End of the Thirty Day Challenge

Thirty days

of tying up
words

with
syllabic laces,

of forcing
words into

uncomfortable
places,

and wondering if
they have life

or drift into stasis.

Thirty days

of chasing the poet

through her paces.

Thirty days

of worrying
words to death

in most cases.

Doggerel

CHAPTER V.

LADIES' TOY DOGS

The Aristocratic Pug

settles down most admirably

in the ways of ease and luxury.

The Peevish Poodle might

in a temper bite.

Words slightly rearranged from an old book The Dog by Stonehenge,

Revised by George Armatage, printed in Great Britain (no date).

Twilight Fragment

The last brown bird

has hopped away

to nest in bushes

wrapped in shade

and under stars

that barely shine

the darkness slowly rises.

Stubborn Spring

It's still cold for spring,

but the twisted branches

are trying hard to obey

the later lingering light,

are trying hard to burst

into leaf, but hover in bud.



It's still cold for spring,

but I keep poking sticks

into the lawn, the garden,

the compost, the mulch,

distressed that the sticks

stop short

where the soil lies

cold and hard.

"I am still dead," says the soil.

"Leave me be, leave me free

of seeds and digging wigglers.

It's still cold for spring,

and I feel no Easter warmth

rising through my bones."



No wonder the twisted branches

cannot obey the pastel pink sunset

setting later daily

with such

stubborn

cold

soil

blanketing their tree-toes.

It Is Raining Again

It is raining again:

spare drops at 3 a.m.

steady spritz at 4:30,

a cup of tea and a walk

in the raining again;

fine droplets on one still pond at 6,

an anarchy of splatters on another

by noon, fed by

the rain again;

and the water streams

into streams,

floods flooded lawns,

bubbles mud puddles,

wets webs and mists nests,

all dripping drops

till it seems to stop

but no --

it is raining again.

Anaphora Leaning Back into the Mist

In ancient Chinese paintings

everything is mist:

mountain tops hint at massive

bases hidden in mist,

serpentine pathways

twist into distant mist,

water falls splash-free

into hissing mist,

solid temples and shelters

breathe mist

fabrics draping graceful figures

veil like mist,

perhaps a dark blade of bamboo

pierces the foreground mist,

but the stand behind

already lists into mist.




"Anaphora is a literary term for the practice of repeating certain words or phrases at the beginning of multiple clauses or, in the case of a poem, multiple lines." Today's prompt from - http://www.napowrimo.net/ --- My title, "Anaphora Leaning Back into the Mist" suggests my reversed use of anaphora, since the definition suggests the repetition occurs at the beginning of the lines, and I have placed mine at the end.

Oasis

Atomic ants trill on the TV

but I'm not afraid you see;

I can drown them out completely

with my wave sound machine

because I have the luxury

of only imaginary

fears.

Gray

wind runs whitecaps across the pond

rain splashes rapids into gullies



but on the lee side of the feeder

the yellow sun of one goldfinch

Learning to Sit

Cool granite bench with celadon lichen

gently rocks under me.



Sun-warmed Spring Azure

rubs his lower wings rhythmically.


Mated pair of geese drown out
a camera club and the waterfall
. . . briefly.



Woodpeckers' aligned holes

for a giant's flute

slant along a hollow tree.



Only quiet enough to frighten wildlife,

not to see them

but to hear them

slide or splash into the water,

scream and dive under leaf litter 

suddenly.



Wood frogs sound like ducks
(pleased with my knowledge)
but today they are

ducks

not wood frogs

(easy to fool me).




So when I return home

from sitting

I will look up the Spring Blooming Arbutus

to see



if it is.

Chase

driving for hours

we watched for

flowers

signs of spring

wildlife



while we were gone

a lone grouse

grazed our

cast off seeds

and left

Roadside

boxes for wood ducks

tilt over still water

reflecting a cell tower tree



platforms for osprey

top poles in silhouette against

massive white power plant scrubbers



stewards of the earth vie

with engineers of change

seeking balance in an unnaturalized world

Another Lifetime

If I were dust on the wind,

I would travel far and wide,

nestle amid the sands of time,

whisper magical words in rhyme

to all who struggle against the tide,

teach their dreams and wishes to fly

free as dust on the wind.

It's Not Spring Until Easter

their cold buds clenched

in tiny yellow fists

daffodils

and marsh marigolds

refuse to bloom

too soon

Speeding By Stillness

huddled in curled leaves

gentle brown ground bird

one dark eye staring

Spring One Month In

stunned goldfinch, titmouse

stand on the fly-up feeder

stare at the ice dam blocking

their dining tray, wait for the

waitress to scrape and refill

and discreetly disappear

Terza Rima for Turtles

Rain
splashes gravel road and rocks;

wind sweeps
the sheltered pond

and slides
the turtles off the dock.

Churning
water framed by fronds

hinting
where the turtles glide:

no longer
near they are beyond

in brackish
water gone to hide.

This is a brief experiment with terza rima, used for more dignified purposes by Dante in The Divine Comedy. The "chained" rhyme pattern is aba, bcb, cdc, etc. with a last single line rhyming with the middle line of the previous stanza.

Squirrel Feeder

not a red squirrel

chipping angrily

at all comers . . .

but a gray squirrel

hunched to feed

from the chipped rung

of the cedar feeder,

around whom gather

the chickadees,

goldfinches,

nuthatches,

sparrows,

titmice . . .

sharing . . .



How could I

bang on the glass

to scatter this

peaceable kingdom?

Expectations

Like someone
standing too close,

spring

exhales

warm humid
breath,

presses

dampness
into our house,

wipes

every
surface sticky.

A spring
more suited to summer,

at work
everyone was saying:

‘It’s going
to be one of those

years we don’t
get any spring.

It’s going
straight into summer.’

Why do we
expect

gentle
transitions

on a planet
prone to

sudden tectonic
quakes,

cascading
mud slides,

violent webs
of lightning,

wild
contorted winds,

cold crushing
ice,

blinding dunes
of snow,

drought-driven
dust storms?

Like
someone standing too close,

spring

exhales

hot humid
breath,

leans

into summer.

     

"It Doesn't Rhyme"

Another

‘it doesn’t
rhyme’ time:

just a bunch
of chopped

syllabic
sounds

bro

ken

with

apparent

ran

dom

ness

to imply

the

spo

ken

poetic voice.

on the way to darkness . . .

from rainy days

neither light nor dark;

from twilight before night

neither blue nor black;

from its twilight twin before dawn

neither dark nor light

like a whisper

neither silent nor loud;

like a mist

neither wet nor dry;

like a dream near waking

neither asleep nor awake

but mystically magical -

nature's breath held

in anticipation

of change.

night was not dark

when i was
little

and farmhouses

shut their
bright eyes early

so that the
early might rise,

night was
not dark

for more
stars

than i can
imagine true now

drizzled a
mist of light

across sky’s
canvas

a Milky Way
of dreams . . .

i could see

every night

every star

every light

with eyes
shut.

Ice Out

swift icebreaker

gliding between miniature icebergs

~ a tiny duck

Refuge

Every aspect of our lives is, in a sense, a vote for the
kind of world we want to live in.

                                             ~ Frances Moore Lappé ~

Four walls of books,

upstairs and down,

thin music sheets amid them;

winds and strings on couch, stand,

floor, and shelf;

greenery in pottery and teapots,

waving underwater in the fish-free tank

only inhabited by my blown glass

never-will-sicken-and-die-

Thai fighting fish, hand-painted;

upstairs and down,

art, not all, though close to, solely,

egotistically mine;

cookbooks ranked by reach:

unfavored high and

packed immovable,

favored meatless tipped out,

removable;

dishware decorated

with herbs and flowers

to warm New England winters,

and color comfort foods . . .

and should I dare to open

the outside door and listen . . .

wind chimes and water,

finches and frogs,

to be identified by

four walls of books.

Quotation found at this resource: http://ivyjoy.com/quote.shtml. Frances Moore Lappé is the author of Diet for a Small Planet.

Night Rain

rain begins

let a little rain fall down

let a little mist seep through

let a little breeze blow in

let a little moist breath

whisper

whisper spring to soil

whisper spring to worm

whisper spring where

rain begins

Elusive Spell

wisp of cloud

faint of heart

dream of power

end to start

thirteenth hour

all not part





(Third day prompt, write a charm.)

Lune for Spring

Our pond ice,

but one town away, father

and son fish.

Across their pond, 

a single fisherman's bright orange

jacket shouts hello!

Their pond reflecting

blue sky, wind speeding clouds:

one shared Spring.

Not shared here,

one town away, I wait;

our pond waits.

NOTE: A lune is a simplified form of haiku. It counts words instead of syllables: 3, 5, 3. Here I strung together 4 'lune' verses.

Never Say Die

hunger acrobatics

dangles the spring-dazzled squirrel

upside sideways sways

nose pinched in the weight-triggered trap

but sometimes just often enough

muckles a muzzleful of sunflower

and tumbles down to ground

to capture shaken seeds

Aquatic Politics

Lifelessly still,

he lurks lazily between faux moss rocks:

my genuine

"handmade fighting fish art glass blown sea animal figurine"

from a collection where

"the items are not come from china!"

the ad said

complete with exclamation point

and lack of capital

demoting china from a proper place

to a lower case place beneath Thailand, capitalized,

"all of them are made by artisan in Thailand"

which as we all know

is the true home

not only of the

"handmade fighting fish art glass blown sea animal figurine"

but of betta,

genuine Siamese fighting fish,

such as mine

who no longer swims under the filter's waterfall

nor threads through the "MADE IN CHINA" plastic rock arches

nor lies lazily on the "MADE IN CHINA" faux moss rocks . . .

perhaps if

the moss rocks and rock arches

were MADE IN THAILAND

and not MADE IN CHINA

he would have felt more at home.

winter epitaph

winter's gone

to grass tufts

mashed trash

so long

long snow

Looking for Frost

end of March

run to the window

any frost on the car?

'cause now it's just a nuisance



end of September

run to the window

any frost anywhere?

summer was so hot



six or sixteen

run to the window

     reflection, do I look any older yet?

sixty

walk to the window

     reflection, not in such a hurry to check.