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.