April 30 Drama, Drama and More Drama

Drama, Drama and More Drama

Summer jumped right over

Spring this year.  The daffodils were narcissistic

enough to never have considered why

they were freezing their

anthers off.  Toasty yellow

the next day, the confusion tempted

all but the best of them to spout

pollen immediately. Meanwhile

the hyacinths declared spilled blue blood,

their fate reminiscent of getting whacked in the back

of the head by the shock of temperature. 

The irises kept no prisoners,

using their leaves like swords, vanquishing

the last spring moment.  Summer heard

about this and awarded the iris the Blue

Beard Award for ornamental honour

beyond the call of duty.  The dogwood

looked down and barked

a sharp rejoinder, reminding Summer

who had the prettiest locks.

Summer gusted up a vicious breeze,

and dogwood lost most of her petals.

But alas, as all stories go, Summer

was vanquished a few months later,

by a more colourful foe, clad

in an even lesser ephemeral temper.

April 29 American Sentence 3

American Sentence 3

What manner of men fear being raised up to swallow wholly the stars?

April 28 Magpieing Sonnet 17: The Result

Rules.  I used Sonnet 17 as my source text, my favourite of Shakespeare’s, and played around with the words.  I kept them in order as I chose them to try to make an interesting sentence that didn’t just mirror his ideas.  I sometimes used part of the word, “you” from “your”, as an example.  I chose the punctuation as needed.

SONNET 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
   But were some child of yours alive that time,
   You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

Your rights rage twice in it.

Your parts, fresh, all your graces, touch my tongue.

Come as you lie.

My age touch’d early truth.

Who will believe your lies so my rage should live?

This poet’s rage stretched time.

Who will believe heaven?

To desert heaven is but half the truth stretched.

I should scorn less.

In time, I would touch my scorn like a poet stretched alive.

Most parts number lies.

Face my age.

Will my verse come alive?

Will my tomb hide my song?

My child should live.

April 27 Work Phoen List, Spring 1994

Yesterday's poem was posted only at PFFA.

While procrastinating writing yesterday, I was cleaning out a desk, and found this list.  Very cool.

Work Phone List, Spring 1994

When the years rise

out of the desk drawer,

the ink is blurry

and the names are old.

I remember the dinner

you made me while

my husband was out.

We ate with our fingers.

It was delicious though I couldn’t

pronounce the dishes’ names.

I could see my home

from your kitchen chair.

Crumbs shored themselves

up by the door threshold.

History shows itself

in recalled turmeric stained fingers

and creased yellowed pages.  

April 24 The Seven Day Outlook

 The Seven Day Outlook

The day you told me

what you wrote, erased

my memory from the act.

Some days, success finds me

draped over the page,  normally

this is not the case.

I hide behind the keys pressed,

lighting themselves on the screen.

The tepid grey becomes day.

The day becomes morning again

and the page grows like the dawn.

The outlook proceeds firmly.

Your page regulates mine,

and your acts, in three,

maybe more, elevate

I didn't get this past the first writing, and didn't even finish.  Sigh.

April 24 American Sentence 2

American Sentence 2

The battleground bubbled up its bones, instigating peace without end. 

April 23 Trombiculosis Beach Views

Prompt taken from Napwrimo.net:  Earth Day

Trombiculosis Beach Views

When I was a little girl, hot summer days seemed

long and strung out like the blue horizon

over the long shore.  Rainy days defeated us

as we stood on the porch overlooking

the grey sand, watching the rain bump the lake

into fleeting white triangles.  The great bonfire blazed

up past the Styrofoam cup tosses, disappearing

into the watery smoke, nothing left.  The black haired lady

in the white bathing suit was the talk of the lake.  Nothing was left

to the imagination watching her.  The chiggers got us

and we painted ourselves with her red nail polish.

Jumping off the short dock was the highlight

of the day; the highlight of the dark

was sneaking candy past the windowed cottages, and eyeing

the fire to see if the smores were out yet.  I never got

to the island out  on the lake, dark stories

of haunted boats and abandoned children abound

there and the trees looked dangerous.

We let the sunfish nibble on us, and then we’d splash

them away.  They’d swim fast past

the seaweed, a line we’d never ever cross.