NaPoWriMo #24: news

RWP has reliably fun prompts and today was no exception: write a poem inspired by headlines or some other news-related source. So I went to the website for the Daily Record, our local paper. As small-town papers go, it's pretty typical: lots of typos, writing on par with my high school paper (no offense to the Mess staff), and the things that constitute local news are just downright... well, you be the judge. Here's a sampling of today's headlines:

• Kittitas County's fly fishers hooked for life
• Ellensburg food drive set for this weekend
• Mushroom hunting has roots in Kittitas Valley
• Ellensburg church teens fast to help the world's hungry

So, for a little more inspiration I turned to my personal favorite section of the paper, the police blotter. It didn't disappoint me. Just a few lines down and I struck gold: "An unruly man with tattoos, a dirty T-shirt and a cane was reported on Ruby Street."


The Ballad of Ruby Street Walt

A torn tank tee that once was red
hangs loose on his lean frame
he stumbles down the sidewalk
having no apparent aim
inky thorns wind up both arms
roses bloom across his back
his bearded face is ageless
though his ancient eyes are black
he shouts and curses at the air
—maybe drunk or high on meth—
no one wants to get close enough
to smell what’s on his breath.
He wanders past the library
as story time lets out
but doesn’t seem to see the
moms and kids running about.
He heads north, crosses, then turns
left at Ruby Street and Third
passes by the doughnut shop
flips an old lady the bird
shakes his cane at passing cars
turns right, heading north on Pine
passes two gift stores, one spa
stops at the Ace Hardware sign
suddenly the door slides open
a man walks out and smiles
“Why, hello, Walt! So, how are
you? It sure has been a while.”
He takes Walt’s arm, holds the cane
leads him to his truck
“C’mon—I’ll get you home in
time for lunch, with any luck.”

NaPoWriMo #21: acrostic

Read Write Poem is saving my bacon... again. Their prompt for the day is to write an acrostic poem. I decided to be a little silly, just have fun with it.


Knowing better isn’t
Always enough deterrent
To completely prevent
Her from making
Errors; but speaking
Realistically, she gradually
Is learning how
Not to immediately
Expect perfection. Yet.

NaPoWriMo #19: scraps

Last year, right after NaPoWriMo, I went to a day-long poetry workshop (which, incidentally, I'll be doing again this weekend). Sam Green had us do an exercise that involved writing about smells from our childhood. One of the first ones that came to mind was the scent of the chicken coops behind the trailer where we lived when I was between three and six years old. I started working around that and came up with a few lines of a poem, but it was rough and when I got home, I tucked it away and forgot about it.

Today's prompt at Read Write Poem was to take the scraps of an old poem and make something new. Suddenly, this old poem jumped into my mind and begged for another chance. So, here's the background, because otherwise it may not make sense (it's reworked, but still rough).

When I was small, my dad used to sing to me at bedtime. I can't remember when I (or he) outgrew this ritual, but I have vivid memories of it, and the song I remember him singing is John Denver's "Sunshine on My Shoulders". Whenever I hear it, I think of him.

Oh, and by the way, the words in italics are lyrics from the song which I've worked into the body of the poem.

So Dad, this one's for you.


Sunshine on My Shoulders

Sunshine
outside, still oppressive
at this evening hour
but in the dim room you sit
on
the edge of my bed
tuck a yarn-tied
nine-patch quilt up to
my
chin the exact way
I like it best
and I can see your
shoulders
outlined crisp, dark
against the soft glow
of the drawn shade, which
makes
a gentle tap-tap-tap
against my window sill
its rhythm soothes
me
as it lets in
the still-bright air
the soft clucking of
happy
hens and their sharp scent
though I barely hear
shades or chickens when
sunshine
spills from your voice
the liquid weight
of each word suspended
in
the space between
you and me
a honey-song I taste on
my
tongue, that echoes
golden in my ears
and glows amber in my
eyes
when your voice catches
each time on the same line
in the chorus I
can
hear all those things
you don’t ever say
and each night you
make
it right again
when you sit here
in this same spot beside
me
yes, we are at our best
for those moments
when, together, we
cry.

NaPoWriMo #12-14: flawed

I've had strep throat since Saturday and finally admitted to myself that staying up late writing sonnets wasn't doing me any favors. Thanks to the marvels of modern antibiotics, I'm feeling a lot better and am determined to finish off the month with a poem for every day. So, back to Read Write Poem for another quality prompt, which yielded a series of three haiku. They each can stand alone, or be read together as a single statement.


Of Use

A cracked bucket still
carries more than a perfect
porcelain teacup.

Even a dull axe
can be sharpened by skilled hands
to do its job well.

Who am I to be
less useful than an old axe
or leaky bucket?

NaPoWriMo #11: elemental

I liked Read Write Poem's prompt to write a poem about one of the four elements. I confess to being a bit inspired by Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice," which I've always admired.

And just to show I'm willing to face my fears, I wrote it as a sonnet. I think Holly is right; getting caught up in the form helps to work through a block (thanks, Holly!)


Sonnet No. 3

I am man’s oldest friend and his most feared.
When underestimated I can turn
and in an hour leave a forest cleared,
razed in a raging furnace on the burn.
I glory in the smell of scorching flesh,
the ruins of a home charred down to earth,
devouring all that’s live and loved and fresh,
and leaving only ash and death and dearth.
For many years, my appetite had bounds;
millennia, my power limits knew—
but now, my old and cunning friend has found
ways to use me, once done, he can’t undo.
I will consume this world whole if I can,
but don’t thank me; the honor goes to man.

NaPoWriMo #8: secret codes

I'm really grateful for the abundance of interesting prompts at Read Write Poem, which are helping me get caught up, but not just by churning out whatever. Here's a tanka based on the prompt to attribute a secret code to an unlikely source.

By the way, I got my inspiration for what to write about when I was out in the yard today cleaning up the winter mess and raking leaves off the flowerbeds. Over in the bed where our raspberries grow, I found some volunteer peony shoots breaking up through the leaves, so I transplanted them to another part of the yard where we have more peonies. In writing the poem, I did tweak the prompt a bit; rather than spelling out what the peonies are saying, it's implied by the title.


Resurrection

Can you read what is
written in young peony
shoots that, so yielding,
yet burst crimson to the sun
through a shroud of last year’s leaves?

NaPoWriMo #7: cleave poem

Read Write Poem's prompt for today introduced me to a new poetic form: the cleave poem. The basic idea is to write two separate poems that stand side by side, line for line, and which can also be read across the lines as a single poem. Interesting and not a little challenging, but the possibilities are really intriguing.


Life and Light

in the absence of understanding hearts wax cold and hard
a candle’s frail flame fails minds darken from want of light
and so it is no good thing grows hands hang down in despair
no passion, concern, ideas no sun to warm, to feed, to lift
until we rekindle that fire to illuminate with truth and love

NaPoWriMo #5: the road not taken

Another good prompt at Read Write Poem inspired this poem:


Hindsight

Long after the wake of our breakup
subsided to a ripple
you stirred waves again in my heart
wrote letters
met me at the airport
had me over
then never called back.

It took me a long time
to stop feeling like
a green striped sock
with no match
a crumpled wad of masking tape
after the painting is done
a doll with one blue glass eye
and no eyelashes
a long time
to stop wondering
what I had done wrong.


Now
I can only thank you
for in leaving me behind
you chose better for me
than I would have
for myself.

NaPoWriMo #4: conversation

Read Write Poem had a great prompt the other day: converse with an image that means something to you. It took me a few minutes to think of just the right image, and then it came to me.

If you've read much of this blog, you know I'm a great lover of Andrew Wyeth's artwork. And the first concrete image I thought of was my favorite Wyeth painting, Christina's World. It was considerably more difficult to think about what kind of conversation I would have with that image, but I took a stab at it.


Conversation with Christina

Andy painted you at high summer
a slender figure framed in fields of dry grass
faded pink set against burnt gold
silver-streaked tendrils of dark hair
barely stirring in a lifeless breeze

My favorite half-remembered tale of you
may not even be true: you crawled every day
to visit the graves of your mother and father
then crawled home again
so I must ask

were the gulls wheeling in the salty morning sky
when you first reached up, turned the brass knob
and pushed open the weathered door?

did the sun-baked stalks crackle under your weight
tearing at your ankles and calves
as you dragged yourself down the hill?

were you thirsty by the time
you reached the bottom or did it take
until you were halfway down the road?

did the gravel leave an imprint
on the calloused heels of your hands
and tender flesh of your palms?

were the graves as you left them yesterday
bleached headstones skirted with neatly weeded grass
and flame hued geraniums in a jam jar?

NaPoWriMo #30: re-write

This is the super-duper chock-full-o-poetry final installment of NaPoWriMo. What a blessed relief! It's been an amazing day for poetry; I spent all day at a poetry workshop with Sam Green, the Washington State poet laureate. Wow.

Not just the wow of having an entire day to myself (sans children) to focus on art and creativity and the stimulating conversation of other poets. But wow of wisdom shared. Wow of being able, for once, to go to the table teachable and be schooled in where I could do better. Wow of embracing criticism and the excitement that comes from growth after. Wow of driving home completely drained from the mental exertion of being engaged and present in my art, and not having to cook dinner after. (Thank you, thank you, to my dear husband who wrangled the kids all day and didn't complain, then suggested we hit our favorite Chinese buffet for supper.)

I came away from the workshop with more interest in revising my work and more confidence in how to do it. I feel like I came away with my toolbox filled with functional implements for working my craft, for which I'm so grateful, as well as a shift in attitude about embracing failure and imperfection as a means to better understanding. And since the most recent prompt at Read Write Poem was to revise an existing poem, that's exactly what I'm doing, with the understanding that this is only the first of what will most likely be many revisions. Go here to see the original (which is very recent); the revision—mostly minor tweaks, with a few cuts and a few additions—is below.


Going to Grayland

I’ve got two little ones
strapped in the back seat
and it’s me alone up front
on a day trip to my roots
with an option to stay awhile
each town a bright bead
on this gray silk string
Ellensburg on one end
Seattle somewhere in the middle
Tukwila, Tacoma, Dupont
Olympia, Tumwater, Elma
Satsop, Aberdeen, Westport,
Grayland tying off the strand

hands relaxed on the wheel
my eye catches the glitter of sun
playing off two diamonds
two wedding rings nestled
next to each other on my ring finger
two Christmases ago my mother
gave me nana’s ring, said
keep it three years then pass it on
to one of your sisters
purposefully I brought it with me
on this trip to the home
where my nana came as a new bride

she was a Boston girl, a lady
with wit, sense and style
a trim Navy nurse with soft brown curls
blue eyes that laughed, cried and
smiled all at the same time
she told stories about the war
she and the other nurses living in Quonset huts
near the base hospital on Oahu
and lowering her voice
as if someone might overhear about
another nurse getting discharged
for fraternizing with a married officer
which is why when one of her patients
a young officer
asked her to dinner
she looked up his next of kin first
then graciously accepted
the invitation of the son
of the Reverend Clark Cottrell
from Grayland, Washington

could she have known then
what it would mean
that he would bring her home
down miles of narrow roads winding
through interminable shades of silver, slate and jade
crisp salty stiffness of a breeze blowing
from the ocean to mix with pungent
moss-grown spruce, fir and pine
across one-lane bridges
arching over tidal flats
then down Highway 105
through shorter coastal forest
dotted on each side with small, scattered houses
turning onto the final stretch of Gould Road
that he would bring her home
to Reverend and Mrs. Cottrell
to a younger sister and three brothers but one
to cranberry bogs, skunk cabbage, weather-beaten dunes
to no running water and
all her favorite shoes spoiled with mold?

I look at her ring, then at mine
thinking of my own husband
bringing me home to his parents
to windswept Kittitas Valley
rolling out from the sinuous backbone
of Manastash Ridge and laced
with Yakima River's meandering tree-lined ribbon
fertile but still browner and drier
than the lush emerald bordered sound
and shimmering drizzled swath of my hometown
bringing me to live
in a single-wide trailer
with running water and a toilet
but no shower

and now returning through the familiar green
that became her home
and once was mine I realize
like her, I didn’t choose the landscape of my love
but only who took me there.

NaPoWriMo #22: blood

First, let us pause for a moment of self-pity and complaint: April's not even over yet, and I've been sick twice. Both times the same nasty throat-scratching, coughing, hacking bug. I'm so ready to be done with this. Not least because it's really interfering with my writing. Oh, and did I mention I got a rejection letter the other day? Yeah, Literary Mama; go ahead and kick me while I'm down.

Sorry. Had to get that out of my system. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming. A couple days back, Read Write Poem had a great prompt about rites of passage. A couple of the particular ones mentioned—birth and death among them—blended oddly with a phrase that's been bouncing around inside my head, so here is the result.


Blood Will Out

The first I drew was not my own
but hers who gave me
life with her blood
life ushered into sterile solitude
blood blossoming
poppies on a field of white
a mother
a daughter
delivered by strangers
surrounded by empty beds
a father
a husband
both distant in passion and place
I can tell myself
it was a different time
it was how it was done then
but I still hear slow ticking
of wall clock’s minute hand
smell bleach on rough sheets
taste salt as waves closed
over her head and she sank
down down down.

Fourteen years later
my own bleeding came
not life, but that pale promise of
life yet to come
away from home
fleeing to clammy-tiled solitude
protected only by flimsy restroom walls
of gray paint-flaked steel
I found a single poppy blooming
blood on white panties
a daughter
a daughter
delivered by a stranger with a dime
surrounded by empty stalls
a mother
my mother
distant in person and place
I can tell myself
she would have put her arm around me
she would have said just the right thing
but I still feel soft cotton of my pink striped dress
hiked up above my thighs
smell industrial strength sickly sweetness
of restroom air freshener
taste hardness in cold water
I splashed on my face as I sank
down down down.

Twenty years after that
was the first time I gave
life with my blood and
killed a part of her as well
she who had been so alone her first time
I didn’t understand she feared the same for me
she didn’t understand I feared the opposite
dreaded being center ring in some
frenzied circus spinning around
blood blooming scarlet petals from
thin red line across my belly
a daughter
a mother
and so by my own will I was
delivered by strangers
surrounded by steel instruments
a husband
my husband
his clammy hand folded tenderly around mine
I can tell myself
it was my right to draw my line
it was healthy to have boundaries
but I still smell sharp oxygen
pricking in my nostrils
taste steely sweetness of my blood
mingled with hers
feel waves of regret sweeping me
down down down.

NaPoWriMo #15: instead

I wrote this last night after looking at the Read Write Poem prompt to make a list of things I do instead of doing something else. I started out making a list of what I was wearing (tan corduroys and denim sneakers from Value Village, a red hooded shirt from Costco) and thinking of what I would rather wear instead. Then I did away with the whole first part and the poem took on another life. I'm not totally satisfied with it, but I think it could be a good beginning.


Instead

Let me strip away
the apathy you wear
to cover nakedness of fear
let me fold you instead
in yards of cobalt silk
that billow then settle
to cling around your shoulders
let me hang lapis from your ears
drape opals round your throat
leave your wrists and feet bare
and free
let me brush your hair with soft strokes
twisting it through my fingers
till it tumbles in dark gleaming waves
let me lavish on you
all the thousand moments you’ve spent
on everyone but you
let me be the mirror
so that you can start to see
yourself.

NaPoWriMo #14: cars

I almost didn't know where to begin with the "road trip" prompt at Read Write Poem, since the subject of cars is highly evocative for me.

My parents were in the middle of their divorce the summer I took driver's ed, so taking me out to practice driving wasn't high on their list of priorities. Frankly, nerves were so raw (on all sides) when I did practice, it was a blessed relief to get a D and opt out by sheer failure.

I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21 and moved to California to be a missionary. Learning to drive in the Bay Area permanently stunted my driving style and it has taken years for me to unlearn my aggressive tendencies. The lead foot I will never unlearn—it's genetic—but parenthood has tamed (lamed?) it, and I usually drive right at the limit when my kids are in the car.

My first car, which I bought in 1993, was a burgundy 1989 Toyota Corolla, just like the mission cars I had driven in California. I paid for it myself, but was so broke after the down payment I had to borrow from my folks to pay for insurance. I've posted before about my tradition of naming vehicles, and Rosie Rolla was my first. I drove it for the next nine years, until Jim and I traded it in on a brand new gunmetal gray Camry (named Felix) as a graduation present to ourselves. I think the salesman saw us coming; the first feature he pointed out was the three child seat anchors in the back seat.

We're a Toyota family, between Rosie, Felix and the Batmobile (Jim's black 1992 Toyota pickup), but if I were ever to own the car of my dreams, it would be a 1969 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia convertible. Red, of course. Maybe someday.

I think the VW love goes back to our first family car I remember from when I was a kid, a blue VW squareback. I vaguely recall an old white Ford we may have had before the squareback, as well as a succession of cars after, but the squareback is the one I remember fondly, being buckled in the back seat and sometimes up front if it was just me and Dad, in the days before child car seats.


Are We There Yet?

You and mom up front
me and Lee in back
too little then to know
let alone remember now
why we were on the way to California
all I remember is a blur
riding the Nut Tree Railroad
straight streets lined with palm trees
driving through a wildlife preserve
and how even rolled up windows
failed to muffle the profanity
coming from under our dark blue hood

four of us packed in a squareback
white vinyl sticking to our backs and legs
leaving its impression of raised dots
marching across our clammy skin
windows rolled down
still failed to cool tempers
only made our hair stringy
plastered it across sweaty foreheads
blew it into our mouths
while we yelled at each other

you had pinned a yellow button
with a smiling face
to the back of your visor
for so much of that trip
it was the only face to smile
I coveted it from the back seat and
you promised me I could have it
if I would be a good girl
if I would just stop asking.

NaPoWriMo #12: home

I'm still playing catch-up. When I read the prompt at Read Write Poem to write about where I came from, I decided to re-work a poem I wrote last year.


Goodbye 3517

I remember summer afternoons
picking sweet peas and blackberries
from the wild tangle of our alley
their pink and purple juices
running through my bones
walking blocks and blocks
to get to a saltwater swimming pool
and rocky kelp strewn beaches
and after dark stealthily climbing
a cherry tree reaching skinny legs
to span across to the top of our gazebo
soles of bare feet back arms legs
rubbed against rough shingled roof
as I stared up at moon and stars
to see what they held for me

I remember winter nights
when rain seeped into my bones
creeping from my room
back when it was still downstairs
still hung with home sewn
white curtains trimmed with eyelet
still wallpapered with orderly rows
of tiny orange flowers
the worn carpet and linoleum
reassuring my bare feet as I crept
to huddle over a kitchen vent
with warmth blowing up
inside my thin nightgown

I remember
summer spring winter and fall
being happiest alone
curled up with a book and my thoughts
in some solitary spot

five families have called
this house home
even when they didn’t want to
one: before dad left
two: after
three: us
four: them
five: uneasy union of us all

here it is: my last visit
the home I remember is long gone
and I am a stranger
in a house full of ghosts
new rugs and slick floors
piled high with so much sentimental debris
now waiting to be sorted, boxed
discarded, mourned
soon it will all be gone
someone else’s new home
covering a grave
(here lies my tender youth)
and those bones will rest at last.

NaPoWriMo #11: charade

Last Friday Read Write Poem had a great prompt, but I just wasn't feeling it then: write a poem about an old movie. So. I'm working oh so slowly through my writer's block, just trying to gentle my way into writing again, and today has felt a bit more fruitful.

I'm a sucker for Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn, and Charade is one of my all-time faves (right up there with Rear Window, To Catch a Thief, His Girl Friday... yeah, they just don't make 'em like they used to). It's got great comic and romantic chemistry, a phenomenal ensemble cast, a seriously haute wardrobe for Miss Hepburn, and snappy dialog that includes some truly memorable one-liners ("She batted them pretty little eyes at you, and you fell for it like an egg from a tall chicken!")

If you haven't seen Charade, rent it (but don't even waste your time with the lousy remake The Truth About Charlie, starring Mark Wahlberg and Thandie Newton).

Oh, and here's the poem.


You Forget I’m Already a Widow

You were going to get a divorce
because you loved him
and he didn’t love you
now all you have left of him
fits in one small blue bag
comb, toothbrush, tooth powder
key, wallet, agenda
ticket to South America
and one letter stamped but unsealed
addressed to you
my darling Regina

what now, now that you’re
alone with a small blue bag
alone with $250,000
missing in plain sight
alone with your Givenchy
and filtered cigarettes
like drinking coffee
through a veil
alone with all these men
Adam
Alex
Peter
Brian
hiding behind the same cleft chin
and graying temples
what now

can you trust him to
steal from you
protect you
kill you
love you?

NaPoWriMo #10: found

I did found poetry for NaPoWriMo last year, by cannibalizing lyrics from some of my favorite songs. Today, Read Write Poem had another great idea for a found poem: using a passage of text from an out of print book, and then reworking the line breaks to create poetry. Using Google Books, I found the following:


The Soul in Us

Mother love
reveals the human soul
says one
but mother love
is commonplace among
the higher animals
and some of the less high
love and sacrifice of self
for family and community
prove soul
well, the worker bee
works till it falls dead
on the threshold of the hive
with honey sac or pollen baskets
filled with food
which it is bringing home
to feed the babies
and queen
and drones
of the hive
faith in an all-wise
and all-kind God
proves the soul
in us.

(from Human Life as the Biologist Sees It, by Vernon Lyman Kellogg. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1922, p. 120.)

NaPoWriMo #9: paradise

The NaPoWriMo prompt for today at Read Write Poem was "paradise". Which stymied me until a friend serendipitously sent me a completely non-related email that had a picture of a signpost showing PARADISE 12 KM. Somehow that visual got my creative juices percolating, so thank you, Gretchen!

12 KM to Paradise

I used to say
tell me the latitude and longitude
for the exact spot where
the rainbow ends
traffic lights are always green
parking meters and payphones never run out
people work to live
and not the other way around
all lost socks are found
buses, trains and planes leave five minutes late
but still arrive on time
toilet paper rolls last forever
everyone says please, thank you
you’re welcome, I love you
I’m sorry, I forgive you
no one is allergic to cats
cherry blossoms bloom year-round
a lion lies down with a lamb
cereal boxes have a toy surprise inside
for every child who pours a bowl
and every child has a bowl of food to eat

now I don’t ask
because I know
there is no where
but here
and now
and me
reaching out
to do
and love
and be.

NaPoWriMo #7: nicknames

Read Write Poem's prompt for yesterday, "nicknames", caught me off-guard because one of the first things I thought of was a childhood nickname given to me by my uncle. That in turn opened a floodgate of memories about him and how our relationship has changed over the years. I actually wrote the first half of the poem yesterday, but then I had to sleep on it and come back to it today when I had time to really give what I needed to this poem, to dig deep and write.


Gypsy

When I was four five six seven eight
he twirled me till my full skirts belled out
lifted and carried me on his shoulders
called me Gypsy
gave me a ride home from first grade
on the back of his motorcycle
made me wear his scuffed white helmet
while his bare long hair streamed behind
fed me chocolate chips while watching
Saturday morning cartoons at his house.

It was only later I remember
overhearing my mom and aunt
talking about his marriage failing
because of pot coke drinking
beginning to understand words like
codependent and addiction
because they weren’t whispering
or keeping the doors closed anymore
and after I remembered for myself
finding magazines under his coffee table
decks of cards with naked ladies
feeling sick when I looked at them
dirty when I thought of why my heart raced
tasting vomit back in my throat
when I recognized his smell
was the smell of beer.

He took me fishing once when I was a teenager
his small white motorboat breaking over
whitecaps in the Strait of Juan de Fuca
but I didn’t know what to say to him
even when we hooked a cod
gray scaly longer than my arm
flopping dull against fiberglass hull
just listened to him telling me
stories and names of silver inlets
wrapped around emerald headlands
on the way home and all the while
holding back vomit when
I caught his beer-smell on the breeze.

The years since have wasted him and me:
wasted time wasted love wasted life
only recently I’ve resigned my need to deny
that I am more like him than I knew
for we both brawl with our own demons
acquainted with pain, I feel his when I see him
brown bag in hand at a reunion
or when I catch his breath as we hug
I wonder now what beer was the balm for
what first wounded his wild gypsy soul
when he was half the age I am now.

I don’t know how this story ends
only that I’m not Gypsy anymore and
he’s not the same man who named me.

NaPoWriMo #6: orbit

Read Write Poem posted an image prompt today, a picture of riders and empty swings on a Chair-O-Plane ride. The last time I rode one was when I was a teenager, at the Puyallup Fair. I loved the dizzy, sick-to-my stomach rush of going around and around so fast, the thrill that at any moment the thin chains holding me could break and I would fly off into space. That feeling of hurtling through space became the first line, and then the poem went off in another direction, taking me on a completely different ride.


Kepler’s First Law of Planetary Motion

I’m hurtling through
the space around you
though wild my lopsided orbit may be
I’m held to my course
centripetal force
tethers my body to your gravity.

NaPoWriMo #3: threes

Today's prompt at Read Write Poem was "threes". Instead of going for the literal, I thought I'd go to a form I've tried only once before, the tritina. This was inspired by our dessert tonight, and though I had to keep myself from thinking about the horrendous amounts of pesticides associated with storebought strawberries, they were sufficiently delicious to start my mouth watering for the ones that will be showing up in our backyard later this summer. Now, if only it would stop snowing here...


July in April

I’ll wash then sort then slice the berries
while you pour then whip then sweeten cream
and when we’re done lay out forks and plates

steel gleams burnished beside cobalt plates
lavishly heaped with crimson berries
nestled under velvet flurried cream

breath of vanilla infuses cream
painstaking, we lick clean our plates
but still taste tart off-season berries

on each other’s lips kissing cream and strawberries after plates of July in April.