Whatever tales you chose to tell, after dark, perhaps filled out your empty shell, after dark.
Those blusterings that in the day came to naught, may all have served you very well, after dark.
But all those love lessons that your voice once taught no longer ring out like a bell after dark
As in the web of years you’re firmly caught, you may as well your passions quell after dark.
Since my affection’s not so easily bought, your words instead become a knell after dark.
I apologize to this young man for always using his photo when I need an illustration of a very handsome man. In no way is he the real subject of the poem. The ghazal is a very complicated form that involves repetition of words as well as internal rhyme. I’ve added the end rhyme just for my own satisfaction. For an explanation of the form, see: dVerse Poets
This year the rains came early, starting the day after the men came to begin stripping and resurfacing my roofs. The day after they were supposed to remove the skylight, hurricane-force winds and torrential rains made me glad for once, that they had been no-shows. A month later, the repairs are over and we’ve settled into the daily or nightly showers. I am snug in my house and the mountains behind me are covered with a vivid green. Soon water will be shooting in rivers down the arroyos and cobblestone roads that lead down to the lake from my house and every teja will serve as its own channel for individual rios streaming down from my roof into waterfalls that will arc down to the terrace tiles below.
The rainy season
breaks its usual habit.
A rude early guest.
I awaken to the insistent music of the morning. The cacophony of bird voices is disrupted by the squeaking of gears of the gravel truck climbing the mountain road past my house. Steam rises from the hot pool echoing the venting of Colima volcano, peeking over the shoulder of the mountain known as Señor Garcia. He has on his cloud sombrero today, which promises rain.
Crisp air of morning.
Mournful chorus of dog howls
echoes siren’s wail.
The NaPoWriMo prompt today is to write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live. The WordPress Daily Prompt is disrupt.
Three years ago yesterday, I wrote an abecedarian poem for NaPoWriMo that contained today’s pompt word of “froth.” What are the chances? There must be some poetic synchronicity at work here. If you don’t know what an abecedarian poem is, it is one where each word in the poem begins with a letter of the alphabet in order from a to z. I did one poem in this manner, then wrote another where I stated with z and went backwards through the alphabet to a, and then forward again, a to z. Give me any kind of game and I can’t resist it. Especially word games.
Loving Thy Enemy
Age becomes creative.
Don’t ever fictionalize great heroic intimacies.
Just keep looking major nemeses over, proudly quieting rash stabbing thoughts.
Under violent words, xenophobic yearnings zing.
Raw Savage Thoughts
Zealous young xenophobic wanderers veer under the sun’s rays, quitting promenades over nomadic mesas.
Let’s keep jumping into harsh green fields, eternally delving closer before age accents belligerent crankiness.
Delicious effervescence froths gushingly homeward in jugulars, keeping lymphatic matters normal or palpitating,
quickening raw savage thoughts. Understanding vulcanizes woman’s X-rated, yearnful zest.
I really started blogging exactly five years ago today, when I wrote my first NaPoWriMo poem, having little faith in my ability to make it for the whole thirty days.
In the end, day-by-day, I did it. A year later, I did it again and when I came to day 30, I didn’t stop. Since then I’ve exercised a different sort of faith by writing every morning—doing a number of writing and photo posts, including at least one poem or story, every day for the past 1,460 days. (This post will be my 4,074th one.)
The pool exercises I once did faithfully in a water aerobics class three mornings a week at the clubhouse pool, I still do at midnight in my own pool under the stars and moon, surrounded by the blossoms that fall from the tall Washingtonian palm trees that rise like giants in the night air above the pool.
I swim with the moon, stars strewn like wedding flowers in this midnight pool.
We are all filters of the world, taking the news in—the happy births and inane deaths, the charities and cruelties, the beauties and the gross ugliness of nature and of human nature. These things pass through us or get stuck, taking us with them into the poles of our own natures. Those ills of the world we choose to dwell on change us if we are not careful to let them go again or to act in a manner opposite— which causes us to seed new hope which just might, just might catch hold in the sieves
of others and bloom.
A concrete poem is one that takes the form of what it describes. I could find no photo of a rose in my photo library, so the form of the poem will have to do to illustrate its meaning.