LyndyH

I am off prompt again today and chose instead to write about where we visited today :

Dungeness

Where the land meets 

the sea 

is the best place. 

To taste salt 

on my lips.

To have my hair 

whipped

about my cheeks.

To discover sea 

kale is purple 

and green.

There is space 

at Dungeness.

To be alone 

with nature.

Be free

of thoughts. 

Where the land meets

the sea

is a place desolate

in its beauty.

A place to find

myself.

Today it’s about childhood – to write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you.

The Bedroom Door 

In the night when I am awakened

by a creak or a thud, my heart still

thumps, thumps, thumps.

We think we get over things. 

I am a statue lying on my back, 

listening, listening, listening. 

Eyes glued to the crack in the door.

My seven year old baby voice

calls out:

is there anybody there?

We don’t get over things.

Not those that go deep to the marrow. 

My mother pushes open the door,

I pull the blankets over my face

as she leans over me and breathes

her smokey, Bacardi breath. 

I need to get over things.

So now when I lay down to sleep,

the door remains open. 

Today, the challenge was to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. I enjoyed this … it came easily.

A Suggestion

Because life is complicated, why not

come into the garden and rest awhile. 

Don’t be concerned about the time like

every person obsessed with the next thing.

Forget about your do-to-list, the grass is

green in the garden, the flowers fragrant. 

Hell is but a word.

Heaven too. 

In the muddle of life, 

juggling ten thousand balls,

knowing you can step onto the grass,

listen to the birds singing and not your 

mother telling you 

not to … is like a miraculous visitation by an

oracle. 

Pulse the grass between your toes,

quietly breathe and watch awhile,

relishing the breeze on your cheek.

Savour the scent of the roses, 

Tell them how joyful you feel, let the 

Universe take your hand, feel the 

vibrations radiate beyond your physical form,

wander together beneath the arch and down the

xyst, between the cypress trees, 

yelling hurrah! 

Zigzagging as you go. 

The challenge today was to incorporate an edible plant in a poem with a comparison between some aspect of the plant’s lifespan and my own – or the life of someone close to me.

Falling 

Sometimes when I see a beefsteak tomato growing, 

I think of my grandfather, 

of the longing in his fingers as he sowed his seeds,

the space between his hands and the terrible courage 

he discovered each time he took up his rifle. 

When I see a man at the allotment twist twine, 

latching the stems of the plants to their supports,

I think of my grandfather,

of his shirt sleeves rolled up over his elbows, 

his brown-freckled arms saving me from falling.

When I notice the first flowers and early fruits,

I think of my grandfather,

a young soldier, a growing adolescent, a maturing

man among men and all the fragile bodies, falling

falling, falling as yellow petals on the ground.

Summer arrives, the beefsteaks are ripening into 

red silken orbs, the sky is the bluest of blue and 

I think of my grandfather,

the sweet loveliness of his homegrown tomatoes, 

juice trickling onto his chin and running down his wrist.

Sometimes when I hold a beefsteak tomato in both hands,

I think of my grandfather,

his searching fingers gently squeezing the ripest fruit,

his unknown thoughts about war and his unseen love 

for those he fought with and those he fought against.

I am back on prompt today with the challenge to write a poem of negation – one that involves describing something in terms of what it is not, or not like.

The Unknown

It’s not falling into a black abyss 

or the red mouth of a hungry bear,

nor an ice slice between 

your shoulder blades.

It does not even resemble 

the peeling away, layer by layer 

of your skin or the slow, gentle

degeneration of your heart.

Never before has anything 

felt quite as exquisite as this.

When at last the evening comes, 

and you are ready, it will encircle 

your form like your first shawl.

And when it’s all over,

you will be amazed 

and wonder what it was

you were so afraid of. 

This came from considering the word ‘lost’ and pondering over it.

Here 

I have a feeling I don’t know where I am.

But wait,

the oak at my side is not lost,

nor the blackbirds berry-picking

in the hawthorn bushes. 

Even the hares scampering

here, 

there,

everywhere 

are where they are.

Now.

What is this lost? 

Wherever we are is called Here. 

Here is Now. 

Now is forever. 

I am going off prompt again as writing a parody or satire based on a famous poem is not for me.

So my poem for today came from a memory instead.

The Doe

If I had not stopped to watch 

the deer

I would not have seen her fawn.

With silver tears in its eyes,

it looked at me hypnotised.

Gently, I blew a kiss to land

like a feather upon 

its sweet head.

And if I had not turned 

my gaze back to the doe

I would not have witnessed 

a trust so pure it made 

me cry. 

Today we were asked to write a short poem that follows the beat of a classic joke.

I decided to go off-prompt.

Desires

I would love

to levitate 

on water

like a waterlily

in a painting 

by Monet 

where paint 

never dries

I would love

to breathe

with intention

be grateful 

for each one

I would love

to not know

the time

day

week

month

or year

what a relief 

that would be

I would love

to let go

and flow

like a drop

of water 

in a river

‘Write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self’ was today’s challenge.

My Poems

Drip onto the paper, 

like pus from a wound,

seep through the pages, 

filling the creases

of my forehead, softening 

the rock of my heart.

The prompt today was using ‘overheard language’ – write a poem that ‘takes as its starting point something overheard that made you laugh, or something someone told you once that struck you as funny.’

Not funny, but I went from ‘I should be crying’ and came up with this:

Beside Your Bed

I should be crying.

But I can’t let it show.

I could speak.

Say all the things I ought

to have said. 

But there is no time.

I could think.

Of all the things 

I need to say.

I am too tired.

And what about 

all the questions

I never asked?

The things you omitted

to tell me.

The things you wouldn’t 

explain.

No matter we failed

to close the gap.

All the things we never did.

All the things we didn’t give.

I know you have a little 

life left.

I could try.

I could cry.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I won’t.

Not here.

Beside your bed.