PAD 2019 – Day 21

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt asked for a poem that “doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.” I tried to meld that with the Poetic Asides call for a “sketch” poem. Played around with spacing a bit in this one too, which I don’t often do.

 

Depiction

 

Every rough draft is a sketch

a scribble of words   dashing

across a page     hummingbird thoughts

flitting, then caught      inkblot memory

what does it mean and does it mean something

completely different

to you?

 

Adumbration is another way to say

outlined in shadow    scratched with

a lead point         snake imagination

wriggling, toward something        draw a line

from one star to the next with your finger

string of light connecting

us all.

PAD 2019 – Day 20

Sometimes the prompts align seamlessly. Today’s Stroll of Poets prompt called for an “unknowable” poem, while Poetic Asides suggested poems having anything to do with “dark.”  Infinite possibilities, but this is what sparked in my brain.

Unknowable Darkness

 

Staring at the night sky, December, north of the 52nd parallel, fixate

not on every glimmering point of light, but the blackness that holds them.

Face bit by the kind of cold that reminds you you’re alive.

That distracts you from the impenetrable idea  of infinity.

Even darkness, silence have their wonders, but grasping them seems

impossible. Too much for an earthbound body to bear.

PAD 2019 – Day 19

Mixing the Poetic Asides call for a “license” poem with NaPoWriMo’s suggestion to write an abecedarian poem. (Something I’ve never done before…which is likely painfully obvious).

PAD 2019 – Day 19

Alphabetic License

 

Always, bearing certain disaster,

everything finds great happiness.

I just kissed lovely morning.

New order perfecting quiet rights.

Still trees — ulmus, verbena, walnut,

eXhalted yellowbark. Zinging.

PAD 2019 – Day 18

A little tired today. A little pressed for time. A little stressed. So I was happy to see the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a “Little ______ ” poem. Admittedly, this one was penned with little effort, but it did inspire me to listen to Fleetwood Mac while I work.

 

Little Lies

 

Fleetwood Mac called them sweet.

Sometimes I think it’s true.

There are truths no one can bear.

Souls who know

sometimes the real gift

are the words we don’t share.

 

 

 

 

PAD 2019 – Day 17

A short one today because I’m busy, and also disheartened about the results of the election in my province. Want to stay optimistic about the future, both the social and environmental aspects of it, but some days that’s hard.

The NaPoWriMo prompt asked for a poem that presents a scene from an unusual point of view, like a rainstorm from a raindrop’s viewpoint. My take didn’t have that potential for beauty, but it was fun to write in the midst of my political wound-licking.

 

Comment From The Platform

 

I’ve propped you up for months

in rhetorical fashion,

and you stood on me last night

to declare your plans and passion.

Please don’t blame me,

when your lies are exposed

and the support goes a’crashin.

 

PAD 2019 – Day 16

Working off the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a catch and/or release poem, and my local Stroll of Poets call to write a poem more about sound than meaning.

 

The Frequency of Calm

 

In. Out. In. Out.

As though it were that simple.

As though thinking doesn’t complicate even this.

 

Chase away the panic.

Catch the breath. Hold. Release.

 

Draw it in with a rush, flurry, gulp.

Let it out with a hush, whisper, sigh.

 

Draw, draw, aww, aww, awe

for this. Now.

Hold , hold, whole, whole, hole

of worry. Fade.

Let go, let go, here, here, hear

the whisper. Still.

 

Vibrato hum. Hum. Hum.

Om. Om. Om.

 

PAD 2019 – Day 15

My province goes to the polls tomorrow. There seems to be so much riding on this election, and though it was a short campaign, I am sick of it. The anticipation. The punditry. Want the results so the band-aid comes off, and I can deal with whatever sore remains. All of this on my mind today as I read the Poetic Asides call to write a “prediction” poem.

 

I Predict A Riot*

 

One day until the election.

I’ve stopped reading poll results,

stopped making mental counts of

the election signs in my neighbourhood.

Stopped listening to reporters, pundits, soothsayers.

Who was it that said that the wisest among us

are usually silent?

 

I put on music instead. Brit rock.

Not London Calling, but somewhere familiar.

Somewhere where they understand the frustration

of the common masses, tired of what really trickles down.

But this song is so bouncy,

makes me want to shake it, not revolt.

On a day like today — cool, grey,

trees still stark and stiff from winter,

I could use a dance infusion.

Want to be moved to move

and not strain my thoughts

about why people believe what they do.

Why money is more valuable than care.

Why I still tell my kids to behave, be responsible

when what the world needs now

is lassies and lads getting lairy, sweet lairy.

 

* with thanks to Kaiser Chiefs for the title and the inspiration

 

PAD 2019 – Day 14

Decided to write something way different than I usually do by trying out the NaPoWriMo prompt to write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms, or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings. Tossed in a witch for good measure.

 

How to Dress For a Ball

 

“A ball!” she bawled, “I’ve never been allowed!”

“Why’ve those princes and princesses

asked this old maid now?”

She wondered aloud, “is it for naughty or nice?”

“A trick or a trap, a mistaken invite?”

Why they want her as guest is anyone’s guess,

if their kindness is a phase, meant to faze her

she will redress.

 

A witch has a role which shouldn’t be lessened,

if she agrees to go it will be to teach them a lesson.

Roll out the carpet for this crone

if you must, but do not groan when

she’s grown from a quean to a queen

in a gown and a crown.

 

She can sew so-so, but magic is best.

They’ll reap what they sow and likely say “Frack!”

when she wears her new frock, a truly bewitching dress.

To truly be seen she must make a scene,

a dye to cause dying hidden right in the seams.

“I’ll sidle up to their sides, rub the poisoned dress on their skins,”

“Too evil? ” she sighed, then wickedly grinned.

 

It had been their main game for forty-three years,

those tow-headed royals with their silky smooth manes,

to call her a toad, laugh at her green skin and beard.

They wanted her there to be the brute of the ball,

but the fate of this fête wouldn’t be up to them at all.

 

So she said a spell for her garb, made two fancy shoes too,

Looked in the mirror and nearly squawked “boo!”

A startling sight, at this site under full moon.

Who was this person, now beauty not crone?

Perhaps she’d keep this fine form

when she’d thrown them all from the throne.

PAD 2019 – Day 13

I was super excited to see today’s NaPoWriMo challenge asking for a “spooky” poem in honour of the 13th day! I decided to mix it with the Poetic Asides call for a poem about a “view.” The combination easily brought to mind a creepy family story that I begged to hear over and over again when I was a child.

 

From The Kitchen Window

 

Every family has their ghost stories.

My parents often talked about their first house together.

Haunted, said my Mom. Rundown, said my dad.

Cold breezes in the middle of rooms,

creaking and clacking from the attic when they tried to sleep,

and that feeling Mom couldn’t quell,  an unexplainable, eerie

presence hovering behind her whenever she stood at the kitchen sink.

 

She’d stare out the window while she washed vegetables or dishes,

focusing on how quickly the neighbour’s sunflowers grew, watching

kids play ball hockey on the road, waiting for my Dad to pull up

in his Chevy, come inside for supper, ask her about her day.

Waiting for him to convince her of her own vivid imagination.

 

Then the day they returned after two weeks away.

Pulled up to see a lawn in need of trimming, newspapers stacked on the step,

a few puddles offering proof of recent rain.

When their eyes seemed lured toward that square kitchen window,

they saw the curtains pulled back by some unseen hand,

then a swish of movement as the curtains quickly fell closed.

You had to have seen that, Mom said, frightened but relieved to have something

not reasoned away by a trick of the eye, old pipes, or a brain set spinning by loneliness.

I did, Dad replied, voice nearly a whisper.

Guess it was wondering when we’d finally be home.

PAD 2019 – Day 12

Uniting two prompts again today — Poetic Asides call to write a “The Art of _____” poem, and NaPoWriMo‘s suggestion to write a poem about a dull thing.

The Art of Polishing

 

the dull spoon at the front of the drawer is begging for it

luster lacking, spots of corrosion

this spoon has seen some things.

 

spit shine won’t work or it’d be gleaming

all the times it’s entered someone’s mouth

it needs a rub, a good honing,  friction, baby.

 

a vigorous reminder

that there’s silver vitality, a sexy sheen

hiding under layers of grey experience.