Day 25 of #the100dayproject - Keys

Keys

We hide them under door mats

and beneath the stairs of our deck,

under the toad stools and sculptures

of frogs inside of our garden.

Brass, silver, steel, and sometimes gold;

they’re inside my coat pocket or

in the slit of your wallet, but we forget

and leave without them, lock

the doors. All of our plan Bs not

where they’re supposed to be,

so we open every screen until

we find a window to open like a door.

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.