PAD 2019 – Day 30

The final day! Woot! To anyone who’s been reading my poems, thank you. I write and post these drafts to keep myself on track, but it’s always nice to have the kind eyes of others on them too.

Today I decided to include all three of the prompt sites I’ve been using this month. A bit of a challenge since NaPoWriMo called for a micropoem. Packing more into less. That’s what poetry’s all about in many ways. So I tried to squeeze in the Poetic Asides call for a “stop” poem and the Stroll of Poets “standing in line” prompt.

 

tourist rest stop

 

cradled

by the rocky mountains

 

in the bathroom line

 

i hear “beautiful”

in six languages

 

 

PAD 2019 – Day 29

The penultimate day of the poem a day challenge! I love the word penultimate. Today’s Stroll of Poets prompt was “room full of secrets” while the Poetic Asides prompt called for a __________ Again poem. Not sure the quickies I wrote really fulfill either prompt that well, but shhhhh….don’t tell.

 

whispering again

leaves plotting a quick descent

secrets of autumn

 

 

powerful people

disguised in expensive clothes

fill rooms with secrets

 

men with ideas

plan a covert whale mission

to harness power

 

* last one inspired by this kooky news story I read this morning

 

 

PAD 2019 – Day 27

Blending today’s Poetic Asides call for a “direction” poem with the Stroll of Poets prompt, “where the heart beats.”

 

Behind the sternum

 

is where the heart beats

in the most literal sense,

but also wherever it is that you

are closest to me.

 

It all comes down to impulses,

electric and erotic.

The zap of every kiss.

 

How fitting that it’s

about the size of a fist,

because of the punch I feel,

the pow, right in the chest

when I look at you,

remembering you’ve

chosen me.

 

PAD 2019 – Day 24

I had a lot going on today and nearly missed the daily post, but where I live there is still 30 minutes left in this day. Running out of time actually works well with the poem inspired by today’s prompt from my local Stroll of Poets group. The call to write a “last of a kind” poem took me to this Mental Floss article, and led me to write this:

Endlings

 

Specimens that are the last

living member of their kind.

Such a cute term for something so calamitous.

 

In captivity, they’ve been given names:

Benjamin the Thylacine, died in Australia, 1936

Martha the Passenger Pigeon, left the world in Cincinnati, 1914

Toughie the Rabbs’ fringe-limbed tree frog, lost his life in Atlanta, 2016

Lonesome George the Pinta Island Tortoise , lived for decades on California’s Santa Cruz Island,

and was more than 100 years old when he died in 2012.

Turgi the Polynesian Tree Snail, the last of a species who inhabited the earth

from  1.5 million years BC to 1996.

 

Others who lived their final days roaming free, until they faded away.

We can never know when they really left, yet we write memorials to

Booming Ben the Heath Hen, last spotted in Massachusetts in 1932

and Celia the Pyrenean Ibex, whose body was found in 2000 in Spain.

 

What name will the last one of us have?

Emma? Hakim? Fabrizzio or Wei?

What will mark our passing,

how will it be known,

who can remember

or mourn

when there is no one left to write about us?

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 8

Today I mixed up prompts by accidentally reading the Poetic Asides call for a “lucky number” poem as simply a “luck” poem. I mashed in my local Stroll of Poets prompt for “a good day” poem, and this is what popped out.

 

A Good Day

 

A good day starts

by believing luck is on your side.

That fortune’s picked a favourite.

That you were born under a good sign.

That some resident of Heaven is smiling upon you.

A good day starts

the night before, when you spot the flash of light

blitzing through the dark. The shooting star

Ptolemy said, is an assurance that the Gods

are paying attention.

A good day starts

by spying a four-leaf clover, stroking a rabbit’s foot

rolling a seven, having a ladybug land on your shoulder.

By recognizing all these things as happy accidents

and still  feeling worthy of your own happiness.

PAD 2019 – Day 4

Today I combined the Poetic Asides prompt to use an artist’s name as a title, with my local Stroll of Poets prompt to make a “10 Things” poem. I’ve always been inspired by Monet’s art, and especially love the “Camille Monet et un enfant au jardin” painting (image below). As I’ve aged, I have come to see the painting differently than I once did.

10 things about Monet’s “Mother and Child”

 

It’s the flowers I always remember.

The beauty in shades of red, and all the white that suggests an ideal day.

The mother is Monet’s wife, Camille.

No one else appears in his paintings as often as Camille.

The Child is only identified as “Child.”

I imagine the texture of the grass, the feel of Camille’s dress, the softness of the child’s hair.

I wish I knew what book the child looks at.

I see my  own mother in Camille, never attending to just one thing.

I stare at the faces of mother and child, obscured in indistinct brushstrokes.

I wonder why it’s the flowers I always remember.

NaPoWriMo – Day 15

Just a brief blurt today, in response to the Poetic Asides prompt calling for a poem built around a metaphor. Had to make it a quickie, because I’m still working on my poem for CV2‘s 2 Day Poem Contest (with little over 12 hours to go)  and I’ll be heading to read at this fun Stroll of Poets Magpie Poems chapbook launch later this afternoon.

 

Anxiety

 

A tornado in the dark

twisting

past get-over-its &

future but-what-ifs

into a rapidly rotating

system

of sleep destruction.

 

NaPoWriMo – Day 7

Mixing the Poetic Asides prompt to write a “senses” poem, with my local, Stroll of Poets prompt to write a “climate” poem. I recently read an article about how people in my province are the least likely in Canada to “believe” in climate change. This is so disheartening to me, as while I believe we can debate strategies on how we operate in the world now, and plans for better environmental practices, climate change is real. And I worry for the future of our beautiful planet if we continue to spin in a cycle of denial, rather than take action together.

Assessing the Patterns of Variation

 

You wouldn’t think it’d be possible

in my (relatively) short life.

 

Firs would know better,

the dry soil at their base.

The petrichor hanging

less often in the air,

the welcome quench of rain

climbing their roots,

sparkling in drops

that dangle from their sharp needles

like earrings. Can they taste it?

The small changes, over seasons and years,

drawing the facts

in concentric circles

at their core.

 

It might not be evident, they say

until you look at the evidence.

Some patterns are best seen close-up,

under a microscopic lens,

 

but I know I’ve heard the change

in the summer winds, roaring.

Different than the breeze of my youth.

Breath, blowing hotter.

Dragon flare, warning.

Tree souls darkening

summer skies.

NaPoWriMo is here!

Hooray, hooray, it’s the first of … April! I always get excited about NaPoWriMo and the poem-a-day challenge. For one, it forces me to write. Secondly, I’ve learned that doing these quick drafts where I just let things flow and lay off the self-editing can actually take the writing to new and fun places. Bad writing can be made better later, but it has to exist first.

This year I’m aiming to write a poem every day in a local, closed group with other adventurous Stroll of Poets members, but when I can I will try to post here as well. I will also try to respond to either the NaPoWriMo site prompt, the Poetic Asides prompt, or a combination if it works. Today’s prompt was certainly harmonious, with my local group, NaPoWriMo and Poetic Asides all asking for a version of a “secret” poem. Here’s what snuck out.

 

 

 

Seclusion

I know it’s hidden

under a span of cold mornings,

beneath a crust of snow,

below the hardened soil,

in the throat of a robin.

 

I hear the whisper

of a season

ready to emerge.

 

But still

I hold this secret hope

that tomorrow might bring

another Arctic gale,

another lash of winter,

another frigid night

with nothing to do

but make each other

warm.