Come outside, it’s raining!
Damp tree scents tickle our noses;
delicious, earthy chills.
Raindrops form reflecting pools.
Watch them dance; taste the freshness.
Listen as rain trickles through
moss-furred branches overhead.
Feel the wet soaking in.
Then back inside to shake it all off.
dVerse Quadrille: Don’t rain on my parade!
The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: Liquid
This week’s Daily Post photo challenge asks “Where do you belong?” and the challenge is to “show us your Place in the World … give us a glimpse of who you are in the grand scheme of things.”
In the grand scheme of things… hmm.
To begin with, my place in the world is under the sun.
That’s the grand scheme part. But where do I belong?
I belong in the space where the currant bush that was given to me by my sister grows.
I belong where I can watch the changing of the seasons on an ivy-covered wall.
I belong where wildlife visitors are welcome to drop in (with some notable exceptions, i.e. rodents and wasps).
I belong where I can share a red table, a blue chair and a quasi-green lawn with a white dog.
The place where I feel most at home is — well, at home.
But in the grander scheme, my thoughts and energy, and even these words I’m typing right now reach far beyond the expanse of greenery that surrounds my home. So for a glimpse of who I am, get a glimpse of who you are, and there you will find me, too.
Unless you’re a rodent. Or a wasp.
HEROES WANTED
Must have crisp capes and masks with
just the right balance of intrigue and
mystery.
Must have superpowers of seeing through
rumors, lies and half-truths; and
leaping over small thoughts,
imposed barriers and festering hatred.
Must be unflinching in the face of
introspection, and have the wisdom to
acknowledge that there are no difficult answers,
just difficult questions.
Must be of such mettle that –
perchance the mask slips –
revelation of the hero’s true character
can withstand close scrutiny in the
oh-so-harsh light of day.
Most importantly,
beneath the crisp cape and behind the mysterious mask,
must be a human with foibles,
vulnerabilities, and the willingness to risk
love and forgiveness.
White horse optional.
I began April’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) with a poem about “Waking the Muse.” Now thirty days later (and 30 poems, though not all were posted), I will bookend the month with a sequel to the first poem. Hence:
Slaking the Muse
“Good morning!” I called as I came through the door.
“It’s time to learn what our next poem has in store.”
My muse gave a snort. “I’ve got ideas galore.
But haven’t you heard? I don’t work here no more.”
“What gives?” I inquired, with mounting distress.
“Your pen is not inked and your grammar’s a mess.”
“It’s over,” muse sighed, “perhaps all for the best.”
“But we’ve only just started!” I rushed to protest.
“No more NaPoWriMo, since April is gone.
No challenge, no prompt, so it’s time to move on.
To the bookcase I’ll go, with my Greek lexicon.
‘Midst these two huge thesauri you’ll find me anon.”
“Please don’t leave me now,” I implored with a cry.
“There will be no more poems without you at my side.”
“Indeed,” said my muse, looking ever so sly.
“Under better conditions, I’d perhaps longer bide.”
“What is it you want?” I knew I’d been had,
having first felt so glum, and now equally mad.
“I will double your pay, if you think it’s so bad.”
“Twice nothing is nothing.” Muse knows how to add.
“You can take some days off to relax and repose.”
“That serves as a start,” muse begrudgingly supposed.
“These dealings between us are still far from closed.
But we’d best start composing while I’m yet rhyme-disposed.”
Her thoughts so profound that in awe I must gasp,
at times muse’s musings I struggle to grasp.
My pen moves as fast as the strike of an asp,
and the rest will be history (once time has elapsed).
Forty scientists and engineers and
computer programmers toil each year,
a million bucks per annum spent,
a decade now, with price so dear.
Another study of fifty years,
such value held in answers sought,
in labs where winged subjects die,
though scientists claim it’s not for aught.
The topic: vast data processed in flight,
motion and movement sensitivity;
the interconnections of brain nerve cells
that exceed computer capabilities.
Complex, for sure, but fifty years?
Such lengthy studies in part explained;
the task of handling small electrodes
when attaching them to house fly brains.
Now, I may not a scientist be,
but the question I would like explored
is why flies crash into window panes
instead of flying out open doors.
NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 30 (final day): write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact.
“The moon is merciless,” she writes.
Cruel and scathing, she tells us.
Is this the same moon under which
lovers swoon?
The same moon toward which
canids tilt sharp-muzzled heads and
sing ballads torn from the depths of
ancient heritage?
Seer of harvests, bountiful and ripe.
Sometimes new,
sometimes blue,
sometimes erased by crumbling clouds,
sometimes agleam like a new gold tooth.
How can it be merciless, suspended
beyond mortal hands? Out of reach,
out of touch,
timelessly same as the day it was born.
“I know the bottom,” she writes.
“I do not fear it; I have been there.”
Moon-stricken poet, no longer a pawn
to the beacon of night,
where is this bottom you speak of, and
where are you now?
NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 29: pick a poem written by Sylvia Plath, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.
I chose the poem “Elm,” written on April 19, 1962.
