Connected: NaPoWriMo, Day 2

 

Painting by Sylvia L. Schreiber

 

Clouds, charcoal and white,

are fringed with a golden glow,

tumbling like puppies at play, fake-ferocious,

and without stop

until they drop,

exhausted, to lull with doggy grins

 

over gray-green Atlantic waves

that echo their play—

here the whole world sways–

and the gulls cry in syncopated beats

completing the symphony of breeze and sea–

 

steady breaths,

in and out

 

as the amber beach grass dances

and the wind brushes my cheek

in a salty kiss, a tingle, a promise

in this mystique

of what is, was, and might be—

 

everything luminous, electric,

connected,

alive.

 

For Day 2 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was: to “write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details, like street names, distances (“three and a half blocks from the post office”), the types of trees or flowers, the color of the shirts on the people you remember there.”

I chose to write a poem based on a place in a painting that my mother painted. I have no idea if it is an actual place she visited, or when she painted it. The figure is kind of odd, but I’m captivated by the movement of clouds, waves, and grass, and well, this probably isn’t a finished poem either.

I’m also linking this to dVerse’s Open Link Night, where Grace is hosting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking Out the Window

1024px-Beacon,_off_Mount_Desert_Island_Frederic_Edwin_Church

Frederic Edwin Church, “Beacon off Mount Desert Island”

 

Looking Out the Window

 

Red sky

dawns blush-tipped,

a warning to sailors–

yet I delight in night’s demise,

day breaks.

 

I’m combining prompts: a Crapsey Cinquain for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday prompt

and a seeing red poem for Sarah’s dVerse prompt.

It’s also the start of NaPoWriMo, but I’ll see if I can do something else for that.

While Walking in the Time of Plague and Panic

 

IMG_8199

 

Beneath the blue

the branches swayed

as soft the breezes blew,

squirrels skittered in the shade,

cardinals twittered,

blue jays scolded,

and robins from treetops tittered–

affably, the day unfolded

in blooming pink and white.

Violet fairy bells danced on the ground

under the golden shimmering light–

all undisturbed by human sound.

And the sun shone if on everything

with the all the hopes of spring.

 

For Frank’s prompt on dVerse—a final couplet. I went for a walk today. It was beautiful, and bit eerie with no one else about. I also consulted the Oracle for some tips on how to get started on this non-sonnet

 

 

 

Magic

 

I know the science of sun and rain

that wakes the world to spring–

 

brings a languorous glow,

that rings the day

 

and stays,

till the moon

 

hums it away.

 

But I believe in magic–

overnight blooms

 

and birds winging, singing

through morning dew.

 

 

A quadrille for dVerse, where Linda has asked us to use the word “magic.”

(A quadrille, besides being a dance, is a dVerse form. It’s a poem of 44 words—any type.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Secrets

New_york_restaurant_by_edward_hopper

Edward Hopper, New York Restaurant

 

“I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.” Perhaps I wasn’t, not really. Not in those days. I was like the wind blowing in and out of places, and love followed—a gentle breeze or a gale—either way it was here and gone. Until Joe.

We both had worked as codebreakers. All that’s history now, of course, but even now, I can’t give you any details. Enemies remain—secrets, too. I didn’t even notice him at first.

Then one day, I glanced up as he was consulting with a colleague. He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. Without a word, we had an understanding. Later, we met for coffee…

It’s been thirty years. He brings me coffee every morning. I’m surprised if he doesn’t spill a drop or two. But that will be our little secret.

 

This is my flash fiction “prosery” piece for my prompt today on dVerse. Our pieces cannot be longer than 144 words. Mine is exactly 144 words. The first line comes from a poem by Jane Hirshfield. 

 

 

 

Tilting

512px-NASA-Apollo8-Dec24-Earthrise

Photo of the Earth taken from Apollo 8, called Earthrise (1968).

 

I see the morning moon

dream-full of spring songs—

of sap, worms, crows

 

(a murder gathers, cawing)

 

Now she hums fiercely through the clouds,

stirring my senses—

 

my mother’s alive, the call a mistake,

but my tire’s flat

on an earth that tilts, revolving.

 

This a quadrille for dVerse. De has asked us to use some form of the word “stir.” Yesterday, my sister got a call that my mom was “unresponsive.” It turns out the facility called the wrong person, and my mother was fine. However, I pulled out of my driveway and discovered my tire was flat. Fortunately, that didn’t happen when we were driving on the expressway.

Golden Apples

Hesperides,_Dance_around_the_Golden_Tree_by_Edward_Calvert

Hesperides Dance Around the Golden Tree

 

I dreamt of golden apples

that fell fragrant from the sun

to land on earth shadow-dappled–

beyond, I heard a river run

and wandered to its grassy bank

where songbirds flocked and flew

to swoop at shining, rainbow fish. I drank

the pure, clear water—well, wouldn’t you?

For this was a calm and peaceful place–

where bees droned and danced a pirouette

in rhythmic waves, almost embraced–

I wondered if they loved or faced regret

at the days that pass all too soon,

when love and loved ones disappear–

yet silver apples of the moon

shine on, in dreams, golden apples appear.

 

This is for dVerse Open Link Night, where Grace is hosting, and also for the Tuesday dVerse Poetics prompt, where Anmol asked us to write about apples. Jane, I managed to get the silver apples in, too. 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Impermanent and Fine

 

Sunset over the Delaware River, Feb.2020

Sun and clouds reflected on the surface of the Delaware River, Feb. 24, 2020     Merril D. Smith

 

I watch the apricot sun settle

in feathered-grey clouds

reflected in the water

 

the rocks on the shore–

with time,

they’ll crumble

 

washed by the river,

polished by the rain,

burnished in the golden glow

 

I walk with long shadow legs

into the twilight,

as the geese honk farewell.

 

Scientists say

Betelgeuse may soon explode–

but I look up at the moon, waxing,

 

it will be here long after I’m gone,

but now, it lights my way

home to you.

 

This poem is for my dVerse prompt, Impermanence. So, I didn’t come up with anything particularly unique because I was inspired by this photo I took yesterday while walking by the river. Come join us with your thoughts.

 

 

 

From There to Here

Ghost of Cassiopeia, NASA

“Powerful gushers of energy from seething stars can sculpt eerie-looking figures with long, flowing veils of gas and dust. One striking example is “the Ghost of Cassiopeia,” officially known as IC 63, located 550 light-years away in the constellation Cassiopeia the Queen.” Image Credits: NASA, ESA and STScI; Acknowledgment: H. Arab (University of Strasbourg)

 

Beneath the brown,

a seed grows green,

see?

 

Beneath the frost,

nature murmurs a song,

listen

 

as after the rain,

spring sings of time

in a fall of pink petals

 

and ghosts sail

through a universe

of if

 

with star rhythms

they dazzle—

and we embrace the fire

 

from a champagne cloud,

remembering

like a night kiss,

 

the brilliance of eternity

lingering

in our blood.

 

I took words from three sets of tiles, and the Oracle and I collaborated on this poem. Mostly her, I just added the articles and such. I think the link is still open for Open Link Night on dVerse, where Lillian is hosting from her vacation retreat, so I’m linking this there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting

512px-Beatrice-1885

Odilon Redon, Beatrice

 

She remembers the day her daughter was born and died. One of those things, the doctors said. There’s nothing anyone could have done. They named her Ailana, light bearer. She was a brief beacon of hope. For her and her husband. For their country. For their planet.

She never had another baby. No one did.

But. . .there are moments caught between heart-beats, when she senses her, this ghost-baby, growing like a golden flower, glowing in the shadows. Waiting to bring the light to their dark world.

 

A wisp of flash fiction for Kim’s dVerse prosery prompt. She asks us to use the line

“There are moments caught between heart-beats.” From Louis MacNeice’s poem “Coda.”