Watermark

Unexplainable

There has been a sudden and unexpected death in my extended friendship network. This was not someone I was close to (though I liked her very much) but someone close to people close to me. Such a loss, at such a time...

Easter Morning

Create your own Easter Egg at dumpr.net

Saturday Cat Poeming

home

is where

the cat is

 

 

& today's poem ...

this one wide sky

a thousand different blues

two sharp stars

 
 

 

For yesterday, a revision . . .

. . . from the day before. Sorry, I couldn't move on until I'd worked on this some more:

Head crowded with voices from dreams
I stepped from my house this morning
into shivering air, trembling air, symphonies
of waxwings and robins, a percussion
of crows ... Why do we enter the future
with the past in our night pockets? Trees
shook with squirrel passions; goldfish
drifted from the pond's dark bottom
into pale water. At dusk the mountains
were scarved with mist.

 

 

Snapshot Poem

I stepped from my house this morning,
head crowded with voices from dreams,
into shivering air, trembling air, symphonies
of waxwings and robins, a percussion
of crows ... Why do we enter the future
with the past in our night pockets? Trees
shook with squirrel passions; goldfish
drifted from the pond's dark bottom
up into pale water, reacquainting themselves
with the surface. The day passed slowly.
At dusk the mountains were scarved with mist.

 

NaPoWriMo - Day 3

April garden ~

    with the songbirds

    comes the hawk

 

 

Whose poem is this?

I found it in a neglected
corner. Dusty. Dim.
Slightly larger than ordinary.

A cat's eye. A shooter?
Light passes, bends
through the edges.

At the center, this swirl of dark
color. Smooth and cold
at the heart of the hand.

Someone must miss it.
Is it yours?

 

 

Cindy Smith's NaPoWriMo

My non-blogging friend (and poetry mentor) Cindy Smith has decided to attempt this marathon. Besides the pleasure of her work, I will appreciate the support -- especially at nearly 10 PM on day two, when I still don't have a poem.

But she does, and here it is:

 

Spring drifts, granulated,

like snow cones without syrup.

then a passing dog

adds yellow.

   

The Edge

Where is the edge of this dream?
Elk, bears, and mountain goats
   
are mating in the streets. Fever,
fog, bewilderment. There is blood

evidence. This house is dense
with loss and pain. Like fog. Snow

falls, thickly, but the landscape
is bare. Women in bright dresses

cling to the wire fence. Their faces
like fog. Men kneel on the stones.

Soldiers in bright uniforms carry
dark guns through the streets.

I am watching. Brightness glimmers
through the fog. Bar the doors.

 

 

The NaPoWriMo button is from Ivy, who is also posting prompts. Yay!