heart (hart) n.
chambered, steady
quiet presence
headwaters
of love’s river
laced with
endearment
and courage
lost sometimes
mended often
freely given
always ready
for encounters
with joy
my soul lives there
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Day 17. A little behind, but no matter. A definition poem.
So it began
another opening salvo
written grapeshot,
sibling letters
masking fury longhand
weighted by a lifetime’s
alkaline asides,
presupposing mal intent
in every word,
an older generation
hamstrung by
paper clad
civility
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Day 16 of NaPoWriMo, where the prompt was an almanac poem, one of the items being a scrap of a letter. clearing out my family’s place in Rhode Island (emptying a place filling my soul) we found hundred of letters, one of which began “Molly, formerly dear Molly”. While I found this amusing, clearly the writer, and one supposes the recipient, did not.
pairs, twos
doubles, couples
subject defined
lifelong, sometimes
short-lived, one-offs
time refined
married, partners
exes, ohs
hearts aligned
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Day 15. The prompt was the notion of doubles.
green is rising fast
froths of spring arrive daily
from the wetland floor
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NaPoWriMo Day 13. walked with the dogs in my favorite wetland today.
each day brings more green
apple tree buds grow fatter
the bear is nearby
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Day 12. each day brings us closer to an explosion of green. there are five bears up on the mountain flanks behind Bear Farm. they tend to visit this time of year.
the wind has yet to shift
and racing out toward our spot
and green umbrella shade
I know the grainy sand
will burn until my feet delve down
to meet the remnants of
cool night and seepage
from a moon tide
long fled back toward the deeps
the slap of rope against
the few remaining masts
plays metronome for waves
that curl and thud
against the offshore gusts
quick voices giving way
to silent contemplation
of a prize well earned
small bodies bent to summer work
of finding crabs in shallows
rimmed by treasure rocks
and seaweed drifts
the simple arc of shore
embraces islet archipelagos
that make approach
by keeled or daggered boat
no easy thing
and at the western end
a point of land pokes out
its pines shaped by
prevailing ocean breath
it boasts a solid shingled house
set into skirts of green
downsweeping lawn
and chimneys waving
out to sea
the focus of siesta dreams
I try to live without regret
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Day 11. the prompt to closely describe an object or place and finish with an abstract line that seemingly has nothing to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.
to sing with my friends
brings joy to those
who hear us
but shoulder to shoulder
we who give voice
have earned
the greater gift
we stand inside
the living body of music
connected by
sublime resonance
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Day 9. A shortling about the gift of singing in a group. Day 9. The words wanted my attention, but not for very long!
There is quiet now
where rich color
had been heard,
deep and sensuous
His turning notes
of fluted california
honky tonk remain
a potent legacy
Rest easy
we will hear
your echo.
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day 6 of NaPoWriMo. RIP Merle Haggard, who left us today. Singer, brilliant songwriter, early voice of Bakersfield.
November days turn dim and cold
as we slide down to pinprick light
and brace our souls for longest dark,
rich colors chasing flocks of migrant birds
cruel times for light starved eyes.
Yet worse there is the maiden month
that masks her fangs, bright ribbons
trailing barely warming breeze
summoning new green and crocus cups
to come and greet the sun.
Then tosses back her cape revealing
claws, which hold my frozen daffodills,
and shrieks her name in falling snow.
Oh yes sweet April there is no doubt
you take the prize.
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The NaPoWriMo prompt for day 4 was our choice of cruelest month (after T.S. Elliot). Watching snow encase my daffodills this morning, and birds become intent on seeds again, the winner, hands down (at least this year) is April.
Dear poet sir,
where to begin,
your words press tightly
side by side,
to pull me through
the shiny skin of thought,
a mirrored surface of
another’s world.
Words of early years
and soldiers gone to fight
a hellish, fruitless war.
Survival and regrowth,
sharp perceptions of
time’s road.
A place so different
from your youth
yet you can laugh, then
fete with knife edged pen
and dazzling words
the mix and contradictions
of accumulated life, that leave
my inward turning eye
and mind replete
at least for now.
Until another clutch
of welded thought
brings me full awake
and ravenous
for more
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NaPoWriMo day 3, in which the prompt was to write a poem as fan letter to a celebrity, unrestricted as to time and gender. Disliking the idea of kowtowing to mere celebrity (as opposed to creative talent), I chose to write to a (celebrated) poet whose work I admire.
objects from the past
held close still
I am loath to let go
do they hold a pulse
core of life
beating at our touch
or arresting fade
tender shells
husks holding wishes
shall I cast them off
finding peace
in open spaces
or indecisive
wait to act
until the new lune
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The first day of NaPoWriMo 2016. This is a lune* made up of five 5-3-5 stanzas.
*3 lines of 5-3-5 syllables
Life With Horace