PAD 2021 – Day 26

I already wrote a moon poem earlier this month, but to hold true to the poetic stereotype, I have more to say about it. Today I used the 30/30 prompt “concentration moon” to come up with a few quick micros.

meditate
on the full face
of a super moon
but still come up
ordinary

           ***

pandemic thoughts
like phases of the moon
wax wan new repeat

           ***

when I lose
the day’s light
I try to remember
that it’s yet held
by the moon
Photo by Rok Romih on Pexels.com

PAD 2021 – Day 17

Using the NaPoWriMo.net suggestion to stop fighting the moon. Lean in. Accept the moon. Do what poets have done and keep on doing and write a poem that is about, or that involves, the moon. I added a dab of the 30/30 prompt, “house I used to live in,” too.

Another Moon Poem

Nothing new can be written about the moon.
No question or tribute that hasn’t been said better,
brighter. How its round face has been held 
responsible for madness, but also revered. 
Relief in the dark. I’m remembering it now,
on the back deck of our first house, no-cloud
night with a handful of stars tossed in patterns
that scattered differently than the ones we looked
to growing up. I know you’ve marveled at it too.
Felt tethered, just like the inevitable ocean.
Photo by Bruno Scramgnon on Pexels.com

November PAD – Day 18

The prompt today asked for a “good for nothing” poem. I thought of all those things poets write about over and over again, which — to me — doesn’t mean they’re not worth writing about. Rather, aren’t we all just trying and trying to write them right?

18.

Don’t let them tell you the moon is good for nothing. Its full, shining face used up, like any actress over 40. Don’t let them tell you that birdsong is Top 40, overplayed and boring, background din. Don’t let them tell you the rain is washed up. That the strange coziness of cloud cover, the way the petrichor freshens not just the air, but the feeling you’ve been carrying for weeks, is not something worth documenting —if not for history, then for your own hardening heart.  Don’t let them tell you the flowers have been overwritten, their unexpected colours and fragile petals as common as a definite article. Don’t let them tell you every good ode to the sun has already been written. They’ve forgotten to appreciate morning, the very fact of it. How can anyone who makes light of the sun call herself a poet?