4/15
Author: PoeticAF
Catching up
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.
Day 6 & 7
Honey
Golden dripping from the bucket
Turned on its side.
Catch it with your finger as you
Lift the bucket and the last velvet drop
Slowly beads up around the spout.
Close your eyes as you
Bring your finger to your lips.
Taste summer sun
glisten on your tongue
And sizzle at the back of your throat.
Day 6 of National Poetry Writing Month
Not a Statue of a Goddess
Neither bronze nor alabaster
But spotted with dark and light pigment
Spots freckles cracks wrinkles pores
I squeeze pearls of moisture out of small tubes
Attempting to chisel away the years
That gather at the corners and crevices
I’m not direct carved, but rather
Constantly modeled shaped molded
Heated refined polished with the patination of time
Sweet Appoggiatura
He asks her to dance
Not louder than possible
Butterflies tango
Her voice replies like
A vanilla aria
Wafts deliciously
They waltz leisurely
Yet with a hint of frenzy
Bathed in the moonlight
Interstitial space
Between their skin melts like a
Sweet appoggiatura
Motivational Art
She sits at the edge of her bed, the room humming softly.
Out the dome shaped window giant cylinders rotate slowly around the space station,
Maintaining gravity.
Beyond them the endless sea of stars.
She glances over her shoulder to the far wall of her sleeping pod
And reads the same words, and again she ponders:
Love
Joy
Peace
Patience
Kindness
Goodness
Faithfulness
Gentleness
Self-Control
The piece of art, an heirloom, had been in her family for generations
Ever since the great migration, before Earth’s final desolation.
It was in the style of Motivational Wall Art, popularized in the early 21st century
And said to have originated from the Walmart sect of the Christian Capitalists,
Whose power soared after the American oligarchy took reign.
It had been in her family for 300 years, 12 generations back,
one of the few pieces of art that remained from the Earth inhabitation days.
The words were not unfamiliar to her.
Biblical text had been part of her studies
She often pondered their meaning, always hanging over her family’s quarters.
A dark reminder of history,
Words on a faded canvas
Did her ancestors think that just by hanging these high ideals on their wall
They might bear such fruitfulness?
Was it a joke that those in power played on the powerless
To peddle inspired words based on scriptural text
While simultaneously
Polluting oceans,
Bombing hospitals,
Destroying education,
Starving children,
Turning away humans?
She considers the many atrocities of those days,
The faded letters a daily reminder
Of what was lost
And what endured.
Job Satisfaction
Some things people carry in their work:
A briefcase
A hammer
A mop
Shipping Packages
Medical equipment
A taser
A gun
Administrative responsibilities
Some things I get to carry in my work:
A violin
A ukulele
A guitar
Egg shakers
Colorful scarves
A beat
A tune
The sense of wonder in a child’s eyes
Ten
Oh my sweet little monk who knows
More Beatles songs than I
You are still like an ember that glows
Still here wrapped in my bones
You still take me by surprise
As you uprise
Your voice, powerful beyond measure
Not to be contained by the small frame
Like a pearlescent treasure
I forget to notice it change
Day by day as you engage, emerge, rearrange
Find your way
Lean in, draw your bow
As you wrap your arm around the trunk of the Bodhi tree.
Listen as its secrets rumble low
The wind whistles past our front door
Among its clamour are sweet notes singing
Ringing a decade and still more
Days to walk your path
Adventures to come
Songs to be sung, glistening, luminous, flowersome
You’ve only just begun
Day 2 of National Poetry Writing Month.
Small Burdens 