The Robin Sings Before the Light

The robin sings before the light

he chirps and cheeps

and it is right

and fit

and fine–

he shares his song,

I make it mine

 

 

I woke up to hear the birds singing about 4:30 this morning, even in the rain, and this poem came to me. We’ve just seen the new movie A Quiet Passion about Emily Dickinson, so perhaps I was channeling her pre-dawn writing. 🙂

Time Paradox: NaPoWriMo

 

The portal door opens, and I am here. Before. I look out at this beautiful sun-splashed world. What did they do to it, this planet they called Earth? There is magic here in this moment. I feel it in the sun-steamed breeze. I taste it in the flower-blossomed air. I close my eyes and make a wish. Hoping it works better this time, I spread my wings, pause for one more second to watch the iridescent feathers gleam in the sunlight. Then, I take flight to make first contact—again.

paradox of time,

space bending, moments flowing,

slip-rippling along

ends become beginning points

with magic, wishes, and hope

 

Today is Day 19 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write a creation myth. I suppose this haibun is a sort of re-creation myth, based on some microfiction I wrote a while ago. It’s also possible that I had time paradoxes on my mind from watching an episode of Star Trek: Voyager a few nights ago.

This haibun is also for Colleen Chesebro’s weekly poetry challenge. The prompt words for her birthday week are wish and magic, and I wish her heaps of birthday magic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Flight: NaPoWriMo

 

I watch the birds from my kitchen window,

circling, gliding, floating,

a wondrous sky dance,

ancient patterns or improvised movements,

fluttery Bob Fosse jazz wings,

concentric circles form, intersect, break

to avian rhythms unheard

and movements unknown to us,

(mere humans)

I gaze, dreaming, wondering, thinking

what must it be like to rise so high

without fear of falling?

 

This is for NaPoWriMo, Day 5. The prompt was a poem on nature or the natural world. I used the Secret Keeper’s Weekly Writing Prompt words: Think/Rise/Rhythm/Float/Fall

 

 

 

 

Song and Dance: A Quadrille

Daffodils smile,

dance awhile,

giggle when tickled by the breeze,

tease,

they bask in light,

their faces bright,

listen to the robins sing,

melodies of spring,

flowery laughs join birdsong,

a sing-a-along

till day is gone, all unspun,

the moon rises with a hum

 

IMG_1138

 

This is for dVerse .  The Quadrille Monday prompt from De Jackson (aka WhimsyGizmo) is “giggle.” (Doesn’t the word giggle make you giggle?) This photo is from a few years ago. Our daffodils haven’t bloomed yet, but they are starting to come up. They make me happy. A quadrille is a poem of 44 words; it is also a dance.

 

 

 

Dawn is Waking: A Ghazal

The_Dawn_by_John_La_Farge,_1899,_oil_on_canvas_-_Fogg_Art_Museum,_Harvard_University_-_DSC01212

John La Farge, “The Dawn,” 1899, Fogg Art Museum, Harvard University, Public Domain, Wikipedia

 

 

From the sea, in golden robes, from dark night, dawn is waking

Rubbing sleep from rosy cheek, from moonlight, dawn is waking.

 

Robin sings a morning trill, acolyte, as light is breaking

Cats yawn and stretch, then bathe, with bird in sight, as dawn is waking

 

Tides flow and ebb, leave crabs and water sprite, along the beaches

Gulls swoop to capture them, in raucous flight, as dawn is waking

 

And the woman and the man, what of them when light first rises

Seeking warmth, seeking love, embracing tight, when dawn is waking?

 

Smiths of words, with pen in hand, come to light, in morning’s quiet

Waiting for inspiration, for love, write, as dawn is waking.

 

Jane gave us quite a challenge this week in her poetry challenge.  This is my first attempt at a ghazal. You can read how to write one here. Or more here.

The prompt was the painting above, “The Dawn,” by John La Farge.

 

 

 

Immortality: Microfiction Challenge

A_Vincent_Van_Gogh

Vincent van Gogh. “Wheatfield With Crows,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Long before the time of now, our ancestors came from the sky. Our legends say, we are made in their image. We have lost the technology of these forebears, the knowledge that let them travel from the stars. Why? No one knows. We argue about the details, calling to one another in debate, but it is clear we are like no others on this planet.

We sing the songs of our ancestors, and we’ve created new ones in their trilling, gurgling language. Our voices brighten the dawn and soften the evening darkness. We sing for love. We sing in warning.

There are beings who envy us. They use hot air and machines to emulate us. Clumsy things. But we do not need such devices. We are born with wings and feathers. Born to fly. Over time, we’ve developed into a varied species. Our feathers come in many shades like the colors of this planet, black, brown, white, grey, blue, red, green, yellow. We are the descendants of gods, strong and graceful.

We are sharp-eyed and observant, too, and so when I notice something below that breaks my reverie, I caw to my mate, “Do you see that human? He’s painting us. Perhaps we’ll be immortalized.” She caws back to me in laughter. We are through foraging here. We soar over the golden wheat fields of Arles, heading home.

 

This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge.   One prompt was the Van Gogh painting above.

This story may or may not be related to my earlier story, “Shapes in the Mist.”

And this poem, “The Raven Flies.”

 

Dusk in the Peacock Garden

 

Marie_Spartali_Stillman_-_A_lady_with_peacocks_in_a_garden,_an_Italianate_landscape_beyondMy love has crossed the wine-dark sea

At dusk I seek our shrine of dreams

Each night I climb the hilltop path

Each night I stop and do the math

 

The years I count, much more than three

My love has crossed the wine-dark sea

As indigo falls, peacocks sing

Resplendent eyes on feathered wing

 

Their song, a cry, fleeting sorrow

Forbidden grief, come tomorrow

My love has crossed the wine-dark sea

Over the hills, away from me

 

I carry these blooms, his favorite

I smell their scent, and savor it

Peacock garden, I’ll never flee

My love has crossed the wine-dark sea

 

Jane Dougherty’s Poetry Prompt this week used the painting above

And these words: indigo/cry/night bird/fleeting/forbidden

I didn’t use “night bird,” but I did use night and peacocks. Doug of Elusive Trope inspired me to write a Quatern. It was exactly the form I wanted for this poem. So thank you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NaPoWriMo: Late Day Spring Storm

 

The thunder comes and the rain patters, a soft tattoo on the window pane,

the world outside, transformed, with  a new and misty countenance,

a watercolor tint with blurred lines,

a fresh new scent emerges through the windows, still slightly opened,

petrichor, the smell of spring rain, as it hits the ground,

wet earth and grass, germinating life, sweet fragrance

(different from the dreary damp decaying smell of winter’s rain)

And then it’s over–

a pastel arch appears in the sky, the iridescent glow bewitching,

a smile among the clouds.

Birds resume their chirping, tweeting, cawing,

whiffling high above in aerial ballets,

the mockingbird dazzles with his repeated aria of love,

Pavarotti in the tree,

None shall sleep

Squirrels and rabbits scurry about, foraging and grazing in the waning light,

the cats emerge from their hiding places, under beds and behind boxes,

ambling through the house in search of food and attention.

All is calm, a velvet blanket enshrouds the world, and we are off to dream.

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 27  Today’s Challenge: to write poems with very long lines.