Ha!!!! Borrowed? Perfect. I am borrowing the poem I wrote today for NaPoWriMo to use for my WordPress Daily Post as well. You can find it here: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2016/04/24/after-the-honeymoon/
Borrowed Love Poem
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Monthly Archives: April 2016
After the Honeymoon
Today’s NaPoWriMo Prompt was to write a “mix-and-match” poem in which you mingle fancy, poetic vocabulary with distinctly un-fancy words.
After the Honeymoon
Oh my dear,
caught in this star-studded cowboy boot world,
I love you more than an Oreo cookie,
more than bubble gum
or a dill pickle.
You are a full gas tank and my shoelaces.
You are both what keeps me going
and what I am reaching out for—
my goal and trophy rolled into one.
You are my ironing board and my blender—
what churns me up and straightens me out.
Everything in the world is caught up in you.
It is flowering, our ordinary world.
peanut butter sandwiches
and corned beef hash
are surrounded by rosebuds,
soaring heavenward in sartorial bliss.
The sewing machine is holy
and our Dodge truck dreamlike.
The fanciful and practical
are shuffled in our dream world
like cards at a poker table.
A washcloth and a comb soar heavenward.
Birdsong becomes a phonograph needle,
caught in its groove.
Verdant is the garden hose–
pulsating with a new vibrancy.
If I am a tax form, you are my pencil.
You are diaphanous in your kitchen apron,
a fairy in blue jeans.
I could sing an ode to your toothbrush.
If I took a measuring stick to our love,
the world’s breath would be bated,
waiting for the result.
Birdsong would issue from the teakettle
to chorus the announcement.
For oh, my love, our passion is a hammer.
A scythe that slices through the problems of the world:
the shopping lists and the crabgrass.
Love vaporizes our petty problems––
the broken dishwasher
and the broken fingernail––
leaving my bride, my fairy princess.
My pencil sharpener.
The trimmer of my wick,
the cooker of my sausage.
My dear, I am turgid in thy love.
You are what wrenches my heart
and nails shut the door
of every misgiving I might have had.
You are mustard to my sauerkraut,
pastrami to my rye.
Love in a Ziplock bag might seem less fairylike,
blander than white bread
and more Sunday School than magical;
but, my little zucchini,
my Dove bar and my Orange Crush,
you are still my camellia and my rose.
I think of you under lindens,
your footsteps filled with magnolia petals
and your cook pot full of stardust.
Heaven resides in our walkup flat, my dear,
and I pulsate every day
with the memory of that honeymoon
which was only our penultimate dream—
leading up to the chock-a-block,
stuffed turkey with all the trimmings,
overflowing Christmas stocking,
burst balloon filled with confetti,
blissful rest of that conjoined life
that with every morning alarm clock
will spill over us again
like a freshly split piñata.
If you are curious, here is the list of words I made up to use before I wrote the poem:
bated, penultimate, scintillating, vaporous, tyrolean, fragile, throbbing, majestic, cloud, magical, fragile, fairylike, vaporous, birdsong, flowering, verdant, diaphanous, star-studded,dreamlike, rose strewn, elfin, birdsong, Zephyrus, pulsating, silence, hush, tra la la, turgid, verdant, rosebuds, camellias, lindens, pastoral, heavenward, pulsating, sartorial.
gas tank, hammer, shopping list, dog food, can opener, wrench, pillow slip, garden hose, scrub brush, dishwasher, washcloth, comb, Ziplock bag, pencil, phonograph needle, emery board, shoelace, eyelash, curtain rod, stapler, bubble gum, Oreo cookie, peanut butter, corned beef sandwich , sauerkraut, blander, fingernail clippers, measuring stick, pencil sharpener, gas tank, shoe polish, Dodge truck, table saw, ski boot, cowboy boot, bra strap, ironing board, dill pickle,
Disappointing Will (Three Sonnets)
The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to write a sonnet. One of the world’s most famous sonnet forms was the Shakespearean sonnet, the form I use below. William Shakespeare died on April 23, 1616–exactly four hundred years ago today. He is still the best known playwright and among the best loved poets in history. I apologize to him for these sonnets, with which he would most certainly be disappointed; but luckily, “Disappointment” is exactly the prompt for WordPress this day, and so I thereby kill two prompts with one poem!!
Three Wan Dogs before Their Feeding
Our mistress lies upon her bed too long,
her favorite silver thing upon her lap.
That she should put our feeding off is wrong.
We sit and stare at her through her door’s gap.
She taps upon her thing and taps and taps.
Sometimes she chortles, but we don’t know why.
Where formerly her bed was used for naps,
a favorite dog cuddled against her thigh,
she now spends all her time there with that thing
as we sit hungry, waiting to be fed.
She seeks the nourishment that words can bring,
for she is sure that if she leaves her bed
before she finishes her sonnet, then
her muse will not agree to come again.
Three Hungry Dogs Intent Upon Their Feeding
At last at last she opens up her door
and feeds our sister first, lest we devour
her food ourselves and then not leave the poor
dear girl with any sustenance to power
her barking at the other dogs who pass.
But now our mother fills our bowls as well––
each portion measured by a measuring glass.
Each second we must wait becomes a Hell.
She scoops out first the dry and then the wet––
more for the big dog and less for the small.
We worry over how much food we’ll get,
remembering times when we had none at all.
But finally, our portions, too, are dished
(although not quite so full as we’d have wished.)
Three Patient Dogs after Their Feeding
Now see our dishes cleaned and neatly stacked?
Our human lolls once more upon her bed.
to write more stanzas that she formerly lacked
and free herself of rhymes that fill her head.
The small dog leaps upon her bed to lie
and garner a small scratching now and then.
We larger dogs lie watching from close by,
kept from our human in her iron pen.
See her now, look quizzical and rapt?
We know not what she thinks there on her back.
Where formerly she read or watched or napped,
she stews about just what her poems might lack.
For Shakespeare she is not, the silly goose.
Her talents? More in line with Dr. Seuss!!!
(Click on the first photo below to enlarge photos and read captions–also written in couplet form.) Good grief. It’s my muse’s fault. The girl can’t help it!!)
We also hunger who only stand and wait
But soon our lady rises to the bait
“She” portions out our food with motherly care.
Diego’s next to feed, determined by age.
Morrie looking up hopefully
Though Morrie is always the last to feed, He makes up for it with ungodly speed.
And then, lest Frida leave a scrap of kibble, he licks her bowl free of each lasting dribble.
By then, our mom has gone back to her writing, before we’ve even finished with our biting.
Although he comes in last when being fed, at least he fits into our lady’s bed.
Perhaps when this infernal poem is through, we’ll win our lady’s company anew.
Flower of the Day: Lantana
click on photos to enlarge.
I’ve been following Cee’s Flower of the Day prompt for at least a year now. Be sure to check out other flowers on her site!
Color Your World White!!!
Click on images to enlarge.
Believe it or not, I think all of the images (except for the one of Diego in his cone) were taken on the same day. Odd that I looked through thousands of images and all my white ones ended up being taken on the same day. White stands out against the colors of Mexico!
https://jennifernicholewells.com/2016/04/22/color-your-world-white/
Abstract
Please click on photos to enlarge. I didn’t mean to include the last one, but it looks so good in the collage that I’m leaving it! You’ll see it in my earlier post today as well.
Earth’s Verdict
Earth’s Verdict
This is the day we laud our Earth
who, from the first day of her birth
has gathered, to increase her girth
around her core, the fertile soil
that, by our labor and our toil,
helps us retain our mortal coil
by giving sustenance to all
residing on our spinning ball.
Yet, we have spread oil’s deadly pall
over this globe that gives us life
until, I fear, our home is rife
with that which cuts us like a knife,
our umbilical to sever.
Always, we deem ourselves so clever
with our improvements, but we never
seem to see the full effect––
how each gain is a defect.
It’s on this day that we reflect
on how we’ve served our mother ill.
And now we swallow that vile pill
and thereby finally pay our bill––
that fine we’re issued as we wait
for that improbable ending date
when all our poisoning will abate.
Knowing still, down in our heart
that all the evils that we start
are but that fatal stabbing dart
that will eventually bring an end
to each family member and friend
as nature’s laws we seek to bend.
Now as we wait in our human queue
to receive the verdict that we’re due,
there is one fact that’s sure and true.
As we vanish, here and yon,
and as, eventually, we’re gone,
the Earth will still be going on.
Both NaPoWriMo and WordPress gave “Earth Day” as a prompt today. I’m also using my illustration to fulfill Cee’s Flower of the Day prompt. Three birds, one stone.
https://ceenphotography.com/2016/04/21/flower-of-the-day-april-22-2016-azalea/
http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-two-2/
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/earth/
Bougainvillea: Flower of the Day 2016/4/21
The real flower of the bougainvillea is usually outshone by its brilliantly colored leaves. Here the flower gets its due–center stage–while the flashy leaves retreat into the darkness.
https://ceenphotography.com/2016/04/20/flower-of-the-day-april-21-2016-bearded-iris/
Locked and unlocked
Locks
Locked up in my bedchamber. More than I can bear.
The beauty of my countenance, the shimmer of my hair
do me no good for no prince charming comes to find me here.
I will go unmarried––for my whole life, I fear.
My father thinks he honors me. I am his special treasure.
He worries not about my fate. He thinks not of my pleasure.
I am but one more lovely thing he keeps for his collection––
admired for my golden locks, my flawless pale complexion.
I care not for beauty. I care not for my tresses.
I do not treasure jewels or slippers or my ornate dresses.
A husband and a family are all that I desire.
A simple life’s the sort of life that I most admire.
From my window I look out upon the broad King’s Highway.
All roads must converge here––every path and byway.
And so I see them passing: beggars, countrymen and princes.
Vendors selling mangos, apples, oranges and quinces.
My eye is caught by sunlight flashing from his sword
as he stoops to have a sip from a vendor’s gourd.
He pays her with a small coin and thanks her most politely,
then mounts his horse with one sure leap–graceful, sure and spritely
I see him passing often and his face is full of laughter,
calling out and gesturing to companions, fore and after.
One day I wave my scarf at him as he goes passing by
and every day thereafter, I know I’ve won his eye.
At first he bows politely–a gesture I don’t miss.
and after a few weeks of this, one day he blows a kiss.
I reach out and grab it and press it to my face.
He rears his horse and races off at a faster pace.
The next day he doesn’t come, although I wait and wait.
But finally, I see him turning towards my father’s gate.
In distress, I call out that he must not tarry here.
My father’s wrath must not be stirred. It is what I most fear.
He does not see me gesturing. He hears not my distress.
I rue the day I waved at him, although I must confess
I also thrilled to think that he had come in search of me.
I fantasized that he would be the one to set me free.
But my prince never entered, though he tarried long and late.
Until the full moon rose above, he waited at the gate.
Although it had not opened by the time the next sun rose,
the young man sat astride his horse with hoarfrost on his clothes.
‘Twas then that I began my moan and tears sprang from my eyes.
I tore my clothes, scratched at my face. I’d ruin my father’s prize!
My serving maids, sorely distressed, tried to stay my hand,
while my genteel companion sat with startled eyes and fanned!
When one maid put down the apple she’d begun to pare,
I grabbed the knife and severed one long lock of hair.
Lock after lock, I parted with this prison I had grown.
I’d see if father still wanted a daughter newly mown.
Then outside my chamber, I heard a deafening grate.
I flew back to the window. They were opening the gate!
At the same time, I heard a knock and my door opened wide.
I knew it was my father in the passageway outside.
I feared his consternation, his anger and his wrath,
and yet I chose to put myself squarely in his path.
In one hand I held half my locks, in the other were locks more.
All my other shorn-off glory, around me on the floor.
“I am not your possession,” I tell my father then.
I am no pretty pet that you can lock up in a pen.
You can have my beauty––” (Here I handed him my locks.)
“but you cannot seal me up in your private box.”
My father raised his hand, and I feared that he would strike me––
angered that he’d never again have a treasure like me––
but instead he circled his arm around my shoulder
and said, “This day, I have acquired a daughter who is bolder!
It was never me who kept you sealed up in this tower.
You always had it within you to unlock your own power.
You must know this unlocking is both metaphor and literal.
The freedom that you’ve won today, both actual and clitoral.”
And that is how this princess, once set upon a shelf,
learned that the price of freedom is to win it for one’s self.
By cutting off my own locks, I opened up the gate.
My reward––the clever prince wise enough to wait!
Helen Meikle sent along this song which she said had a similar theme to my poem. Can’t believe I’ve never heard it before…but I agree. Listen to it HERE
Last Little Piggy Goes to Market: NaPoWriMo 2016, Day 21
Last Little Piggy Goes To Market
I am the littlest piggy, and when I commenced to roam,
why did I cry “Wee wee wee” all the long way home?
My sibling went to market and I followed along.
The path was rough and winding–as steep as it was long.
My little legs were tired, yet I followed close behind––
I wondered if he knew that I was following if he’d mind.
My family never let me go hardly anywhere,
so market piqued my interest. I wondered what was there.
I asked my other siblings if they wouldn’t like to try it,
but one was into his roast beef, the other on a diet.
She said she would be tempted by the pastries and the candy.
This was enough to convince me this market was a dandy.
When we crested the final hill and rounded the last bend,
the market spread out for so far, I couldn’t see its end.
Booth after booth was set up to sell its chosen fare.
My head swung fast from side to side to see all that was there.
Buttons, bolsters, bumbershoots and books with songs or riddles.
Little dainty donuts with whipped cream in their middles.
Tinkertoys and rubber balls and cricket bats and kites.
My eyes could not keep up with all these delicious sights.
I lost sight of my brother, but I didn’t care.
I was too busy ogling all this varied fare.
My tummy started rumbling. Ice cream, cakes and pies.
I wished that I could put my mouth where I had put my eyes.
But then I stopped to look at a very curious rig
and a big sign that said “Barbecue—what? Barbecue pig????
Folks stood around with sandwiches filled with dripping meat,
and then I saw another sign that said “Pickled Pig’s Feet!!!”
My pigs’ feet took me out of there as fast as I could joggle.
I didn’t stop for donuts. I didn’t stop to ogle.
I scurried for my own safe yard, squealing “Wee, wee, wee!”
Now when I seek adventure, home is enough for me!!!
The Prompt: write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth.
http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-one/
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 