Day 76 of #the100dayproject - Praise

Praise

I praise your tired palms

the underbelly of your joints.

I praise the curls of your hair

their tangles like a black crown.

I praise your chest where I rest

my head to feel your heartbeat

against my cheek. I praise your

belly where all the sounds of you,

that constant labor, the beautiful shape 

over and around the smoothness of you.

I praise you with my body, my hands

idolizing the rituals of your limbs,

the slopes of your neck. I praise you

with my lips, each kiss a type of incense

the gentle touch of smoke and prayer.

I praise you with my ears, the sounds of

your voice erupting in laughter and ecstasy.

I praise you as you move through this world,

I praise you as a dream alive. I watch you 

with my eyes, your golden form. How you are mine,

how I am yours is the serendipity of life.

Day 73 of #the100dayproject - Even at Five Years Old

I'm behind in posts, but I have been writing in my notebook many poems. I haven't had a lot of access of internet connection. We took a family trip to Glacier Natl Park and Yellowstone. Now Ashish and I are in Olympic Natl Park. We parked our travel trailer on the beach and are enjoying life.

Even at Five Years Old

And when he discovered

grass with its tassels ripe

with seed, he also discovered

conquest, grasping the stalk

with his small hands, pulling

until the stem separated

from the whole plant.

Then he raised it above him

Like the flag of a conquistador

or a sword used to weaponize

discovery as if land could be

discovered, claimed, and owned.

And that long stem of grass

an extension of his arm.

And in that moment, he knew

what it was like to destroy

and show off his handiwork;

the fruit of his pillage.

To everyone, he thrust

his trophy into our faces,

“It’s mine. All mine.”

Day 65 of #the100dayproject - Existentialist

Existentialist

Anger is the taste of coffee without

sugar or milk to sweeten it up.

I want a little bitterness in my body;

the taste of caffeine straight up,

keep me lucid for argument’s sake.

I want the edge in my voice to stay

awhile, put up its tired feet and sip

that dark black brew. I want to flex

and sharpen my claws; a window

is a window is a window into my soul;

window being a different kind of

mirror to see the person reflected

behind me to view into them, reaching

for the blunt object to rid me

from this earth. Or it is me reflected

back. It couldn’t be me. It couldn’t

be my eyes or mouth curled in violence.

And yet, it is. I can hardly recognize myself;

my form like iodine in a clear glass of water,

the stain of coffee on a white carpet,

I have become the streak of bitter glass.

Day 64 of #the100dayproject - California Poppy

California Poppy

Wind

of semi-trucks, traffic and concrete,

bitumen, litter, shredded tires. Leavings.

Detritus.

Homeless objects lost in our creations,

our architecture of efficiency. Then, there.

Look.

The poppy, at home in the soulless

spaces, roots digging into every corner,

groove,

and crack. Living on the shoulders

of overpasses, freeways, or between

slabs

of sidewalks, roads, and medians.

Subsisting on the smallest speck of dirt,

oracles

              of life beneath our crumbling

structures, our failed attempts to build

better

              than what the earth provides. All

these orange flowers shaking stems and

petals

              as if they are bodies in trance

divining the language of the earth,

conduits,

              as the planet cradle us,

and continues to give and give and

give.

Day 63 of #the100dayproject - Constant Companion

Constant Companion

I am married to the ache of my body,

tuned like a musical instrument

That must be plucked and played.

Pain my life long companion,

growing old together towards

a horizon that, naturally, ends in death.

Day 29 of #the100dayproject - Phase 4: We Are Not Ready

For the past four days, I've been writing a series of poems based off of a Washington state #covid-19 policy that was flowed out by Governor Inslee. He wants to use a four phase approach to reopening Washington which he outlines here. I used that PDF as a prompt, trying to visualize how reopening will look, how it will feel. All the while, I feel the tension in the air. How can this plan work when so many people, so many states are disregarding the gravity of this #pandemic ?

Phase 4: We Are Not Ready

I sit in an auditorium, sounds amplified,

the building shell-like, the shape of an echo.

People file in, sit with friends and family,

a cacophony of conversations, each person

wants to be heard. There are no distances

between us.

Again, I am the fish tucked

and laid neat into a can.

Again, I ride the bus,

and stand in a cramped elevator.

Again,

the awkward silences and squeezed lines

outside of coffee shops. We are many

and each one of us a host, a vector.

No one will forget this time, when we stood

apart, our lips and nose covered up until

none of us could decipher what part

of us is human. It is the purpose of a virus

to move into and through us, change us,

like how a river carves its signature into land

with canyon, gorge, marsh and delta.

So too the virus has embellished us

with its marker, and yet, we don’t know

if it is indelible or not.

Day 28 of #the100dayproject - Phase 3: Gather in Numbers

Phase 3: Gather in Numbers

It's been so long since we saw

each one of our faces, our faces,

not the pixilated RBG version

of our faces. I have spoken

with your simulacra for hours,

listened to the garbled sounds

of you through laptop speakers.

I’ve looked at your face as a flat

screen, your picture in picture,

only to realize the camera lens

is you, not the picture of you.

I could not look you in the eye,

nut now, here you are, a body

moving through the world.

At one point in the distancing,

I believed that you stopped

being real, I imagined everyone

else was not real; quarantine

became the truth. Now I can touch

your hand, hug you close to me.

The atoms of your body comprise

you of you. Atoms are like pixels

and my body is made of atoms;

I think I am what I am, and you are

what you are. Even the stars

are like millions of pixels;

the night sky a screen lightening

as if the stars, too, must shelter in place.

Day 27 of #the100dayproject - Phase 2: The Eyes See New

Phase 2: The Eyes See New

I move my magical thinking outside

The container of my body, into

The open air for all to witness

This collection of treasures. Ideas

Can become so powerful they

Solidify like water into ice, transform

Their intangible selves into objects.

So too does the idea of us sleeping

Outside, our bodies content with

our sleeping bags, the sky as our tent.

So too does the idea of setting camp,

The methods of pitching and staking,

The wrangling of poles and herding

Of waterproof canvas. So too does

The idea of building a fire with

Newspaper, kindling and branches,

Creating the orange throated roar.

So too does the idea of placing

Our chairs, popping the tab

Of a beer and warming

Our feet close to the fire pit.

So too does the idea of

Our conversations over

Campfire, how our voices

Wonder and weave through

The night as if our language

Grew legs and moved through

The dark. So too does the idea

Of being outside, so too does

The idea of being; the fear

Lifting as if the fire could burn

the virus, turn it to coal and ash;

we could use the light of the fire

to guide us to the next parts

of our collective turmoil.

Day 26 of #the100dayproject - Phase 1: The Slow Reopening

Phase 1: The Slow Reopening

Stay with the couches and carpets,

The wood floors and vinyl. A home

Is a home to stay at home. Brick

And mortar, we all have time

To lay on our floors and look up

At the ceiling as if we are laying

In grass, looking at sky and cloud.

We have the time to memorize

The shapes we find in the popcorn

Ceilings, find the images of our desires.

Then we go upstairs and memorize

Every creak and sigh of the steps.

Through our bedroom windows,

We view the street below, a scenic

Display of asphalt, concrete, trimmed

Lawns, and the parallel line of cars

Each one of them parked, not a single

Space open. All of us going nowhere

Fast.

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.

Poem: What's the Worse that could Happen? #the100dayproject Day 31...69 more to go

Today I took inspiration and prompt from Writer's Digest day 2 Poetry-a-Day challenge for my #the100dayproject 

What’s the Worse that Could Happen? 

A candle could topple over, 

the garbage bag could rip, 

the fish could be rotten, 

the dairy may curdle. 

You could break your ankle; 

my phone could shatter. 

We could get into a car accident, 

the sky could actually fall. 

It may rain and that could 

lead to you getting struck by lightning. 

The power lines may cause a fire, 

you could trip and fall down the stairs. 

But if we walk out the door together 

at least we’ll have each other. 

Poetry: A Change of Heart

Here is my response to today's prompt from NaPoWriMo. If you would like to try that prompt out, you can view it here. The prompt is to either write a palinode or write a poem about when you changed your mind about something.

A Change of Heart
By Brittany Mishra

Content as a bookworm

With no romance to her name
“Never will I marry,”
Said she,
“Never my finger will wear a wedding ring.”

But then a sickness came

That doubled her to her knees
Shattered past the days
And nights of recovery.
And through tears of pain and misery
A seed grew within her
And with it she opened to the world
Ran full force and embraced it.
She reached inside her heart
And reversed the cogs and mechanics.
She tuned her heart to a different pitch
And then walked into the world
Vulnerable and naked.

There she found a person,

Just like her, broken into pieces
And together they healed and mended.
They created a roadmap of futures.
And now they sleep side by side
Content and full of their life.

Poetry Prompt Saturdays - Spring

Cherry blossoms in full bloom outside of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.
Wikipedia.org

My husband and I are in Washington DC this weekend and spring is in full swing here. We have seen magnolias in bloom and a few cherry trees, but not the famous cherry trees gifted from the Japanese Mayor of Tokyo City in 1912. Unfortunately, our long weekend didn’t fall on the Cherry Blossom Festival in March and we’ll miss the full blossoming of the cherries by just a week or so, but our weekend has been a success. It’s been a warm, sunny and historical filled trip.

Hyacinths and tulips are popping up out of the ground in DC and I actually got a sunburn. An actual sunburn! I never knew I would be so happy to actually have a sunburn. 

And why? 

It’s a sign. A sign that spring has finally come. Winter’s grip is loosening. The frosts are thawing and the lakes are breaking ice.

It’s been a long winter, full of negative degree weather, boilers breaking down, snow shovels and deicer. I’m done with it all, and I was never happier when the first couple of days of warm weather (high 40s) started coming around in Connecticut a couple of weeks ago.

And every year it's the same. When I finally realize that spring is wiggling its way in, I always smell it first. That wonderful earthy smell. The smell of long frozen dirt and leaves unthawing and sweetly rotting. It’s a smell that grabs you and whispers in your ear, “I’m back.” 

So on that note, I thought that our Saturday writing prompt should be in honor of spring.

Write poetry or prose, any form that you wish to choose on the following prompt.

What are the signs that tell you spring has arrived? Do they excite one particular sense? Taste, smell, touch, sight or sound, or all five? 

Poetry Prompt Thursdays

I am beginning a new tradition of poetry prompt Thursdays where I will list a poetry prompt for anyone to use and respond to. This is a great way to promote daily writing practice.

Writing even a couple of paragraphs each day can help organize your thoughts and concerns and help you start afresh and focused for the day’s work.

After the prompt, I will write my own response to get the ball rolling and hopefully coax anybody out of their shell.

In regards to your own response, feel free to use any form you wish, whether it be poetry or prose and don’t feel pressured to share your work. I encourage sharing, but everyone has their own comfort level and I respect that. Please keep your response between 0 to 500 words; a little more that 500 is ok.

If you choose to post your response, please remember, this is a judgment free zone. I encourage discussion about each other’s response, but I expect positive support from everyone who comments. No haters, flamers, etc.

Please be respectful of each other.

Writing Time

Write about a place that quieted your soul. A place that made you feel small and made you feel a part of something bigger than yourself.

I decided to write about the time I was in India. I was in my husband’s home town Gwalior and he and his sister took me to the Sikh temple near Gwalior Fort. The sun had set and yet the white marble temple shone like a beacon in the night. A refuge of quiet amid the chaos of Gwalior.

Sikh Temple in Gwalior India. 123rf.com

A line of bronze oil lamps

Flicker obscure
Over red carpet
Leading into the mouth
Of the temple.
Outside the line of light
All is loud and dark.
I reach for you beside me,
But you are not there.
Your dark hand not present
Among the sacred marble.
I turn to you, there behind
The water moat among the shadows.
You stand by the line of empty shoes
Your feet fully clad in the
Day’s toil and grind.
Hands interlaced
Cradle your black hair
Behind your head.
The space between your arms
Sharp triangles of night.
Your eyes search
For answers among
The budding stars
Outside this temple
No longer yours.
Star by star
No wish whispered,
Instead every fiber of you
Reaches for answers to
The whys and hows
Formed on your lips,
But silence shimmers down
Cold as marble below your feet.

Thank you for writing, reading and responding. If you are interested in more prompts or daily writing practice, I also subscribe to the Poets and Writers free and weekly newsletter “The Time is Now.” They send out a weekly email with three writing prompts one poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction. They also give book recommendations and inspiration.