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.