It has been quite a week. I have been writing poems, occasionally somewhat on prompt. I just haven’t had it in me to sit down and post anything. So here I am catching up, or perhaps right on time.

4/8
At my mammogram 
Jane Austen secured my clothes
In the changing room

Her picture tucked in
a clear sleeve on the key chain 
breasts squished in plastic

4/9
I find it hard to write a poem 
At the moments when I haven’t been flung to get paper and pen
To discipline myself into crafting inspiration is a bit of a heavy lift
Yet, when I do the lifting
Looking under stones that seem like endless, mundane words

Do you know how it feels to be flung
To the drawer where you keep your notebook and pen
For the sake of writing those very words?

Do you know how it feels to think you should really 
Fly to the drawer where you keep your notebook and pen
But don’t and then forget the words later?

What about that song that you wake up humming 
Or the dream you really don’t want to forget? 
I don’t recall my dreams last night. 

I go through phases of words on the page, 
Waking up recalling dream
Writing whatever on a page in hopes that tomorrow I will be flung to my drawer
Wherein lies the pen and paper for words that I don’t want to let slip away. 

Little Monk at the Clavier

Though not exactly on prompt, this was in response to NaPoWriMo day 12 and this poem, Peter Quince at the Clavier

I
With suki the cat by my side
Little monk sits at the clavier
Discussing major and minor keys with her teacher

I smell of rich soaked earth,
Dank and earthy, reminiscent of a farm
Finger numbers are announced and “relax your wrist”

I consider stepping outside,
resolving that my quiet presence behind my screen is unobtrusive enough
“That’s right, curve your hand. 2! One more time…”

She begins to speak on the piano
i, iv, V7, i
“Can I hear Hanon next time? Let me hear Amazing Grace.”

The fan blows, lawnmowers hum outside
The use of the pedal is discussed
Familiar and plodding, chords and melody

When we’ve been here 10,000 years
Bright shining as the sun.
Then the soft then rising, grasping at the note

Now with the pedal, “heel on the floor”
Resonance rings promise of the future
I look at her and see her focus, respond, breathe, and begin

IV
Nkosikazi slows in her chariot
She has been here 10,000 years
Destined for this moment

She rises slowly and rides
Hanging on the ascending IV chord
The sage stands behind her

Hold it down good, sit tall on your chariot
She says, you’ve prepared for this moment
If you need to take a little time here you can.

Nkosikazi approaches her target
She lifts her hands and hits
Then with humility turns to her teacher

4/12
The trees have eyes in all their many cells
The ones who know me best are in my backyard right now. 
They see me daily. I lay in the hammock among them. 
I wonder if the trees in the back grove of my childhood home are still there
Swamp maples that my dad cursed for their tendency to drop branches
There was a whole grove of them in the “way back” of our yard
If they are still there, would they know me if I walked among them? 

4/14
Home earlier than usual - well a bit
Dinner is cooking to the whistling of a familiar motif
Conversation is helping to turn the wheels of dinner prep and cleanup
Today was a day. I felt strong and vulnerable. I felt how I wear my cape
You know, Superwoman. Yeah, that cape

She flies in. She still looks all put together despite the wind
Not a hair out of place.