Rhythm Games

pinhole film photo by author

switch click on the metronome
scaling fingers racing home
bare feet pedal metal flare
notes sustain and float on air
staccato point legato’s phrase
song sheets flutter on for days
forearms cramp and fingers fly
pieces forte to the sky
eyes are fixed on each new note
exercising practiced rote
resonating polished box
arpeggio-ing tangled walks
on hammered strings precision lies
who’s playing who, by and by
coda’s flare a test of zest
final bar, at last a rest
well at least I tried my best!

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to emulate a jump-rope skipping type song. The idea of rhythm came to mind, and when I think of that I think of my piano, so this popped out. Thank you, readers!

In Dreams

Killeavy Old Churches, Ireland

waking up I try to decipher
if what I thought I saw
was something I lived
or if I just slept through it
I bend down and squint
through mighty tomato stalks
sifting and sorting
sight from vision
but this plant is tighter lipped
than a vow of silence
and yesterday’s wine won’t leave my head
I swear you can hear
the garden growing
it’s a constant cheep and chatter
like the cardinals that bring news each morning
I’ve been listening
to the asparagus spear the spring air
around it, wishing with a craned neck
to pierce the sky
from down the street
I can hear a stone rumbling
its way forever away from the prison
of the newly hewn tomb
like an echo of old thunder
breathing life back into winter roots
awakening with their own new grumble

and when I think of those grumbles
sometimes I swear I can even hear my own bones

This poem is in response to today’s NaPoWriMo prompt – which has to do with something surreal, or that’s the part my brain latched onto at least! All of these are really rough drafts, since I’m writing quickly and then sharing them just as quickly. Thank you for reading!

Flipped

Holga double exposure image by author and author’s uni student

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!

A Memory

St Mary Church of the Assumption, Waco, TX

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.

Equinox

iPhone photo by author

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?

Cacophany

instant film photo by author

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!

In Denial

The Denial of Peter by Carl Bloch

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!

Roses

polaroid photo by author

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!

Wrestling

film photo by author – this is Jacob’s Ladder in Cameron Park, Waco TX

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.