April flew by
And found her often writing, but not much. In times past she had written with habitual whole-hearted determination. But those were springtimes gone by when loss seemed impending. Then she wrote
As if a well-penned string
of convincing verse 
might somehow change her course. But now,

As foretold, 
As full as life was she 
Abandoned fear,
Awaited the future with 
A full well of ink
And feathers found on 
Abundant fields of gold,
And forgot to write. 
And furthermore she lived!

Response to http://www.napowrimo.net Day Twenty-six, prompt to write a portrait poem that plays with the meaning of the subject’s name. My response is a self-portait. This past fall my initials returned to their original, AF upon finalization of a divorce. I take a certain pride in reclaiming those initials, and the fact that I was a little feisty AF before AF was a thing.

My bedroom was at the back of our house - 
the house with green shutters on Spring St. 
that my parents bragged was over 150 years old.
In my closet lived the attic door.
It remained unnoticed most of the time – 
square, 
wooden,
resting in my closet ceiling
until I lay awake in bed 
at night, when my mind 
wandered and the house 
made creaking sounds that my parents claimed
were due to its old age.
Then I wondered what might 
exist up in the attic,
other than the boxes of Halloween costumes, 
Christmas decorations and outgrown clothes.
To quell my fear 
I resolved 
to make friends with the ghosts in my mind -
the ones who slip through attic doors.
I imagined hosting elaborate parties for them right there in my bed. 


I still sometimes lay sleepless
planning parties for them - the ghosts upstairs
the ones who can 
slip through 
attic doors. 

These pics were generated by AI based on my poem above.

NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen prompt:

“Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.”

https://www.napowrimo.net/day-nineteen-8/

Barrel shaped succulent black drops, 
druplets in fact, they are an aggregate fruit - 
clustered sweet sections, smooth against my tongue
until they burst. 

Her fingers stained, she reaches for each - likes best
the slightly red and tart ones.
“I know what tart means!” she explains.
A berry squishes under my right big toe
in my sandal. A mockingbird lands 
just above us.  I hold down branches while she plucks.
Enough? “Not yet, a little more!”

Little green stems
stay attached. We finally decide our turquoise bowl is 
full enough. We inspect our soles 
stained deep purple-red, wiping berry bits onto the mat.

NaPoWriMo Day Seventeen prompt response, lived on day eighteen and published on day nineteen. 

What if I wrote the
Poem in five beats 
Dactyl and spondee
Ponder that as if
Speaking was just an
Uneven meter 
Moving me out of
Pent up precision

Until I finally let go

Response to Day 12 Prompt on http://www.napowrimo.net, a challenge to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self. The images are 5 point mandalas made on an open source Mandala Maker that is rather gratifying.

Sometimes in my head, sometimes coming out of my mouth,
more often in my head.

Well that sounded kind of weird, oh well, I don’t care

Didn’t I say I wanted to be more badass

How much time do you need to get it done?

Wash me with hyssop and I shall be clean

Why do the words trail off at clean like they’re hard to write.

• I guess because no matter what life is messy

Should I dye my hair, or let it go grey and why does that seem like a bigger existential question than it should be? 

Mmmm…

hmh

• I loved teaching today
• I love a good towel after the bath

Why is it hard to record my thoughts without being overly poetic?

If I’m writing a poem about things overheard, should I include things overheard on the radio? hmmh, well don’t I still hear them in my head?

“and they’re going to blow them up with a kilo of explosives”

Maybe that was the other day. Today it’s AR15s on NPR, or was that the other night too. It undoubtedly was both.

The clouds in the sky are so beautiful
Sometimes when I use this towel I think of its previous owner. 
I saw two butterflies today, one appeared to be a monarch. The other was small and yellow.
I wonder do her skin cells still hide in there?
You look handsome.

I should call him.

I hear the coyotes.

I love you.

Good morning!

Let’s start our favorite way!

Today’s poetry prompt on http://www.napwrimo.net is to play around with the idea of overheard language. I am interested in the overheard and the innerheard.

The spiritual herdsman rides up on her 4 wheeled steed
She is accompanied by her small minion in a cage
She smells of perfume
her hair curls in grieving ringlets
her chin hangs under her smooth-skinned cheeks
her accent tastes like over-sweetened butter

She is preceded by Jess from what town? Richardson?
Who brings along a small goddess who walks in casually
My day closes here in reflection of who walked in my door
ah-weh, the way 
of the day
is caught up 
in the sound of
a stick
on
a 
skin

The gathering tables of imagination
And setting sunrise of dawning connection draw us
So we cast fire from our souls 
over fields lined with highways
ss if the insistence on this one aim
will be the voice that speaks to her feet

The day closes in busy comfort 
That shakes it dice In the cup of creation
The finger counts how many moves 
she can advance
wait no
the herdsman long departed 

The goddess safe at home
I sit with my beloved
As they count
their moves
1, 2,
3