Day 30 #napowrimo - day 24 #the100dayproject - Almost Rain

I decided to write an acrostic poem for my final napowrimo poem. But this is not good-bye! I will be writing a poem a day for the 100 day project, officially starting on 5/1.

Almost Rain

Right now,
eternity circles back into
time, but I only
understand how the water in a
river surges with rain or how the
night is always followed by a
sunrise.

Day 29 #napowrimo - day 23 #the100dayproject - The Dark One

The Dark One

You moved darkness with your form

and so we named you shadow;

the only kitten born in the litter

without fur white as clouds.

You inherited the night into

your fur; you did not glisten

with light, you absorbed it.

You matured and your muscles

grew lean, honed for the kill.

Your true form emerged

in twilight as you wedged yourself

deep into long grass, beneathe

oak trees, where you waited

for creatures to scurry past,

the night sky a witness to the blood

and spent fur, your hungry massacre.

Day 28 #napowrimo - day 22 #the100dayproject - A Room of One’s Own

We were tasked today to write of a room that we remember. My room is my office back in my old home in Connecticut.

A Room of One’s Own

On the second floor, I walk into my room

With its aged carpet, a gray overcast,

And its crooked closet doors about to

Fall off of their hinges. My bookshelves

heaped and straining with tomes of poetry.

The windows white paint chipped,

baseboard clicking awake to warm

my space. The smell of grapefruit

and jasmine; my desk tucked into a corner

covered in the colors of knickknacks

and homemade ceramic pots, lopsided,

filled with bookmarks, pencils and pens.

Perched on top, an open notebook,

Its pale lined pages like my open palms

asking to be filled.

Day 27 #napowrimo - day 21 #the100dayproject - Homemade Cocktails

My review of my own drink....

Homemade Cocktails

The mint could be more muddled,

the cucumber more thinly sliced.

The ice cubes are gigantic and

every time I tip my glass,

they hit me in the lip.

I want fresh lime juice,

but I get the leftovers

from a week before

a hint and aftertaste

of refrigerator

Then the glass sweats

Leaving a pale rim on

my end table,

but the half ounce

of rum and orange

liqueur obscures

that it is served

in a coffee mug.

Day 26 #napowrimo - day 20 #the100dayproject - Almanac

Day 26 of #napowrimo and I'm finding that my mind is going to some strange places...maybe I'm going stir-crazy....

Almanac

Flora is the closest thing to fluorescent flowers

the bread bloated, needing to be kneaded

with wheat flour. The tassels swaying in the wind,

the fauna moving in the wind. The chickadee

with the cotton tuft in its mouth like a moth

batting its wings in terror, knowing its death.

Even the beautiful birds are carnivorous

And digest the proteins of the ant and worm.

As do I, the meat of my sustenance, I gather

Around me; I will make my nest out of cotton

Batting its wings in terror. Stuff it with

Sorrow and sunshine, sew it up with my aching

Bones, the herring bone stitch made from

the ivory whites of my knuckles and knees.

The weather outside contains itself with

Its overcast shadow, an architecture

Of rain and clouds and I have always found

That mammals are the animals of milk,

Reptiles the monsters of milk, eggs

Hardened milk, fragile and soft at first,

Then they harden like the base of the skull.

I ripen into my dreams, graffiti my body

With love and conspiracy theories. I wear

My hometown like a dress made of street names,

The numbers on the sides of my houses.

And those become my numbers, too,

My securities and identities to dole out

What I believe is true of myself, the numbers

Are proof of my memories that I can look

Out any window and see myself reflected back

Like a myth written in an old book, yellowed

With sunlight and time.

I am the night story

No longer read aloud, but read silently

Like a letter to myself that I rewrite onto

A postcard to someone I do not know;

Someone who walks the boundaries and borders,

Margins and alleyways of my animal instincts,

Maybe the streetlight will unshadow

That person and of course that person will always be

myself.

Day 25 #napowrimo - day 19 #the100dayproject - Descent

This was a really weird prompt, but I followed it as closely as I could and ended up with a stream of conscious hodge podge. But I feel like there are gems in here that I could use somewhere else...

Descent

I hold a drink in my hand while I listen to you,

The cup the color of clear ochre and inside,

Amaro and pistachio liqueur pools and swirls

With the ice cubes and the small segments

Of lime pulp and slivers of zest like bits of

Green potato peel. Your voice resounds

With a lisp, spittle and saliva gesticulating

Into a poetry about life and all the details

Of the day and you always bring it back

To the years and the months and the days.

We span time without a timeline, nothing

Is linear. It feels like a road map that we

Follow, but time it is more like shining

A light through a prism, where the beams

Spread out like our fingers, all the colors.

We bike into the present as we race down

The hills we climb, up and down, up and down,

Down, Down, Down, Down, Down, Down.

And after all the grit from the road,

The taste of cedar and asphalt,

Particulates of tires and our cars

Pounding the roads into sand, we wonder

If the river could take us into the sky,

We wonder if we keep pedaling off the

Face of this earth. We will only end up

Falling off the dock into a lake, or bay,

Or into the surf.

And that is the surf

Our bodies made of beach, the thick

Grains of sand made of granite,

Each one holding the colors of rose

And Brute Champagne. All of the molecules

Like bubbles that we could drink, salt

And sweet. When I surf, I can feel the rise

Of the water taking me up like an airplane,

The sound of the earth’s engine rushing

Me up and into me as if I too were a tidal

Being, that I could grow fins and gills

And churn the ocean enough to make waves.

This body disappoints me, this pale meat

Insists, determines, thinks, is. Demands

The sustenance of breath and food and sleep.

I am tired of the daily bread of my body,

The ache of bone and joint, the insecure

Pain of opening the window blinds

To bring in the world, to bring in the morning.

“Did they teach you the intrinsic value of stocks,”

The bullion, the golden finch, the wool winnowed

Into golden thread. In a world where everyone wants

Gold and money; I want adventure. I want the value

Of experience, the tip of the toe desperation, knife

In hand survival instinct. I want the bear in the woods

To greet me at my door and welcome herself in.

I want to find myself in the silence of the grass,

The hush of tree bark. I want to find my copper

And brass to weigh more than mansions and cars.

I want a lot of things, but there is nothing more

But to release this hollow want from my throat,

As if it to has a body of its own, hands, fingers,

Throat, a throat within a throat, I have so much

To speak that these hands are a second throat

That I can speak and write, write and speak

And empty this fullness growing inside of me.

That is not even enough, but it quiets when I

See the earth light into fire, the sky illuminating

Into the blood red of sunset.

I grow silent too

When I ride my bike down a slope, the anticipation

Of falling of being suspended into the air, the risk.

I grow frequent and plentiful into this life

As if it could hold me like a cup filled with

Lime juice. I pucker my lips, the sour

A reminder that a body feels; I am lived.

Day 24 #napowrimo - day 18 #the100dayproject - Pineapple

Pineapple

I pick it up with its spiky crown,

grip its rough, scaled body;

a blush of yellow at the bottom

and gradient of green to its top.

Some people recommend pulling

a segment of its crown to determine

if it’s ripe or not, but I sniff its bottom.

If it’s ripe, it smells like morning and

sunshine, it smells like a yawn and

a full body stretch, the budding

of jasmine and a sliver of ginger.

If it’s unripe, it smells like nothing.

When I find the right one, I carry it

under the crook of my arm, precious

cargo. At home, I sharpen my big knife

and separate crown and bottom

with a fibrous thump. And there,

the sunburst of yellow flesh, core

tough and thick like a piece of wood.

I sit it up on my cutting board

and shear off its spiny flesh,

scale by scale, side by side,

my hands burning with its juice and pulp.

Seeds and specs of skin exposed,

and it is naked, yellow, a gorgeous

shape, like the glass top of a lantern

illuminating every corner of the kitchen.

I cut and slice, divide its brightness into

cubes, each one a geometry of starlight

or the physical capture of a sunbeam.

I can bite into that flesh and take that light,

digest it into myself, illuminate like a star

in the night, explode into a solar system.

I’ve tasted the stars and the milky way;

I’ve tasted the planets and sunshine

and they tasted sweet.

Day 23 #napowrimo - day 17 #the100dayproject - B

Today’s prompt asks us to write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or the letters that form a short word. I chose to write a poem with a letter…

B

Write a 3 first and then write I and 3,

it makes B. There is a thirteen, I 3, in B.

A number in a letter, or a one and a three.

Three combinations of numbers in a B,

1, 3, I3. Doesn’t the 3 look like BooBs? Or

a rounded Butt? And isn’t it fitting

that both words start with B?

And Brittany starts with B for BooBs,

Butt, Butter, Buns and Butterfly.

B is such a yellow letter, full of sunshine

And naked Body parts, the sand on a Beach;

the Beige walls of a Building; all of them Beautiful

B’s.

Day 22 #napowrimo - day 16 #the100dayproject - Ghazal

I'm on prompt today by borrowing a Hindi phrase and crafting a ghazal around it.

जंगल मेँ मोर नाचा किसने देखा? (jangal mein mor naca kisne dekha)

Direct translation: Peacock danced in the forest, who saw?

Ghazal

I combed my fingers through your hair as you slept

and a peacock danced in the forest, who saw?

I washed the floors and cleaned the dishes

and a bear danced in the forest, who saw?

I fluffed your pillows and hung up your suits

and a tiger danced in the forest, who saw?

I scrubbed the toilet bowl and the stained sink

and a monkey danced in the forest, who saw?

I whispered I love you and it was lost in our bed sheets

and a cobra danced in the forest, who saw?

I made you coffee with sugar and a dollop of cream

and an elephant danced in the forest, who saw?

I walked down the forest trail and never came back,

who saw?

I took my clothes off and danced naked in the forest,

who saw?

Day 21 #napowrimo - day 15 #the100dayproject - The Golden Finch

Today's prompt I found Inchjostru by Patrizia Gattaceca and then crafted my own poem based off of the homophonic translation of her poem. My poem ended up being a bit nonsensical, but it was fun and challenging to try this out.

INCHJOSTRU

Inchjostru sangue nostru

Sognu viaghju o segnu

Goccia à goccia piuvana

Acqua per la mio terra

Moru frombu di mare

Sale u vechju rimbeccu

Mughja l’anticu mostru

Cù la primiera notte

In chjostru

Avvene ch’ùn vi pare

Più vi risona l’eccu

Di u silenziu à la sarra

A sperenza ci và è

L’inchjostru ci si sparghje

In chjostru...

The Golden Finch

Flinch through song, these instruments

can segregate the violin in secrets.

Go see and go see, peer into the vain

water of existence. The musical terror

morns the front of a marquee,

sailing over the velvet red walk.

Magic antiques the most

celebrated, the prime note

in staccato, in avenues

churning, we part. Pews,

lined with reason and accents,

divide the silence of the savior

and the sacrament of our bodies.

A finch flies just through and chimes of strings

and changes the beak, the mouth, the only instrument.

Day 20 #napowrimo - day 14 #the100dayproject - Homemade from Reno, NV

Homemade from Reno, NV

You found those bits of oak leaf

on a hike near Lake Tahoe and

collaged them on top of a photo

of pool water cut from a magazine.

You signed your name with a heart

and two years since you sent it

to say Merry Christmas and we

still have it. The edges of glue

yellowing from sunlight, the leaves

deteriorating.

Broke, fresh out of

college, living in a town far from home.

young and naive with your ambitions;

you want to save the world.

And I wanted to shelter you from

The truth. That none of it is as easy

                                           as it seems.

But you made this in the small space

of your shared apartment, bought

a stick of glue with your last dollar

and a postage stamp with your credit card.

I have not words except you’ve already

saved us, you’ve saved the world.

Day 19 #napowrimo - day 13 #the100dayproject - E Pluribus Unum - Out of Many, One

I had a lot of fun writing this one...

E Pluribus Unum - Out of Many, One

They only show themselves

when I’m least expecting it;

I can’t search for them,

they’ll know and hide themselves

between the cracks of the sidewalk

or under the shade of dandelion leaves.

But when I come upon them,

I know something good

will happen, and that good

always arrives in threes.

They are the forgotten ones

their rough edges ground into

concrete or asphalt, grit and dirt,

obscuring our dear Lincoln.

A great president run over

by car tires, stepped on,

spit on, left behind,

dropped, and tossed.

Not worth the effort

of bending over and wedging

a fingernail underneath

to lift one cent up.

What is a penny worth

except the confirmation

of my superstition.

Picture me slathering

my collection with hand

sanitizer when I get home

from my walk, all of the

green blooming on his face;

more corrosion than

he ever had to handle

of corruption in his lifespan.

How hard he worked

to gather our broken

pieces into his hands.

And now look, all of his labor

disregarded, undone,

with the sweep

of a fake coppertoned hand.

Day 18 #napowrimo - day 12 #the100dayproject - Ode to the Scent of Spring

Today's prompt was to write a poem about a small pleasure. Yesterday I walked outside of my home and the scent of spring hit me, I took a deep breath and it smelled like sunlight, grass, trees, growth, honey bees, pollen, everything. The smell of Spring is everything, and just a small breath of its aroma is a pleasure.

Ode to the Scent of Spring

The earth smells as if it is sleeping

in a hammock, bathing in sunbeams.

It takes a deep breath

and relaxes its muscles.

After a long winter, the sun

warms the ground and

earth ripens into a musk

of growth, soil and roots

digging deeper, tree branches

stretching, so knotted from frost,

they roll their shoulders. The leaves

curled tight to stay warm, now

they unfurl themselves like hands

offering to hold the sunlight,

to store it and keep it a little longer.

It’s the smell of greening, landscapes

sighing in relief as they release

their leaves and shake out their tassels,

filled with honey gold pollen.

It’s the aroma of earth gaining momentum;

the sun and shadows frolicking,

chasing one another, drunk on

the perfume of awakening.

Day 17 #napowrimo - day 11 #the100dayproject - The Fax Machine

For today's prompt, we were enlisted to write a poem about obsolete technology....

The Fax Machine

It still occupies the forgotten

corners of offices beneath water stained

ceiling tiles, next to tired coffee machines.

There are occasions when it rumbles,

takes a breath, and spits out a paper or two.

Only once in a while, a secretary punches

in numbers, lines up papers, and offers

them to the machine, like prayer or alms

to keep it moving through hard times.

Then it orchestrates dial tones

like a wind-up music box from the old days.

When the cubicle dwellers hear it,

they think it could be a bird

that flew through an open window

or a mouse squeaking in the HVAC.

But it’s just the relic with its aura

of toner, the dry aerosol a thumbprint

In the air to mark its territory.

Everyone ready with expletives

To describe the awkward beast,

Its yellowing plastic and the musical

sounds of connection, completion

followed by uncertainty. Somewhere

a copy of something was sent, and always

the fear that it gets there, somewhere,

or nowhere, in some form.

Day 16 #napowrimo - day 10 #the100dayproject - Ode to the Cherry Tree

It's already day 16! Today we were tasked to write a poem that praises someone or something.

Ode to the Cherry Tree

In the morning you powder yourself

with blush and a most delicate rouge;

your blooms shine the pinkest light through my window.

All your petals tender like the clouds

colored by sunrise and sunset;

they confetti the sidewalk to give

a party favor to anyone who walks by.

Your body stretches outward like

the Amazon’s river delta, branching

branching. Your heights scrape the skyline,

each cluster of blossoms a type of feather duster

to clean these city streets, this polluted sky.

You grow into Spring every year to save humanity

and keep the whole world spinning.

Day 15 #napowrimo - day 9 #the100dayproject - Gnossiennes No. 1

Today, I wrote about music, which has always been my inspiration for poetry. Not a day has gone by in my life that music has not been a part of me, physically in me. I remember taking the small key board my brother gave to me when I was four and I started playing full songs by ear. Key by key, I taught myself to listen to sound, the rhythm, the melody and harmony and the piano became my tool for music. It was only when my music teachers started forcing me to learn theory that my obsession and passion died. I was listening to Erik Satie, and it always reminds me of the day my music died.

Gnossiennes No. 1

I learned

music with my ears,

with the vibration on my skin,

the calluses on my fingertips

as I played between

the mysteries and spaces,

between tune and key.

At one time,

I was free

in the landscape of sound,

curving my ear around

the shape of harmony.

But then,

they saw my talent

and forced me to make music

with my eyes. Overnight

I became

a displaced person

in a foreign country

unable to speak

the language

of my oppressor.

I could not feel

the whole or half note.

Music

forced onto staffs

and the little flags on notes,

into a form that I could

                            not translate.

Day 14 #napowrimo - day 8 #the100dayproject - The Riad

I didn't follow today's prompt, but I did write a poem!

The Riad

Lily, myrtle, & woodsmoke;

salt & bread on the tip

of the tongue; wine

cascading into a cup.

Paradise found in the space

between words; let us shuffle

time like a deck of cards.

Day 13 #napowrimo - day 7 #the100dayproject - Thief

For day 13 of #napowrimo the prompt was to write a poem about a time you stole something and got away with it...

Thief

Sorry is a heavy word for that red gummy bear

I stole from the bulk candy store container.

It was so easy to slip my four year old hand

into the box and pop it into my mouth.

I remember the bounce of the bear,

my teeth like its trampoline; how it

slipped and slicked its way around my tongue.

Sweet ruby of bear flesh; I savored it more

knowing that I got away with theft.

Day 12 #napowrimo - day 6 #the100dayproject - Triolets

Today's prompt at #napowrimo was to write a triolet which follows a tight rhyme scheme and allows only eight lines. And I couldn't resist fitting with the theme by writing three!

To Trump Our Silence

The mask is our silence–

we hide our fear behind cloth & paper

or swallow our words of resistance.

The mask is our silence,

our excuse for our negligence

as we let him turn from fool to dictator.

The mask is our silence –

we hide behind cloth & paper.

Elegy

We wrapped your body in white–

the shade of clouds and grief–

washed you clean of death’s night.

We wrapped your body in white,

gathered rose petals, reds & pinks, so you might

use them to light your way, however brief.

We wrapped your body in white,

the shade of clouds, the color of our grief.

Factorial

I can be manufactured, duplicated

like the cells of a spreadsheet–

whatever is created can be deleted.

I can be manufactured, duplicated,

my body a landscape of code replicated–

yet lift my ribcage and find my human meat.

I may be manufactured, duplicated,

but my cells more expansive that a spreadsheet.

Day 11 #napowrimo #the100dayproject - The Palace in Seville

For day 11 of napowrimo and day 5 of #the100dayproject, I was inspired by my experience in Seville, Spain at the palace of #Alcazar 

I couldn't resist including a picture I took back in December 2019 of one of the garden gates. I still can't believe that I was in Spain hardly 4 months ago and so much of the world has changed. There have now been more than 16,000 deaths in Spain alone. It saddens me how quickly things have moved and worsened. I hope this poem finds you healthy and well. I wish you the very best.

The Palace in Seville

I walked through the gate into the garden,

the myrtle plucked and trimmed

into neat hedges, unbloomed; sun warmed

resin sifting through the labyrinths of its branches.

The myrtle surrounded by fences

as if to contain its fragrance;

pith of orange; zest of lemon;

coyness of night blooming jasmine.

The whole garden built to hold it,

to keep it as long as possible,

but like sand sliding down a glass vial

or love slipping between my fingers,

its perfume maddening that I could not

cup it, each small leaf I plucked

was a shadow I could not capture;

the scent banished only to memory.

Day 10 of #napowrimo day 4 of #the100dayproject - Magnolias

I decided to write one stanza of a #haynaku with photo I took today...

Day 9 #napowrimo #the100dayproject - Surf

For day 9 of napowrimo and day 3 of #the100dayproject, I was inspired by my surf kayaking. My shaped poem is a surf wave. 

My full poem is written below since the picture is not the clearest:

My body is a little blue boat, a snub nose kayak that bends to taste the salt of the sea; weaves the kelp and seaweed into clothes, plays in the curls of the waves, takes its paddle, and skims the surf as if it were milk froth, whey and curd for it to eat.

Day 8 #napowrimo #the100dayproject - Vital Self

Here's my day 8 poem for #napowrimo and my second poem for #the100dayproject2020 

For this prompt, I used the Anne Carson Twitter Bot @carsonbot for inspiration. 

Vital Self

I am ready to be dissected; dissect me.

Open up this body I call body, this vehicle

of skin over bone in all of its opacity.

The sap in me, the concentric circles

of my veins when cross sectioned,

The miles of rope inside, my mute liver,

the segments at the base of my neck.

This female mouth gathers the reddest

tongue and guttural cheek. I am not

transparent, but a shiver in the spine,

an involuntary shake, the deep muscle

gathered like a pleated skirt, hemmed

with ligament. The cavities and corners,

the blood landscapes, the patchwork

quilt of organs and fat. I am nothing

but two cloths sewn together, the

pillow without its fluff, or the doll,

porcelain and cotton, stomach empty,

naked without a bonnet and blue gown.

And like a doll, my eyes will droop,

close, when I lay down.

Day 7 #napowrimo #the100dayproject - Cover Your Nose and Mouth

In response to Day 7 of Napowrimo, I wrote a poem in response to an article or news event. I wrote it regarding our changing times, the CDC recommendation of wearing face masks. This is also my first post for #the100dayproject #the100dayproject2020 and am looking forward to 100 days of poems and creativity.

Cover Your Nose and Mouth

A landscape of not enough,

roundness of the mouth.

What was lips is now a mound,

dry flesh, an addition, speak

no evil, taste no evil, sing no evil.

Paper thin like the white sheen

of new scar tissue, sweet pucker.

A kind of mouth that holds

breath in the shape of a bowl;

the steam captured in

evolution; a yawning, agape

in the uncertain spaces

that once held words,

face, shapes.

Day 6 #Napowrimo - Dragon Tree Writes a Letter to Bosch

This was a fun prompt to write. Today we were instructed to view Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights and write in the viewpoint of one of the inhabitants. I chose the Dragon Tree.

The Dragon Tree: Bosch

Dragon Tree Writes a Letter to Bosch

I am too old to correct what cannot be undone,

but I know you never sat beneath my shade, not

with your lush landscapes, your hair smelling

of rain-soaked land and your privileged feet

that have walked on dew drop grass.

I place my roots not in the garden of Eden,

but in the beige landscapes of fire and heat.

I dig myself between boulders and dust,

my branches, like your fleshy arms, reach up

to touch the vast, blue skies. My fronds

point like fingers at each planet and star.

I’ve never needed rain or paradise. I need

the long days of desert and the company

of wind. You covered me in grapevines

and painted me next to an orchard of mandarin.

I am the alpha, the lone one; I move time.

This lush portrait, a form of betrayal.

I am forever stilled in your image,

my shade cast upon your Adam and your Eve,

their nakedness a different kind of bark,

and the bird eating frog, cat eating lizard,

fish reading book, the three headed bird;

all of them a chaos that cannot be governed,

not with your foolish mouth, or your arrogant

hand. Your brush is not god’s tool, your paint

not your holy book or daily worship; you stand

as if you created them from the clay,

but I am the life tree, I am the reason you breathe.