NaPoWriMo 2015

April 1, 2015

the Reference Desk is oval
like the bridge of a ship –

I pace from right to left
peering out over an ocean
of information –

the waves of users lap the bow
then, peel, like ripples, away.

April 2, 2015

nothing has grown yet
in my one-week-old garden

I wonder will the little seeds
make it through early Spring’s late frost?

did I plant too soon?
was I over-anxious to begin?

I stick my finger in the ground –
it feels warm inside, underneath,

just half an inch deep where my seeds
rest – I think they will survive.

April 3, 2015

A deal was struck,
announced, applauded –
a conflict avoided,
for now, for the future

warmongers on the left
and on the right,
vanquished, silenced,
disarmed, for the present

an elected leader deposed,
an embassy seized, occupied,
both wrong, both wronged –

and hope for a new balance,
a re-calibration –
possibility works well
as a bargaining chip.

April 4, 2015

a full blood moon shone high
over the eastern sky
two nights in a row –

the first night was cloudy,
and the full moon
a little fuzzy
around the edges –

all day long,
we hit the regular haunts –
the places where we always eat
the stores we shop
seeing loved ones at home –

but there was an emptiness –
something was missing
in our normal circuit –

then, on the second night –
a clear night,
no clouds in the sky –
we saw it.
For a moment.
the emptiness
that was a shadow
moving between/among us –
lunar eclipse.

April 5, 2015

early spring is as colorful as late autumn:
the highway flora is putting on new clothes
winter’s browns and greys displaced by greens
and oranges and reds and purples –

further west, the road gets curvier and trees,
more hardwood that evergreen, more long-legged,
evergreens shorter, bushier –

the baby mountains start to appear,
along with their mothers and fathers –
majestic, protective, persevering –

I can feel my brain starting to bend
to the mountain curves. I switch the station
from talk radio to jazz. A Love Supreme
takes me all the way to my mountain home.

April 18, 2015

I arise early from a restless night –
dawn is not yet breaking – all is silent
save the occasional mournful tweet
of a single bird – same note, same tune
and no response – he doesn’t have a mate.
The mountain air is cool & crisp & still –
the darkest part of night.

I make coffee in the aeropress, sit
on the porch and listen to the sad song
of the solitary bird – and sip my coffee,
slowly, to the end. Soon dawn will break
the silence of the night – the dogwoods
blooming, the chorus streaming –
and the early bird will meet his happy maid.

April 19, 2015

the garden is my primary place
for meditation these days,
in these majestic mountains,
in this place of serenity and beauty

I inherit an abandoned plot –
weeds have overgrown
last year’s plantings
and perennials –

preparing the beds for planting
i dig up old carrot roots,
unfound potatoes, decomposing,
and sundry forms of organic life

I crumble the good earth
with my fingers – I feel
the power in the soil
to sustain a new growth

with a shovel and a rake
I turn the old soil over,
exposing its underside
to sunlight and fresh air

then sprinkle a little mulch
in the furrows that form –
spread the mixture slowly,
evenly, to form a flat bed

it’s like an open wound,
exposed, that heals quickly
with sunshine and oxygen –
it’s time to place the seeds –

I punch holes gently, gently
in the heaping, heaving mound
and drop two or three seeds
into each little womb, and wait . . .

weeds grow like, well, weeds,
and must be plucked, removed –
and on dry days there is watering –
& waiting & hoping

today’s meditation is complete –
my body is tired from digging,
raking, bending, touching the soil –
I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

April 20, 2015

plucking those grey hairs
will not hold back
the inexorable flood of time –

they grow back faster
and longer for a reason.

and we will get older
and more decrepit if we last,
and someday we will die.
these are the facts.

April 21, 2015 – poetic thought on the current Dyson/West kerfluffle

ghost stories can be very sad
when pain and hurt are just beneath
the superficial fright and scare –

we all know it ain’t about the storyline –
the plot is merely, purely incidental –
that the real game being played
is that we all got played

but hey, it’s cool –
as Mahalia would say, “that’s just
the way it is down here.”

you can be a tool
in the great game of 2016 –
but don’t be no fool,
‘cause poetry will find you out.

every shade of green – April 30, 2015

every shade of green, it seems,
displays itself upon the hills
that fill the skies encircling my home –
when I arrived December’s days
were short, its nights were long –
these hills were grey and brown –

and sad, a bit, but I was told
that green, in Spring, would overtake,
outstrip Winter’s darkness, and the hills
would put on green – from the bottom
to the top – in stages and layers –
like stockings, thick socks for a frosty night.

and so, in streaks and patches to the top,
100 shades of green now fill the skies.