NaPoWriMo #10

Three strands
twisted into one
three lives
woven together
this bond we call family

I’m not satisfied with this for a number of reasons, but I don’t have the time to fiddle with it. Such is the nature of NaPoWriMo! Maybe someday I can improve on it.

Happy International Poetry Day

WILD GEESE by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

One of my favorites by Mary Oliver for you, in honor of International Poetry Day.

 

 

Steep

The hills call siren-like and steep.
Two children share a wooden sled,
new snow is beckoning and deep,
the hills call siren-like and steep.
They landed in a shattered heap,
too fast to suffer, it was said.

The hills called siren-like and steep.
Two children shared a wooden sled.

 

Well, this started out to be a quadrille (44 words) including the word “steep” to link to dVerse Poets’ Pub, but somehow it turned into a dark triolet.  Theat’s an eight line, iambic tetrameter poem with the rhyme scheme: ABaAabAB, where capital letters indicate repeated lines.  I haven’t written one of these in ages.

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’.

Malaise

There is an emptiness
in these days, a barrenness
Surely we have
taken a wrong turn

Birds keep searching, calling
to one another
endlessly circling the skies
but they find nothing 
with which to build their nests

Oceans are punishing
the shore 
stealing it away
bit by bit
and no one seems to notice

The land sighs and shrugs under
its bitter coat of snow
It has forgotten
how once it
enticed seeds to germinate

I try to turn inward, but
there is a wall
everywhere I look
topped with razor wire

Somewhere there must be a door
but I cannot find it

Caught in the Wind

leaves blown

Caught in the wind
like lonely crow’s caw of despair.
Caught in the wind
words spilled, lost to the world, then pinned
against a branch – a scrap of prayer,
tattered and flapping, yet still there,
caught in the wind.

This is a Rondelet (see below for sepcifics)  written in response to “Fussy Little Forms” at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

I couldn’t find who took the photo.  If it’s yours let me know and I’ll either credit you, or remove it, as you choose.

The Rondelet is a seven line French poetry from with the following rhyme and meter:

Line 1 :: A—four syllables
Line 2 :: b—eight syllables
Line 3 :: A—repeat of line one
Line 4 :: a—eight syllables
Line 5 :: b—eight syllables
Line 6 :: b—eight syllables
Line 7 :: A—repeat of line one