While walking through the park, my dog Chules and I pause at an apple tree. I am drawn to the white-pink blossoms and the bees that float among them. Chules is more intrigued by the base of the trunk, and the invisible messages left there by other dogs. He lifts his leg and adds his own note to the trunk.
cherry blossoms wane
pink petals carpet the ground
apple tree looks on
Day 29 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). In response to dVerse prompt: Haibun Monday: late cherry blossoms.
Oh, Dyssie, suss out:
Bored gods gamble with your life.
Find allies. Fight back.
Elon’s devil’s fingers
Devil’s fingers (Clathrus archeri ), also known as octopus stinkhorn, is a fungus which has a global distribution. In maturity it smells like putrid flesh.
“Dawn’s rosy fingers” is a recurring metaphor in Homer’s works, like The Odyssey, where it signifies the beginning of a new day and the start of events.
forest’s sodden duff
cedes to fragile trillium
spring will not be stayed
winter resolve reigns
by springtime just a drizzle
summer cedes to drought
Oh, to yet be young
I tire at the thought of it
I’ll sit and look wise
new buds drip cold rain
birds trill between high wind gusts
no spring in my step
Love lasts forever.
Come to find out, forever
isn’t all that long.
Early bird post for April’s National / Global Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).
The prompt: Write a poem based on, or responding to, a line of Emily Dickenson’s poetry. The line I chose was “Forever might be short.”
I hope to participate in the NaPoWriMo daily prompts for April again this year, but we’ll see how that goes. I’m one for one so far, and the month hasn’t even yet begun!
metaphors be damned
alone in the faceless crowd, we
weep behind our masks
Pulling my truck to the side of the road, I double check my navigation app. Did it really mean for me to leave the highway and head up this steep and narrow hairpin road, where trees are flocked by snow flurries that continue to assail my windshield? I check the gas gauge. Not full, but enough. I hope.
I drive cautiously. The road is clear for now, but I continue to ascend, and the skies continue to darken. Jones Pass. Good, I think, as the road dips down. But a few more curves and we’re headed up again. Willow Creek Pass. Am I just zigzagging among the mountain range summits?
The compass shows I’m heading northwest for the most part, which is ultimately the direction of my intended destination. I grip the steering wheel and continue on. After all, I ask myself, what’s the worst that could happen?
toward the summit
where air thins and fear thickens
winter hastens in
I open my stats page, already knowing I’ll see lots of blank spots on the calendar that indicates whether I’ve posted to my blog on any given day. It’s been a dry summer, weatherwise and creative writing-wise.
Now the autumn rains are here and my garden projects are on hold. It’s a good time to write. But I need to replace the splintered door frame in the garage. I need to dust the wall-to-wall bookshelves. I need to brush the tangles out of my dog’s wet fur.
I know it will come soon; that irresistible pull toward pen and paper; that need to harvest the thoughts that have been ripening over the summer. My computer dings with an email alert: a writing prompt from dVerse. I fire up the word processor and my mind wanders, far away from doors and dust and wet dog smells.
lock the garden shed
leaves drop like unfinished thoughts
time to introspect
What Rhymes with Stanza? 