Author Archives: Maggie C

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About Maggie C

Stained glass artist, writer, respecter of life.

First Lines

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Yesterday’s poetry prompt over at the dVerse blog was to revisit the poems we wrote last year, and using the very first line of 11 poems (one chosen from each of the first 11 months of the year), combine them to make a new poem. The title of the poem is to be the first line from a poem written in December.

Since I barely wrote more than 11 poems, there wasn’t much (any) choice of lines to select. Hence, I humbly present my “found” poem: 

Winter Resolve Reigns

When first we breached primordial ooze.
April buds curling
New buds dripping cold rain

Little cherub on mama’s lap
Sweet Violets in the garden grow.

It’s been a dry summer.
Cut boards apart, then reassemble.
Whose parking lot, I have no clue. 

A lazy rain beat symphony
Boots sinking deep in mud-browned melting snow
Oh, to yet be young

The full set of rules for this particular writing challenge:

Poem Style:
• write a ‘Found’ poem from your own Jan-November 2023 poems
• write it as an 11 line list/catalog poem
OR
an 11 line verse poem (with or without stanzas)

Poem Structure:
• choose from one poem per month
• select ONLY the first line of the very first verse of your chosen poems
• select your title from the 12th month or any of the previous months’ first lines
• if you’ve posted less than one poem per month for Jan-Nov 2023 then choose a month where there is more than one to make up the 11

Poem Rules:
• your 11 lines can be written in any date order
• you must keep the original word order
• you may only change the tense or personal pronouns
• you may add a conjunction or a preposition for continuity
• minor erasure at start or end of the original line is allowed
• enjambment can be helpful

I had two useable lines left over:

Shall I compare thee to an iced latte? 
and 
A pig, a dentist and a cup of hot spiced wine.

I think I chose wisely.

Note to self: write more poetry this year.

dry run

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It’s been a dry summer,

no word play to spare.

What little comes forth

dissipates in the air. 

Pen poised above paper,

ink eagerly flows.

A doodle emerges;

no poems or prose.

A rhyme – ‘haps a reason – 

to brighten my day? 

But no, merely dust

on my laptop’s display. 

Perhaps chalk on the sidewalk

if not paper or screen.

but when the dust settles,

not a word to be seen. 

I’d settle for tropes

or cliches worn and frayed.

word choices so bad I 

must rhyme “marmalade.”

I’ll spare you, dear reader,

‘til rains settle in, when

words fall from the sky

in a glorious din. 

When parched brain receptors

rehydrate and breathe,

I’ll come waxing poetic, 

my soul on my sleeve.

Alphabetical April

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Day Eighteen of National Poetry Writing Month! Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness. Need some examples? Try this poem by Jessica Greenbaum, this one by Howard Nemerov or this one by John Bosworth.

My offering: 

April 
buds curling,
dense earth frees 
ground-harbored insects.
juncos, kits, larvae; 
Mother Nature opens,
poetic quatrains rustle,
spring’s timely unfolding,
verdant waves, 
xenial youthful zeal.

Beyond Compare

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Day Fourteen of National Poetry Writing Month. The muses at NaPoWriMo.net have given us this prompt for today:

…write a parody or satire based on a famous poem… take a favorite (or unfavorite) poem of the past, and see if you can’t re-write it on humorous, mocking, or sharp-witted lines. You can use your poem to make fun of the original (in the vein of a parody), or turn the form and manner of the original into a vehicle for making points about something else (more of a satire – though the dividing lines get rather confused and thin at times).

Since I too get rather confused (though seldom thin) at times, this prompt is a perfect fit. The poem I chose to work with is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? For those of us who are bard-challenged, I will post Shakespeare’s version below. But first (since I control the quill), here is my rendition:

Sonnet 4: Shall I compare thee to an iced latte? 

Shall I compare thee to an iced latte?
Thou sadly in cup holder dost not fit.
While coffee stains can really ruin my day,
I can control the spillage with one sip.
Sometimes you can be cold as latte’s ice,
Complexion like milk curdled in the sun.
I think it’s fairly safe if I surmise
Your pull date has already come and gone.
My latte won’t last long enough to sour
Nor lose its taste if ice begins to melt.
I tend to drink it up within an hour
The liquid sloshing gently ‘neath my belt. 
   I hope this verse has not offended thee.
   So long to you and your oft bitter tea.

And Shakespeare’s sonnet:

Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Dog Walk on a Drizzly Day

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The gray sky is low, pushing down on me
as my dog and I sidestep puddles in our path.
A sense of sadness seeps onto me, settling
like heavy mist on a wool coat. 

Unexplainable loneliness rises up as though
from the rain-dampened earth and I am 
enveloped in a fog of… it almost feels like despair …
that I know is not my own. 

My dog, a double-coated spitz,
shakes his body in a spasm that 
sprays rain water off him in all directions.
My pants leg is flecked with tiny droplets.

Arriving home, I unbuckle his leash and dry him with a towel.
He shakes again and the moisture from his 
undercoat surfaces. I touch his fur; it’s as wet
as though I hadn’t wiped him down at all. 

If I were to sift my fingers through his thick coat
down to the skin, it would be dry and warm.
I, conversely, am cold and shivering and wet.
An involuntary shudder courses through me,

as my psyche tries to shake the melancholy
from my soul.

Muse

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A new April morning, a new prompt for a poem.
My thoughts had gone hither – or was it thither? – to roam.
And so I zipped off a quick five-seven-five,
to keep my NaPoWriMo challenge streak alive.

I tapped the blue button to publish my poem.
At just that same moment I heard a loud groan.
“Oh, hey there, Muse.” Quickly, I closed laptop lid.
“Too late!” Muse cawed smugly. “I see what you did!”

“You can toss words like salad; even frost them like cake.
Count the syllables,
divide lines, but it still does
not a haiku make.”

“You thought you could do this Na-Po-gizmo sans me.
But this faux form space filler shows an obvious need.
I’ve sat on that bookcase ‘tween Webster and Roget,
my rhyming riffs roiling and ready to play.” 

“Are you through with the pep talk?” My sarcasm seethed.
“I’ve muddled through without you, although not with ease.
A sonnet on sunshine, triolet carved with care,
and a shanty so swashbuckling you can smell the salt air.”

“You’ve been absent for months now, with nary a sneer.
My quill pen has molted;  a goner, I fear.
My blog has been starved, on it’s penultimate gasp, 
the only sound left: a lone cricket’s rasp.”

“I took a hiatus,” Muse confessed with chagrin.
“But I did it for you, so it’s hardly a sin.
In the Andes I found adverbs; (in Morocco, great stew;)
In Europe, interjections like, ‘Ach!’ and “Mon Dieu!”

“Just stop!” I admonished. “Your excuses are worn.
But at least ‘twixt us two today's poem has been born. 
Perhaps you will deign to remain here awhile?”
“Just like the old times,” Muse agreed with a smile.

Day Twelve of National Poetry Writing Month. The prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

… write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.

I didn’t quite follow the prompt, but hey, my muse isn’t always cooperative. Other posts featuring Muse:

Waking the Muse

Bookends (Slaking the Muse)

Sea Shanty

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It’s Day Ten of National Poetry Writing Month, and today’s challenge from NaPoWriMo.net is to write a sea shanty.

these are poems in the forms of songs, strongly rhymed and rhythmic, that sailors might sing while hauling on ropes and performing other sea-going labors. Probably the two most famous sea shanties (at least before TikTok gave us The Wellerman) are What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor? and Blow the Man Down. And what should your poem be about? Well, I suppose it could be about anything, although some nautical phrases tossed into the chorus would be good for keeping the sea in your shanty. Haul away, boys, haul away!

So here we go! 

This shanty I’ll be singin’ you
is somewhat false but mostly true
and of no consequence to you,
I’ll tell it anyhoo.

Where ocean meets the beachy land
a ship was snared upon the sand,
a vessel maybe tall and grand,
I never really knew.

    Yo ho, she’s stuck there still,
    now barely more than rust and krill.
    Tho waves come tugging at her sill
    her sailing days are through.

The Peter Iredale she was named,
from Liverpool her owner came,
the Beatles hailed from there the same,
though none the other knew.

In nineteen oh six she came ‘round
for Portland, Oregon she was bound.
a northwest squall pushed her aground,
but didn’t harm her crew.

    Yo ho, she’s stuck there still,
    now barely more than rust and krill.
    Tho waves come tugging at her sill
    her sailing days are through.

No craggy coastline is to blame,
No pirates set the ship aflame.
A barren beach, it’s pretty lame,
still nothing they could do.

A century and more it‘s been
The masts at low tide can be seen,
The bow lists towards the waters green
Her sailing days are through.

    Yo ho, she’s stuck there still,
    now barely more than rust and krill.
    Tho waves come tugging at her sill
    her sailing days are through.