Poet’s Apology

Every day I write some words.
Colourful, silly, oblique, absurd.
Some I decide not to display.
I wrap them up, hide them away.

They’re not worthy to be aired,
should not be published, never shared . . .
until a month or so from now
when I rediscover them and think “Wow!”

Then I’ll subject the reader to
eye-rolling prose — the text I spew.
Sorry!

While Waiting

1.

Summer refuses to retire. He white-knuckle
clasps hold, a tired toddler to his blanket.
Creatures lethargically crawl like slugs in mud,
panting as they travel through fiery days.

2.

The ziziphus is groaning with red berries which
makes the tree squirrel annoyingly chatter
and shake his bushy tail at every creature who
dares set foot or wing near his buffalo thorn.

3.

Bright citrus notes explode on waiting tongues
each morning. The scent of orange oil zest
fills the tiny kitchen and wafts down hallways.
I can still, hours later, taste the acerbic fruit.

4.

Bright swaths of red, orange and yellow bathe
the backyard, sending insects into rapture.
Like little bridal bouquets, they proudly stand
spreading their lantana poison to grazers.

5.

Untold moments tick by. I arrange and rearrange
the pencils, pens and paper across my desk.
A little war plays out within me, one side wanting
you to come, one part dreading your arrival.

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Yesterday I read a beautiful cadralor. So today I thought I’d try my hand at one.

(The cadralor was co-created in August of 2020 by Lori Howe and Christopher Cadra. A cadralor is a poem that:
1. Contains 5, numbered stanzas of up to 10 lines each;
2. Maintains consistency in number of lines in all stanzas;
3. Maintains approximate consistency in line lengths across all stanzas;
4. Is a non-narrative poem;
5. Is an imagist poem. The cadralor is a collection of word images, much like a set of five short clips from different films or five unrelated photographs;
6. Is a vivid poem that avoids cliché)

more death

I’ve run out of words
that mean sorry.
sympathy
condolences
solace
sorry sorry sorry
Say it enough
and the meaning is squeezed out
like a wet towel.
sorry sorry sorry

I can rail for you —
slam my fist through a plate glass window,
curse fate,
scream in anger,
sneer at the open sky.

I can divert you —
talk about the weather,
relate an amusing story,
regurgitate the late night news,
share a recipe.

Instead
I sit —
hands in my lap,
frozen face,
empty head.

My heart hurts bad.

In this place
there are no words.

Scopus umbretta

Funny-looking pelican-bird
wading in the water,
looking for plump tadpoles
and juicy frogs,
taking a tea break from housebuilding
(your fourth of the year,
but who’s counting?).

Soon-to-be-mama
calls you back to business:
Yip yip yip purr yip yip!
Take her a plucky toad for appeasement.
She’s inside the nearly completed nest.
You drop the amphibian at her feet
and sail down to the riverine floor,
pick up a large stick
and transport it up to the construction site.
Sturdy floor and cupped walls
are nestled in the WHY of a fat sycamore fig.
You prop the limb between wall and roof
and your helpmate pulls it into place below you.

Puffing out your chest
you hold your hammerhead high,
proud of your grand mansion.
Leguaans and eagles,
owls and genets,
heck! even bees
covet your voluminous abode.
Yip yip yip yip!
You are getting scolded.
Focus, buddy!
Down you go . . .
only two-thousand-odd twigs to go
(but who’s counting?).

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Over at dVerse, Kim is challenging us to write a poem which focuses on a creature building its home.
Hamerkops are fascinating nest builders. Pairs work together constructing their huge aerie in the fork of a large tree. The completed home is 2 metres high and 1½ metres wide and is strong enough to have a full-grown man stand on top of the roof without it caving in!

Faith

Faith has hands which reach up and out
even when no one takes them.
Faith dances for the rain under sunny skies
and believes when hope,
like rain-fed rivers,
runs dry.
Faith puts lights on window sills
and sets an extra place at the dinner table.
Faith has roots
which reach to the centre of the world
and draw up life.
Faith is the heart of the heart
and the core of the core.
Faith listens
and loves
and knows.

Leaving Home

He left on a Sunday
after
the midday meal (meatloaf and mash),
four hugs
and
a promise to write.

I pressed into his hands
padkos wrapped in tin.
When he stopped for tea,
he’d find:
my heart —
upon it etched a map
labeled “home.”

****************************************

It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse and De is hosting, inviting us to pen a Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words) containing the word map. Why not join us? 😊

Today {palinoded}

Today
is red
like geraniums
in bright blue window boxes.
Today
is butterscotch drops
and
chocolate milkshakes
and
rolling down hills of verdant grass.
Today
is twelve-years-old
with brand new roller skates.
Today
is laughing
until happy tears
squeeze out of eyes
and sides are sore.
Today
keeps sighing
contentment.

And I told Today:
Just you wait!
There’s trouble ahead!
The world’s going to hell
and tomorrow is Monday!

And
Today
giggled,
hopscotching down the road.
Glancing back
over the shoulder
Today sang:
Tomorrow’s a holiday!

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Day 30 of GloPoWriMo.
Today’s prompt:

Write a palinode. (A palinode is a poem in which the poet retracts a view or sentiment expressed in a former poem.

The first recorded use of a palinode is in a poem by Stesichorus in the 7th century BC, in which he retracts his earlier statement that the Trojan War was all the fault of Helen.

The word comes from the Greek παλινῳδία from πάλιν (palin, meaning ‘back’ or ‘again’) and ᾠδή (“song”).

In 1895, Gelett Burgess wrote his famous poem, the Purple Cow:

I never saw a purple cow.
I never hope to see one.
But I can tell you anyhow
I’d rather see than be one.

Later in his life, he followed it with this palinode:

Ah yes, I wrote the purple cow!
I’m sorry now I wrote it!
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’ll kill you if you quote it!

My palinode is a retraction of Today written on 11 April.

Mac ‘n’ Cheese

1.

It is a deep, creamy dish of golden comfort.
Luxurious and gooey, sharp and tangy,

a velvety sauce helps it slide right down.
It is quiet and calm, full of motherly love.

It is not rocket science: fat and starch,
dairy and grain in a perfect marriage.

I will wrap you in a warm glow, it croons.
I will help all the anxiety melt away.

And tomorrow, it sings, you can have rich leftovers
and I will console and soothe you again.

2.

This pretender is a harsh neon-orange
filled with industrial food substitutes.

It is opulently full of preservatives with an artificial tang.
It tastes like the box it came in.

I am cheap, it says. A great solace for the pocketbook.
I am fast, it declares. A short, sharp hit of dopamine.

I am popular, it brags. A million meals each day!
Once again, convenience and cost make the victor,

while good taste, extended time and well-being are pushed aside.
But even the dog won’t touch the remains.

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Day 29 of GloPoWriMo.
Today’s prompt:

Start by reading Alberto Rios’s poem “Perfect for Any Occasion.” Now, write a two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal. At some point in the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person. Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.

Index of Poem Ideas

ambition often exceeds capability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
cats know the answers, but they’re not sharing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
i’m a bit off balance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
last year i raised spinach; this year I’m growing courage . . . . . . . . . . 6
my teeth have grown too big for my mouth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
need death cleaning; have no time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
no try — no fly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
red geraniums are pockets of joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
spiders are so misunderstood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
sunshine can feel like daggers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
tortoises are cool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
there’s a world within an avocado . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

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Day 28 of GloPoWriMo.
Today’s prompt:

Write an index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index.

This is a fun and silly poem (is it a poem?). I liked this idea from Brian Bilston:

The Dung Beetle of Dreams

This russet realm is unfathomable.
It’s all hazy beyond the now.
Uncertain days ahead: hold on tight!
We fly like dug beetles of dreams
on toward the next pile of shit
hoping we don’t have to
push too hard,
roll too long,
maneuver too much
in order to plant those prime seeds.
It’s a challenge just
opening our eyes each Malibu Monday
searching for the hope,
seeing the possibility.
Hours grow shorter like trolls,
sand keeps falling through curves and cracks.
No chance of going back
to GO,
so — we press on:
squeezing our eyes shut,
imprinting nails on our palms,
walking the next road to Calvary
praying it leads us home.

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Day 27 of GloPoWriMo.
Today’s prompt:

Begin by reading Bernadette Mayer’s poem “The Lobelias of Fear.” Now write your own poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun. The poem should contain at least one simile that plays on double meanings or otherwise doesn’t quite make “sense,” and describe things or beings from very different times or places as co-existing in the same space.