Grab a pencil and pull up a chair, this is the place for poetry!
When the other-me escapes
she laughs dark & mischievous
throwing down shots of potent who-cares
intoxicated by risk
she spits on faith as useless
helmet-free Harley revving
a spew of fiery dust
but this time it’s not an act
she winks to show it’s real
Continuing to follow NaPoWriMo’s prompts, this one is a short exploration of the idea of an alter-ego (because I’m too afraid of serious injury to get on any kind of motorcycle!) Thank you for reading!
The family’s place was on the front pew
so mine was there, too, visible,
or so I felt, to the whole altar and both transepts.
Eyed and evaluated. Grand-daughter. Youngest,
too short to see but hungry to watch;
the kneeler was my ladder and I was the rapt audience
as father called upon the Father
as per the instructions of the Son
and another son nodded embarrassingly to sleep
before God and everyone. His Mother
was all love, and didn’t mind, while before me
angels ascended and descended, and the Word
was made into Real Food, mass after mass,
sacrifice made holy, death revived, awakening into life.
Today is Good Friday, and I’m sharing the poem I wrote in response to yesterday’s NaPoWriMo prompt about a childhood memory. . . . which since it was written on Holy Thursday and I’ve been Catholic my whole life, of course the poem that emerged was on a seasonal theme (and is a true story! I still miss sitting up front with my Grandma). The polaroid at the top was made last year at the church where my parents got married.
Thank you for reading! And if you are observing today, I wish you every blessing.
Every day, fishing.
The ears of my heart cast lines,
trawling for a sign.
Hopeful, I try not to drift.
Bravely, I face every wave.
This poem is the first in response to NaPoWriMo’s prompts: a tanka. I’m a big fan of these! A challenge for you: write your own, join in this month’s daily writing!
Today the time divides equally, half & half,
which is what I like in my tea with a little sugar.
It has a deeper flavor than milk,
and autumn a deeper flavor than spring,
since it brings to mind a returning time,
reaching down and in,
a time for calling everything back
to enjoy the goodness of a new harvest
under golden lamplight.
Except today is too hot for tea,
unless it’s iced,
and nobody puts cream in that anyway.
So I’ll divide my time
between the pleasant now
and a future full of golden promise,
and I will wait.
Happy autumn, friends! I am hoping to kick off this new season with a renewed habit of sharing my poetry with you here. Thank you for reading! Who else is excited about fall?
I like noisy words
ones with lots of consonants and sharp edges
words like the prickly things
that grow in the West Texas desert
sharp, but also sweet and pleasing
as those pastel desert sunsets
that bring relief to the eyes and the body
And I like rounder words
more temperate foothills as opposed
to craggy mountain peaks
words that roll like knuckles
over the black keys of a piano
words that rumble like a hot dump truck
driving through the heaven of a spring sky
colliding and ricocheting
off its cooler cousins
filling a soft evening with
the deep drums of impending chaos
and exploding pinpricks of blinding light
Phew, it’s been a minute! I’ve been writing every day, just not sharing. . . . for May I’ve kept a sort of poetry diary, writing daily about whatever happens to be going on. Guess what: we’ve had a lot of storms. Thanks for reading!
How He looked
from the shadows where I had
temporarily forgotten Him
where He was stashed
like an old toy recently become
embarrassing and shoved under the bed
I turned my face away
and then I turned more
when the shame hit me full force
in a hurricane of regret
But the Lord turned, and looked,
and how that look turned
me inside out
It took no time at all
it took no time and even less thought
a tiny moment, it took a toll
the words steamrolled
but I didn’t know it in the moment
until I met His gaze
An ekphrastic poem for Holy Week based on the painting at the top. Thank you for reading!
I never promised you a rose garden.
Or maybe I did, in a wild moment.
I beg your pardon.
In a moment of wine drunk abandon,
idealism rising to foment:
perhaps I promised you a rose garden.
There are blossoms where thorns harden
around my green-thumbed attempts:
they too beg pardon.
Broken shovels and rakes also burden
a space ripe with weeds’ intent.
I never promised it would be a rose garden.
And my broken nails, caked with pollen
and soil testify to my lament:
I beg your pardon.
Some people make it look easy, this bargain
with hard work and time. All efforts spent,
I failed to achieve a rose garden,
and for that I beg your pardon.
This NaPoWriMo prompt had to do with song lyrics and a villanelle. Thank you for reading!
Climbing Jacob’s ladder counting sheep
one, two, three: they frolic away from me
in the chaotic tangle of thoughts keeping me awake
My legs are tired but keep working
laboring herculean up carved steps
that are half my height
It’s a slog
and my hip is killing me
tossed about in wakefulness
while my pillow turns to stone
Deviating from published prompts, today I’m sharing a poem prompted by my own experience of insomnia last night – phew.
All night they snuggle, dreaming of outside
Fur pollenates the bed, inside, outside
Shake-it-off mornings, they have been waiting
I stumble sleepy with the cold outside
My friend calls cats stoic: I say patient
They croon for their beloved yard outside
I make them wait for the light to ward off
what might be lurking in the dark outside
But their dreams need to be real, a new day,
a new adventure awaits them outside
Surpassing catnip and bell-bellied mice,
they long for where the Real Thing lives: outside
Meows sound like my name, purred syllables
circling and rubbing legs: let’s go outside
Open up the door, come on Amy, look
Everything is waiting out there, outside
From yesterday’s NaNoWriMo prompt: a ghazal for my cats!
Tan Clam Shell with Seaweed, 1926
On sand and grace
the color of rainy day brine
where sand meets grace
and castles crumble at a pace
only outmatched by ticking time
wet grit beneath calcified fine tuning:
weeds, shell: drab grace
Two Pink Shells / Pink Shell, 1937
Twinning sweetly
blooming like a hidden opal
sitting sweetly
on the tongue with summer’s peachy
mornings, taste a swell of hopeful
growth, of pearls and other baubles
sitting sweetly
Pelvis IV, 1944
unlikely eye
sees the moon in perfect blueness
(unlikely) I
imagine curves bleached by the sky
the sun relentless in trueness
to itself: heat and light the best
all-seeing eye
These 3 poems are ekphrastic responses to 3 paintings by Georgia O’Keefe – the paintings have the same titles as the poems and can be searched for here.
The Poetry Patio