LyndyH

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.

Today we were asked to write a sea shanty. I adore a sea shanty. I love to sing along. I tried to pen a sea shanty, but I nothing was forthcoming, so I wrote this instead:

Gifts From the Sea

For three years Billy greeted me, shining 

his heart and saying, ‘how are you today?’

Every Thursday morning we met at six twenty.

It was never a struggle to get out of bed. 

We tilted our faces to the sky and spoke 

of the moon, the stars, sunlight, purple clouds. 

Sometimes we said hello to a rainbow.

In the beginning, it was all about his gifts 

from the sea. We called him Billy the Fish.

He was our Thursday morning treat. 

At our table we gave thanks to Billy.

One morning, I noticed Billy was different.

His light didn’t shine quite so brightly.

Each week, I focused my heart on his, 

but he got thinner and thinner.

A winter morning, a silver moon is hiding 

behind black branches, an owl is hooting.

‘I’m taking a break,’ Billy says. 

He drives away. 

I never see him again.

It was April when we read Billy’s tribute, 

Beloved Fishmonger from Gorleston …

It was always about Billy. 

And the gifts from his heart.

Today we were asked to write a sonnet. My first thought? What is that?!

See here if you’d like to know more https://www.napowrimo.net/day-nine-9/

Here is my offering. It may be a sonnet, it may not, but really, it is my words on a page and that is the only thing that matters to me.

Where Love Resides

Consider the pause between every breath.

How vast the distance between all the stars.

Between constant thoughts, see the tiny gaps

And ruptures in our heavy, saddened hearts.

And our tongues, though we never cease talking,

the words we utter have holes and fissures.

Consider two lovers entwined as one,

and the room between tangled arms and legs.  

Tenderness of kisses, softness of touch.

Cold empty space when they say their farewell.

And when we are alone and nights are long.

Where is love we long for and yearn to give?

We are fashioned from stardust, love and light.

And travel the path to eternity.