NaPoWriMo #3

I am made
entirely of want. I
ache with it
but without it
there is nothing –
a pile of sand
a length of rope
empty shoes left
at the door
an equation without a
solution

This want chews
like a termite.
It both defines and
devours me

The good thing about NaPWriMo is it gets us writing. The problem with NaPoWriMo is we don’t have time to consider, to polish and fiddle. I feel like this needs more fiddling and considering. And a couple coats of polish. 😉

January Pre-Dawn

Early morning
stars,
so sharp
they cut through
the blue-black back drop
of icy air,
hang above

staccato yips and cries
of coyotes 
so close,
as if I could 
nearly 
reach them
if I stretched – or

perhaps they could reach me, teach me
the desperate, wild
longing
in their cries

Mary’s Morning

Morning blessings
as I count them:
wake
stretch
greet the sun

both smell and taste
of coffee
steaming in my favorite mug,
the one Darrell made,
that fits smooth
in the curve of my hand

sitting and fitting
with Otis
my sweet dog
in our favorite chair

and
writing
a few words
while the day is still new

This is for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are asked to write something keeping the words of Mary Oliver in mind, “It mustn’t be fancy.”
Mary Oliver’s passing leaves me so very sad, yet mindful of little wonders all around.

The January House

The January halls
are empty;
they echo
with thin, pale memories

The January house
is bare and
spare,
empty

There are no tchotchkes
no collections
no trophies
no books
no pictures
to distract the eye,
or absorb the sound
of a single pair
of slippers
shuffling
through the January halls.

Hollow echoes
bounce
off the hard,
bare surfaces.

The January house
stands empty,
waiting
to be filled

This is for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are challenged to write something springing from the word hollow.

Changes

Today is unseasonably warm
The shed wall is thick with Asian beetles
We’ve had once-in-a-century floods
the past three years.

Running through my brain,
insistent as an unfed cat,
is the thought
this isn’t right

Is it too early to panic
or too late?

This is in response to  dVerse Poets,  whose writing prompt is a quadrille (44 words) including the word ‘early’.

Missing

do the trees
miss their leaves
in the frozen
heart of winter

does the moon
miss the stars
at the end of
time

does the shore
miss the sea
when
the earth
has burned
to ash

do you
miss me
when you
turn your face
away

because
I
miss
you

36 – Just Diddling Around

This evening
my ginger cat
rubs against my legs, purring
as I sit in the kitchen
listening to classical music
on the radio –
the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto

My dish and spoon
sit together on the table
as though waiting to run off
when I turn my head

Moonlight streams
through the open window
and I swear I hear a cow beller