Category Archives: Poem

Mother Mexico: NaPoWriMo 2022, Day 25

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Mother Mexico

We cannot lock our doors to dreams. They enter where they will
and we cannot put them out when we have had our fill.
They wander through the rooms of us, half part of us, half ghosts
who all night long make use of us as their compliant hosts.

The one whose skirts are widest, who fills the most of me,
is a vibrant lady who stretches sea to sea.
She brings her music with her, caught up in her hair.
Auras of mariachi swirl around her in the air.

Paint oozes from her fingertips and ornaments the wall,
creating lovely murals depicting nearly all
of what she has to offer: the castillos and fiestas,
empanadas, handicrafts, salsa and siestas.

Chihuahuas yap about her heels. Vaqueros follow after.
Pinatas and serapes are hung from every rafter.
Her history trails behind her—subjugation, revolution.
Every wave of conquerors offering absolution

for what came before it—wave after wave of those
with sacrificial knives or guns and armor worn as clothes.
Mayan, Aztec, Spaniards, French, Americans  all seeking
gold or land or slaves or a sacrifice that’s leaking

out behind her in a trail of footsteps made of blood
pooling into earth beneath everywhere she stood.
Chiles, corn and amaranth flavor all the food
that she provides with plenty to feed her hungry brood.

The dreamer sups with all the rest, slipping away at last
when the morning beams of sun over the bed are cast.
Then she awakes to a world that dreams can only echo—
the coatimundi, fighting cock, the donkey and the gekko.

Creatures, food and music catch her in their grasp
and before she can struggle or even scream or gasp,
she’s held in the real world, imprisoned in the beam
of what through the whole long night she’d thought to be a dream.

 

For NaPoWriMo  we are to write an aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live.

Wooing Season

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Wooing Season

When they spread the Welcome doormat out and put the drawbridge down,
a dozen different wooers came visiting from town.
Her father set her brideprice at a princely sum,
then settled back to watch her suitors go and come.
He gaged their skill at horsemanship by how they wound their courses,
weaving through the mazes he’d set up for their horses.

He set up jousting matches, thinking he could tell
by which retained their mounts and by which suitors fell,
who might be best suited for his daughter’s hand,
but time spent in combat instead of tilling land
signified an emphasis that although most impressive,
for the landed gentry might turn out to be excessive.

And in the end he chose the one he determined from the start
was the one most likely to win his daughter’s heart.
Watching from the battlements, he saw his daughter’s smile
as he rode ever closer, mile after mile.
He wore no shining armor and his steed was not the best,
but he seemed, somehow, to stand out from the rest.

He rode with calm assurance and when the gates spread wide,
he asked for water for his horse before he came inside.
He shook the dust off of his cloak, then strode into the hall
as though he was a friend already, making his usual call.
And as his eyes fell on their daughter, and hers fell on him,
the lights of other courters seemed to fade and dim.

Daughter, father, suitor strolled out on the land,
and by the time the sun had set, he’d requested her hand.
Soon this last contender had joined his family
And he had a grandchild balanced on each knee.
Thus did a wise father make the best decision, 
exercising thoughtfulness and his keenest vision.

Prompt words today are doormat, spent, princely, gage and emphasis. Image by Cederic Vandenberghe on Unsplash.

Fin de Semana: NaPoWriMo 2022, #23

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Fin de Semana

The streets are filled
with ice cream and cerveza
and the wildly patterned legs
of senoritas.
It is a day
of sunlight and red flowers
and fuchsia flowers and blue.

A slight wind
 strums the swaying branches
of the palms,
joins other village sounds
to compete with the passing hum
of  traffic streaming
from the city to our shores,

 seeking the gentle lap of water against willow,
hypnotic bobbing of the pelicans
between the undulating liria––
a lazy day away
from urban life.

For NaPoWriMo

The Workaholic Calls in Sick

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The Workaholic Calls in Sick

I feel so sorry for myself that in my pain I wallow.
I cannot eat a single thing. It hurts too much to swallow.
I don’t respond to illness well. My vision’s so distorted
that all my work plans for the day will have to be aborted.

However much I writhe in pain, I cannot ease my torment.
I’m waiting for my voicelessness to ease up and go dormant
so I can resume life again in all my past perfection,
putting well behind me my ideal health’s defection.

 

Prompt words for today are voiceless, distorted, swallow, however and illness. Image by Anh Nguyen on Unsplash.

Death Slips in Like a Slippery Eel: NaPoWriMo 2022, Day 22

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Death Slips in Like a Slippery Eel

We sail  life on an even keel,
solving every small ordeal
until one day, it turns surreal.
Death slides in like a slippery eel,
our place in nature to firmly seal,
our invulnerability to steal.

In youth, our lives are stainless steel.
All pain is solved, our wounds all heal.
It’s true these thoughts were never real,
but still, we feel what we must feel.
Then death slips in—that slippery eel.
No second chances does it deal.

A carnival barker with his spiel,
death lures us with unfettered zeal,
to spin us on the ferris wheel—
all our accomplishments to peel
and all our woe and all our weal
to cast from us, reel after reel.

In a fate that nothing can repeal,
it’s our turn to be nature’s meal.
The surreal now becomes the real.
Joining the universe’s wheel,
the organs keen, the bells all peal
as death slides in—a slippery eel.

 

For NaPoWriMo 2022, Day 22 we are to write a poem that features repetition. Since that is a repeat of a NaPoWriMo prompt from 2017, I thought it was fair game for me to do a rewrite of my poem written to that prompt. Here it is, with changes. The one rhyme used throughout the poem is the first use of repetition, the slippery eel line in each stanza is the second.

Ever After

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Ever After

A pair of decent buttocks could bring him to a halt.
Distorted or unusual to him was not a fault.
High or low or sagging part way to the floor,
he cared not how big they were. He cared not what they wore.
Clad in silk or denim, chambray or flour sacks,
he simply loved what bodies carried on their backs.
You would find him tongue-tied if you met him on your way,
but as he turned to watch you as you walked away,
he could pen a sonnet on what went through his mind
as he reconnoitered you purely from behind.

Prompt words today are unusual, halt, buttocks, distorted, decent.

Sister Flowers

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Sister Flowers

Yellow, red and white and green,
insuring that they’re easily seen.
Fifteen maidens in a row,
eyes distended, all aglow.
Skirts spread out to catch the sun,
observing me and everyone
who passed this way, their aprons spread
as though they wished to work instead
of simply standing in the sun
creating beauty for everyone!
You can join them if you wish,
but you must curb your sway and swish.
Stand quietly. Quit all your pranks.
You’re not allowed to break their ranks,
lest you draw disapproving glowers
from your docile sister flowers.

For Simply Six Minutes write a piece to accompany the above photo.  Exactly six minutes!  No rules broken.

Wise Words from the Mockingbird

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mock
Wise Words from the Mockingbird

If I were alate, I’d have wings
to fly me up and over things.
I’d feast on everything that grows,
from oranges to tangelos,
then perch in trees to overhear
all the people who passed near.

When lovers squabbled under me,
I’d fly on down and referee.
I’d convey my firm conviction
in my aviary diction
that to squabble is absurd—
to rise above the common herd.

I simply can’t accentuate
sufficiently the words I’d state.
If you want your love to last,
after a squabble, make up fast.
Listen to my every word:
sound advice from the mockingbird.

 

Prompts for the day are referee, conviction, accentuate, alate and orange. Image from Unsplash.

By Command: NaPoWriMo 19

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Upon Running into a Former Best Friend

Don’t give me cause to regret our reunion.
Don’t bring back to mind our former disunion.
Don’t lament my career or cuss at my kids—
those actions that once put us into the skids—
dissolving our friendship and our former ties
when I’d had enough of your conniving lies.
Don’t inveigle or bemoan your lack of a pension.
Past times I’ve come through I won’t bother to mention.
And if you’ve a reaction and want to explode,
do me a favor. Take it on the road!!!

The prompt for NaPoWriMo today is the post a poem that begins with a command.

Brutal Truth

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Brutal Truth

Fresh as they come, you’re the pick of the litter.
Though too young for pathos and too soft for bitter,
how can I describe what fate has in store
later in life as the innocent lore
of your earlier life is exposed as just part
of what might affect your innocent heart?

Prompt words are soft, describe, pathos, later and young. Image by Alex Gomes on Unsplash.