Wednesday, April 24, 2019

NaPoWriMo Day 24...Titanium

I opened my synonym book to a wonderful page that began with 'coalesce'. It's become a new favorite word. Also, I had to get a little nerdy and use some work vernacular...Also, fun fact, did you know that when heat above 600 degrees C is applied to titanium that it will ignite, and nothing can stop its burn?

Titanium 

We are titanium 
strong, unyielding 
but it took us  
through sponge 
and weld fire, 
white hot arc, 
for us to coalesce. 

It took us years  
to find our elements 
co-mingled, but now 
together we forge 
new patterns 
tempered. 

Our bodies burned  
into the furnace 
fire and pressure, 
we ignite 
as if our bodies 
held starlight. 

Tuesday, April 23, 2019

NaPoWriMo Day 23...The Fox

My animal poem is about a fox I encountered on my daily walk back in Washington State. I've long pondered our meeting, and how long he watched me from the road. How did I appear? As a fool or as prey? Oblivious to the natural world?

The Fox 

Naïve to set my shoes on his path 
where his paws touched the earth, 
where he hunted the vole under the brambles. 
I ignored the scat, so obviously placed, 
and the burnt orange fur clipped by thorns, 
or his small tracks, precise and neat. 
I am fool enough to think he stumbled on me; 
deaf and bumbling, I stumbled on him. 
How long he watched me as I moved 
loud and thoughtless, a merry-go-round. 
He watched me with his careful eyes, 
as if he too considered me easy prey, 
a mouse or marmot he could sink his teeth 
until he got bored and flashed in front of me, 
crossed the road and paused for one second, 
glanced over his muscular shoulder 
and then deemed me unworthy. 

Monday, April 22, 2019

NaPoWriMo Day 22...Portrait in Gray

I love writing ekphrastic poems. In fact, yesterday's poem was an ekphrastic. I always find I can create my own story when writing poetry from a painting or photo and some of my best poems some out of this type poetry. I wrote this one from “Muse” by Laura Christensen. You can see some of her portraits here.

Portrait in Gray

You have old eyes, your past
life framed black and white

packed away on tintypes,
but you’ve since colored yourself,

swung into the lake with full clothes,
seeped in its indigo blue.

You collect trout scales
to adorn your skin with rainbows,

and hide your memories
under the sturgeon’s fin.

Fish gather as many lives as you do
dwelling at the bottom of the lake,

muscular and lean, they churn
futures into the red-brown deep

and you find in the water that time
is never the enemy, it is the quiet

pressure urging you to grow gills
and breathe.

Sunday, April 21, 2019

NaPoWriMo Day 21...Portrait of Minette

My surrealist poem is an ekphrastic based off of a painting by Camille Pissarro. The painting is of his daughter who passed away about a year after the portrait below was painted.

Portrait of Minette by Camille Pissarro


Portrait of Minette 

You moved death as a collection of furniture; 
you tried to do away with it, rip it apart; 
yet it insisted on its presence in your home. 
Violent blue, a powder of gypsum and plaster; 
weightless it turned her cheeks gray in the candle light. 
You loved her little body; you loved her blue, blue. 
You moved death around her like dining furniture, 
any time she tired, you had her curl up on the ground, 
lay down on the Persian rug, and trace her finger 
on its design, conducting her dream world blue; 
One day, she sat and rested when you weren’t looking, 
all of the textiles filled her mouth and stitched it shut. 
You found her wrapped in the rug, with birds around her 
trying to steal her hair for their winter nests. 

Saturday, April 20, 2019

NaPoWriMo Day 20...Melancholy: A Disease

I tried to write a poem that talks, but I don't know if I was successful...

Melancholy: A Disease 

Tears come from a warm place of rage, 
an incubator of flesh and blood 
little seeds all of them, planting sadness 
all over sidewalks, clothes, and bathrooms 
and that is how it spreads, 
a contagion. 
You can feel its miasma in the air, 
it clutches your breath, steals your speech. 
If you look at tears under a microscope,
you will find a journey with a million feet, 
hungry mouths, the midnight hour 
when all of the sad people beg for sleep. 
No antibiotic or rubbing alcohol can rid this disease. 
It's on all of us like yeasts and germs waiting 
to intrude through our thin skin, 
waiting to replicate itself a million times 
until the host dies, reborn as an entity, 
a blue amoeba, a parasitic sadness that feeds.