image lifted from goddessrising.org
Forty-seven degrees on a rare windless night in Wyoming. I’m pulled over off the road, car running, got the windows rolled down, airing out the sleepiness that has dogged me for the past seventy miles or so. Who can tell; I may have been nodding through several of those landmark-free miles. I’m leaning against my Volkswagen, listening to the music I’ve got to kill time and kill the melancholy of traveling alone. Singing through a night that’s nearly day with the Cold Full Moon.
The land about me is limned in bluish neon.
Then it happens. THE song comes on. I’m singing because, you know, you can’t not sing to it. It’s one of those that either draws you along, or you end up saying, “I don’t know it.” Saying that always elicits deepest sympathy from me. I’m biased. To me it’s one of the one hundred perfect songs. It’s timeless, yet locked in time like time is amber or something intensely philosophical like that.
Anyway, I’m singing along. After a few bars another song slips in. And it’s the song, my song, and their song… under a big, blue moon.
The moon inspires song
Cool jazz – cold night – singing pack
Wolves howl a Moon dance
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. https://dversepoets.com/2017/05/01/haibun-monday-tramps-like-us-were-born-to-survive/#comment-122749
In honor of the final day of NaPoWriMo 2017
photo by J. Lyman
This is the final stop;
you must disembark.
The bus won’t go…
The plane doesn’t connect…
The ship can’t sail…
A last breath.
The final hurrah.
Today is the day.
Ensure the lamps you douse
when you discover
you are the last to leave.
The Great Blue eyeing
our sad, drying pond, sighs.
He spreads his wings, gives
a hoarse squawk, lifts
off for a better lake to fish.
April, making a curtsy, hoists
her skirts and makes for stage left.
And poets across the world
are left to flounder –
…as poets so often do.
Day 30 of NaPoWriMo 2017: I felt the need… the unction to lay this month to rest. There are many directions I could have gone; so many prompts strewn about the internet. This just called my name, winked at me from a dark corner, and — well, you’ll just have to fill in the rest for yourself.
photo by Charley
Over me cast.
Ghost shape drawn.
Spirit black dreamt.
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is “…take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it…. After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem.” I took shadow from The Raven. Not necessarily my all-time favorite poem. Honestly, I don’t know that I have one favorite poem.
I heard of a loan shark named Lars
who worked in the seediest bars.
Thirty percent per day,
and if you didn’t pay,
He’d shoot off your kneecaps, of carse!
So, tonight at dVerse Poets Pub, the innkeeper is serving up glasses of Irish and pints of our favorite brew. In my case that would be Murphy’s; although I acknowledge the preference of many to that other purveyor of stout. Anyway, in payment we are being cajoled into sharing a limerick or two. Here’s mine.
On a carpet of tall grass floating
I extend my arm and measure
the minute intervals with finger-span
and am amazed at the size of the Earth,
how gigantic I am in this compact universe.
The night sky constricts like last year’s tee shirt.
Next month I’ll have chocolate cake,
and start Kindergarten.
The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is space. Specifically, a small space.
Charles M. Conlon / Sporting News Archive via Getty Images
focused as he is on the call
still that haunts
still we are
to relive the moment that lives
meditate on it hold
Faced with two challenges — NaPoWriMo wanted us to write a poem of ekphrasis (I’m leaving out the medieval marginal stuff, but, you know…), and the barkeep at dVerse Poets Pub gives us the Quadrille, using the word still.
from the movie Marathon Man
of words casually tossed,
emotions impacted –
the enamel is eaten
through, and the nerve pulses
hotly – torment
me to write.
A root canal of the psyche; drill
deeply into the chagrined
flesh. Eliminate the offense,
or at the very least, expose
How do we paint our obsession? Our need to write… whether poetry, fiction, commentary… whatever? I can’t speak for others. I feel the necessity to write as keenly as I have felt (God help me) a toothache. It’s not quite air. Closer to chocolate, actually.
photo by Charley
Between my hands
Why not more concise?
The book store
Can’t make a choice
It is a horrible addiction. You cannot sympathize if you don’t have the habit. Fortunately, I am one of the few who actually read (most of) the books I buy. At least… the ones that don’t lose my interest about two thirds of the way through.
This is my double Elevenie for NaPoWriMo 2017.
April 22, 2017
photo by Charley
Hopefully anticipating a day of rain.
Photo by Charley
along the hillside
in layers horizontal.
They will hold
the rain, the soil.
Our garden is set to feed
the family and friends that gather.
The she-wolf only takes
what she requires for her and her cubs.
Never have rabbits… nor eagles
biggie-sized their meals.
Squirrels distain cling-wrap.
While legions strive
the virtues and evils
surrounding oil transport
over and against
we ride out bikes out
into the countryside to enjoy
the rejuvenation that comes
from rubbing shoulders with the dwindling….
For Earth Day and NaPoWriMo 2017.