhymes on the full moon the garden mistress [2015.24.4...a] Prompt: a piece of furniture |
| fifty shades of green spring to contrast these blues fields are toiled ready to be penetrated by knowing hands that drop seeds into troughs zigzagging a diamond pattern like a caress to enhance fertility machines would bruise and bleed at night these same hands softened with scented creams ready themselves for more pleasant diversion their warmth cools slowly into morning's haze where from this dream the day's seeds now attached firmly to the moistness within will swell and blossom their wives soon bear good news the art of toiling [2015.23.4...a] Prompt: one of these things is not like the other |
| a ménage à trois lives next door and a little blond boy with glasses in their tiny living space, I speculate who sleeps where reality TV on the same landing probably the madonna and child share the single bedroom the skinny giant who stinks of cigarettes and the blond with hair extensors probably sleep on the folding sofa bed no tawdry sounds cross the walls separating my life from their fantasy the little blond boy with glasses smiles sheepishly when we cross on the stairs, he trotting down me returning home, his eyes say yeah, adults are so strange I know he’d add a cuss if he said it aloud every Friday night he jumps into his fathers arms who always waits below on the street they drive away on a motorcycle for a couple of days in father/son mode modes of living [2015.22.4…b] Prompt: nothing about you |
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