For NaPoWriMo Day Three :surreal poem. jdb image
The scientific name is Pentas Lanceolata
For Cee’s FOTD, this is another flower from my friend Rita’s garden. Thanks, Rita!
Tummy, Dear:
Stomach, darling, first of all I’d like to tell you how indispensable you are. Literally, you are irreplaceable in my life. Aside from digesting my food, you separate my waist from my chest and keep my belts from straying. You warn me about absolutely revolting subjects as well as food and are handy for nudging ahead in tight crowds.
That said, I need to bring up one large touchy matter. For all the good you do in this world, do you need to be quite so large? Lately, for instance, I’ve watched you extending your territory–venturing out into one plump donut extending around my back. This makes looking at my rear view in the mirror extremely distressing. “I never look at myself in back,” one friend told me years ago, but darling, that had been evident for years–testified to by the tight snarl of hair in the middle of her head.
But I digress. You’re awfully quiet. I’m a bit worried that I might have offended. But, the topic of magnitude of sound being brought up, I’ll continue. Were you aware that you have taken to communicating with me at inopportune times? A small growl after midnight to remind me of today’s brownies hiding in their microwave storage space safe from ants and marauding family members and friends? That’s fine…and probably the real reason you were given a voice in the first place. But that long low rumble increasing in volume in the middle of the significant pause in the dialogue of the movie playing in a hushed movie theater? Totally unacceptable. Other times your voice is uncalled for? At the dentist’s office and in the throes of a long passionate kiss. In teachers’ conferences and at ladies bridge afternoons. No. No. No. You are not invited in this capacity. Yes, digest the margarita, the popcorn or the rich dessert. Comment upon it? No.
That’s it, dear stomach. I appreciate you. I know you are vital to my health and happiness. You provide me with countless pleasures–those pleasures increasing with the years. But, sweet middle of mine, if you could see your way clear to not increasing at a rate commensurate with my pleasures, I would appreciate it very much. Oh. Talking again, I see. And probably not listening. Oh well. I hear your message loud and clear. A pint of triple chocolate extra fudge gelato in the freezer? Well, honey, this time you are speaking my language. No one is around. And it is totally acceptable!
Love, Judy
The NaPoWriMo prompt Day 2 is to write a platonic love poem in the form of a letter. In other words, a poem not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love – your love for your sister, or a friend, or even your love for a really good Chicago deep dish pizza. The poem should be written directly to the object of your affections and should describe at least three memories of you engaging with that person/thing.
The Teenie Weenies
An entire civilization of charming creatures whirled
through all the hidden spaces that frequented my world.
They came out in the shadows or the crevices or nooks,
but the only things we knew of them were what we read in books.
Although they once were my best friends, member after member
of that small world is now forgotten, I only remember
the Schoolmarm and the General. The other ones, I fear,
though they mined a fallen cherry to make preserves for the year,
alas, I have forgotten. There are not the slightest traces
of names to go with any of those cherubic small faces.
I remember interactions with mice and bumblebees,
but the rest is lost to memory. Forgive me, if you please.
Buried on some bedroom shelf is one book, worn and tattered
but long-preserved because some part of me knew that it mattered.
And once that NaPoWriMo ban has finally been lifted,
and my jungle of old books has been explored and sifted,
I’ll fill you in on stories that used to fill my dreams,
to stuff imagination until it burst its seams,
leading to that poet that here puts down this line
to share with you this favorite memory of mine!
The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.
Click on Photos to Enlarge.
Welcome to “The Numbers Game #15” Today’s number is 136. To play along, go to your photos file and type that number into the search bar. Then post a selection of the photos you find under that number and include a link to your blog in my Numbers Game blog of the day. If instead of numbers, you have changed the identifiers of all your photos into words, pick a word or words to use instead, and show us a variety of photos that contain that word in the title.
This prompt will repeat each Monday with a new number. If you want to play along, please put a link to your blog in comments below.
I took a little nap and slept so long that I almost failed to get this posted. Sorry it is so late.
April Fool
The April breeze comes in a wave,
loosening words I’d like to save.
I’m afraid if I use them today,
I’ll simply throw the words away.
I’ve been keeping them around
for when I’m feeling more profound,
but errant winds have tossed them so
I feel I have to let them go.
Here they are, all madly sprawled
across a page they should have crawled
ornate and planned, all neatly sown.
Instead, they’re scattered where they’ve been blown.
In some cultures, loyalty extends far beyond the fair or rational, but no one controls what happens after tradition is satisfied:
Burnt Offering
(The Virtuous Wife)
This suttee
is easier to bear with eyes closed.
She falls upon his burning pyre,
puts out his flame,
grateful for short rituals.
The pyre,
the bone,
ashes on the sheets.
He cannot touch her.
She is air.
She floats his breath.
She tracks his carbon
down the hall.
She walks
out to the Avenue,
wearing sheerest black
with nothing but a cauldron underneath.
Her fire.
She picks a stranger
dusted by the road,
leans him against
shadows
in the tall grass,
spills her steam,
lifts into
penumbra
above shaded hill.
For dVerse Poets Open Link Night 359
To see what other poems were published, go HERE
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 