30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 29
Write a poem that gets shorter with each line.
Levi+Freya iz fatcats, greedeecats
alwiz pretends 2 b needeecats.
Hates numeat, roomeat,
doezn’t smell b4 eat.
Roomeat woz off
peepl sez Pew!
Levi+Freya
4 bigspew
can haz
carpet
yet.
30 September 2009
Stillness
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 28
Pick two or three words from [For the Dean by Peter Wild] and use them to start your poem.
My words are "with great stillness" – and the content is not to be read as autobiography, lol!
With great stillness
I sit in my house by the sea,
the always moving sea
roaring at night its threats
to encroach further.
With great stillness
I stand on the cliff to watch
as wind-swept waves
come thundering, yellow
as if carrying sickness.
And the man is far away
with the last of my money.
And the timbers creak
and the eaves rattle
as a storm approaches.
An old woman
with nowhere to go
I wrap my shawl tighter,
send the hungry cats out to hunt
and await the Great Stillness.
Pick two or three words from [For the Dean by Peter Wild] and use them to start your poem.
My words are "with great stillness" – and the content is not to be read as autobiography, lol!
With great stillness
I sit in my house by the sea,
the always moving sea
roaring at night its threats
to encroach further.
With great stillness
I stand on the cliff to watch
as wind-swept waves
come thundering, yellow
as if carrying sickness.
And the man is far away
with the last of my money.
And the timbers creak
and the eaves rattle
as a storm approaches.
An old woman
with nowhere to go
I wrap my shawl tighter,
send the hungry cats out to hunt
and await the Great Stillness.
29 September 2009
New Light
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 27
Pick a morpheme and use it to add adnomination to your poetry.
I've used two: light and mag.
Moonlight and your shining face.
Your light voice murmuring
magical words, that danced
lightly through my imagination,
their meaning magnified.
And your eyes danced, alight.
The image of love, I thought,
but after all more probably delight
in what you might term mischief,
taking it lightly, but I, now
seeing the light, call damage.
Imagine! I thought you majestic,
your head thrown back, your hair
catching the light as you turned
slightly towards the lightening sky
as daylight dawned, soft magenta.
It was a magnificent ride, a flight
to unimaginable heights, away
from the light of reality (that
magisterial blight) but now
the magnetic pull of gravity
returns me to earth; I alight.
Pick a morpheme and use it to add adnomination to your poetry.
I've used two: light and mag.
Moonlight and your shining face.
Your light voice murmuring
magical words, that danced
lightly through my imagination,
their meaning magnified.
And your eyes danced, alight.
The image of love, I thought,
but after all more probably delight
in what you might term mischief,
taking it lightly, but I, now
seeing the light, call damage.
Imagine! I thought you majestic,
your head thrown back, your hair
catching the light as you turned
slightly towards the lightening sky
as daylight dawned, soft magenta.
It was a magnificent ride, a flight
to unimaginable heights, away
from the light of reality (that
magisterial blight) but now
the magnetic pull of gravity
returns me to earth; I alight.
The Presence of the Observer
Changes What’s Being Observed
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 26
Write a poem about a natural event.
I start my walk to the shops.
Few people along this village road.
A toddler, pushed in a stroller,
spies me going past the other way,
cocks her finger at me and gurgles.
She changes me. I fill with smiles,
waggling my hand back at her,
exchanging grins with her mother.
She changes us all, and
changes our interactions.
I take the upper path, above
trees and river – almost step
on a flattened cane toad
some driver didn’t miss. Think
of the handsome goanna
sprawled across half the road
the other day, his proud head up.
Luckily no traffic there.
I tooted, swerved and missed.
He took off into the bush.
Next day my sleek black hunter
nosed at an open drawer.
I thought he was trying to climb in
(he likes cubby-holes, that cat)
but later he brought out on to the floor
the upturned white-bellied body
of a small lizard, dead.
I wondered then,
does Nature demand
a life lost for a life saved?
I contemplate, too, the woman
who shares her space with wombats.
“They think so differently
about the world,” she says,
finding that charming. “We forget,”
she adds, "That we are animals too.”
I am an event in nature,
like a wombat or goanna.
I am an agent of change,
like introduced cats and toads.
Write a poem about a natural event.
I start my walk to the shops.
Few people along this village road.
A toddler, pushed in a stroller,
spies me going past the other way,
cocks her finger at me and gurgles.
She changes me. I fill with smiles,
waggling my hand back at her,
exchanging grins with her mother.
She changes us all, and
changes our interactions.
I take the upper path, above
trees and river – almost step
on a flattened cane toad
some driver didn’t miss. Think
of the handsome goanna
sprawled across half the road
the other day, his proud head up.
Luckily no traffic there.
I tooted, swerved and missed.
He took off into the bush.
Next day my sleek black hunter
nosed at an open drawer.
I thought he was trying to climb in
(he likes cubby-holes, that cat)
but later he brought out on to the floor
the upturned white-bellied body
of a small lizard, dead.
I wondered then,
does Nature demand
a life lost for a life saved?
I contemplate, too, the woman
who shares her space with wombats.
“They think so differently
about the world,” she says,
finding that charming. “We forget,”
she adds, "That we are animals too.”
I am an event in nature,
like a wombat or goanna.
I am an agent of change,
like introduced cats and toads.
27 September 2009
Extreme Weather
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 25
Write a poem as that uses every letter of the alphabet at least once.
Coming in from the coast
I thought what a fine morning
the sky clear after last night’s dust,
but approaching Murwillumbah I saw
thick haze along the Border Ranges
the highest peaks almost invisible
ghostly traces behind the white.
As I unpacked the car, while the wind
came in buffeting gusts, I felt it
in the back of my throat, stinging.
Water couldn’t quench that fire,
it wasn’t exactly thirst.
It’s still here, I can feel it now
just as a tickling cough – even though
mid-afternoon I was wracked
by sudden sneezing, explosive,
over and over, and shivers
ran down my back.
I have the central desert
inside my body. I don’t know
if or when or how it will ever leave.
Too much and it might kill me.
So far it is not too much. This time.
By noon we could no longer
see it in the air. The sky was blue,
the sun shone, the day grew warm.
On the television screen tonight we saw
the rapid floodwaters in the Philippines,
rivers through Manila streets
I walked in ’78; counted our blessings.
Write a poem as that uses every letter of the alphabet at least once.
Coming in from the coast
I thought what a fine morning
the sky clear after last night’s dust,
but approaching Murwillumbah I saw
thick haze along the Border Ranges
the highest peaks almost invisible
ghostly traces behind the white.
As I unpacked the car, while the wind
came in buffeting gusts, I felt it
in the back of my throat, stinging.
Water couldn’t quench that fire,
it wasn’t exactly thirst.
It’s still here, I can feel it now
just as a tickling cough – even though
mid-afternoon I was wracked
by sudden sneezing, explosive,
over and over, and shivers
ran down my back.
I have the central desert
inside my body. I don’t know
if or when or how it will ever leave.
Too much and it might kill me.
So far it is not too much. This time.
By noon we could no longer
see it in the air. The sky was blue,
the sun shone, the day grew warm.
On the television screen tonight we saw
the rapid floodwaters in the Philippines,
rivers through Manila streets
I walked in ’78; counted our blessings.
26 September 2009
I Want
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 24
Write a poem that begins with the word "I".
I want a little car
that could follow me like a dog.
I like to walk, I need to walk,
but sometimes I walk too far
and then it would be handy
if my car was right at heel
gutter crawling slowly on a lead.
I could ride home happy
sitting at the wheel
as if it needed driving,
my clever little car.
I’d feed it oil and petrol
give it a drink of water
and put it to bed in the garage.
I wonder if it would come
if I whistled?
Write a poem that begins with the word "I".
I want a little car
that could follow me like a dog.
I like to walk, I need to walk,
but sometimes I walk too far
and then it would be handy
if my car was right at heel
gutter crawling slowly on a lead.
I could ride home happy
sitting at the wheel
as if it needed driving,
my clever little car.
I’d feed it oil and petrol
give it a drink of water
and put it to bed in the garage.
I wonder if it would come
if I whistled?
25 September 2009
Valley of the Incas
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 23
Write a poem using iambic pentameter.
I caught a glimpse of morning in Peru
through someone else’s holiday account
and suddenly I climbed those slopes again
the steep and winding streets, the blocks of stone,
the mighty, rocky Andes, homes of gods.
He writes “Ollantaytambo” and I thrill
remembering the amphitheatre there
and how I lay full length on one flat stone
and opened to the sun, while somewhere close
an Indian man played softly on a flute.
Another tourist came and gawped at me.
“The sacrificial altar isn’t here,”
he said. “You’ve got it wrong.” I turned my head
and went on with my ritual, silently
communing with the Apu of that place.
In Aquas Calientes when we strolled
along the river path to those hot springs
in nothing but our swimsuits and our towels,
it was the locals gaped (at work below
breaking up the rocks to clear the stream).
At Machu Picchu only half a day,
I sat beside a spindly little tree
alongside one great boulder on the grass
and watched the climbers from the Inca Trail
descend into the ruins single file.
We’d been through fire-black areas at height
and looked across to Wiracocha’s face
emblazoned on the great peak opposite.
I, with my fear of heights, had almost pranced
around those paths and ledges, those deep drops.
The shaman whom we met was prophesied.
It’s nice to read he still has that same shop
where we sat down eleven years ago
to take our journey to the jaguar cave,
and afterwards we wept as we embraced.
Those boys we knew are men already now,
the orphans of the streets who helped us learn
the good cheap cafes where the locals ate
and how to not say “good” when we meant “well” –
their English better than our Español.
The Urubamba River frothed and seethed
beside the trainline for a certain way
and glaciers gleamed along the topmost peaks.
Inside stone walls now topless we could hear
the screaming victims of the sacrifice
loud in our heads, and clapped hands to our ears.
We talked with healers, three, just newly trained.
“Show us your way,” they said, “and witness ours.”
They stood and prayed. We joined them. Sparks of light
danced across their palms and ours too.
The older woman channelled messages.
“Return!” the angels said. “They love you here.”
And down in deepest jungle lies the skull
of amethyst, that Andrew is to guard.
But that is in another time, or else
his spirit guards it, being everywhere.
I tossed into the ocean one black stone
hollowed on the top, that I brought back –
a shallow dish perhaps, for catching blood.
At any rate, it seemed to make us ill
and once it left, so did our heaviness.
Eleven years. Jaguar, condor, snake
were my protectors there, guiding my steps,
and still would come, but now I seldom call.
We do return in dreams, but otherwise
Australia is home; this too is good
Write a poem using iambic pentameter.
To Bill and Helen
I caught a glimpse of morning in Peru
through someone else’s holiday account
and suddenly I climbed those slopes again
the steep and winding streets, the blocks of stone,
the mighty, rocky Andes, homes of gods.
He writes “Ollantaytambo” and I thrill
remembering the amphitheatre there
and how I lay full length on one flat stone
and opened to the sun, while somewhere close
an Indian man played softly on a flute.
Another tourist came and gawped at me.
“The sacrificial altar isn’t here,”
he said. “You’ve got it wrong.” I turned my head
and went on with my ritual, silently
communing with the Apu of that place.
In Aquas Calientes when we strolled
along the river path to those hot springs
in nothing but our swimsuits and our towels,
it was the locals gaped (at work below
breaking up the rocks to clear the stream).
At Machu Picchu only half a day,
I sat beside a spindly little tree
alongside one great boulder on the grass
and watched the climbers from the Inca Trail
descend into the ruins single file.
We’d been through fire-black areas at height
and looked across to Wiracocha’s face
emblazoned on the great peak opposite.
I, with my fear of heights, had almost pranced
around those paths and ledges, those deep drops.
The shaman whom we met was prophesied.
It’s nice to read he still has that same shop
where we sat down eleven years ago
to take our journey to the jaguar cave,
and afterwards we wept as we embraced.
Those boys we knew are men already now,
the orphans of the streets who helped us learn
the good cheap cafes where the locals ate
and how to not say “good” when we meant “well” –
their English better than our Español.
The Urubamba River frothed and seethed
beside the trainline for a certain way
and glaciers gleamed along the topmost peaks.
Inside stone walls now topless we could hear
the screaming victims of the sacrifice
loud in our heads, and clapped hands to our ears.
We talked with healers, three, just newly trained.
“Show us your way,” they said, “and witness ours.”
They stood and prayed. We joined them. Sparks of light
danced across their palms and ours too.
The older woman channelled messages.
“Return!” the angels said. “They love you here.”
And down in deepest jungle lies the skull
of amethyst, that Andrew is to guard.
But that is in another time, or else
his spirit guards it, being everywhere.
I tossed into the ocean one black stone
hollowed on the top, that I brought back –
a shallow dish perhaps, for catching blood.
At any rate, it seemed to make us ill
and once it left, so did our heaviness.
Eleven years. Jaguar, condor, snake
were my protectors there, guiding my steps,
and still would come, but now I seldom call.
We do return in dreams, but otherwise
Australia is home; this too is good
23 September 2009
Dark Sky in Daylight
30 Poems in 30 Days
Write a poem in which a similar or identical phrase
is repeated three or more times throughout the poem.
Once upon a time
this was a lush continent
but that was long ago.
Now we have drought.
Our dry inland “outback”
dry like this for centuries
became that way long ago.
Now we have desert.
Today there’s a haze
thickening the whole eastern sky.
Wind and fire outback yesterday,
now we have dust.
We have it here
far from the red centre,
blown all that way yesterday.
Now we have darkness.
Written and posted as it's happening,
Wed. 23rd, 12:37 in the afternoon.
Write a poem in which a similar or identical phrase
is repeated three or more times throughout the poem.
Once upon a time
this was a lush continent
but that was long ago.
Now we have drought.
Our dry inland “outback”
dry like this for centuries
became that way long ago.
Now we have desert.
Today there’s a haze
thickening the whole eastern sky.
Wind and fire outback yesterday,
now we have dust.
We have it here
far from the red centre,
blown all that way yesterday.
Now we have darkness.
Written and posted as it's happening,
Wed. 23rd, 12:37 in the afternoon.
Two Equinox Tanka
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 21
September 21st is the last day of summer in the northern hemisphere and the last day of winter in the southern hemisphere. With that in mind, write a poem in which the seasons play a role.
As I get the prompts a day early due to the time difference, this again coincided neatly with my regular "Tanka on Tuesday" efforts, already on that subject:
it’s Spring Equinox
here in the South of the world
a time of balance
between the light and the dark
then new life starts as light grows
sunshine and thunder
wind and the smell of new rain
from a warm blue sky
and the blind vine thrusting up
seeking light and sustenance
September 21st is the last day of summer in the northern hemisphere and the last day of winter in the southern hemisphere. With that in mind, write a poem in which the seasons play a role.
As I get the prompts a day early due to the time difference, this again coincided neatly with my regular "Tanka on Tuesday" efforts, already on that subject:
it’s Spring Equinox
here in the South of the world
a time of balance
between the light and the dark
then new life starts as light grows
sunshine and thunder
wind and the smell of new rain
from a warm blue sky
and the blind vine thrusting up
seeking light and sustenance
Don't Cry
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 20
Write a poem that begins with a line of advice or instruction.
But I need my tears
for the hurt –
to speak my hurt,
to show you and
to take my pain away.
I’ll cry it out
until I’ve used up
all my breath,
until I’m worn out
from crying.
Then I’ll fall into
a deep sleep
and when I wake up,
I’ll be calm.
I’ll feel new.
Don’t try to take away
my fierce tears,
my needful tears,
my gentle tears.
They’re mine.
Write a poem that begins with a line of advice or instruction.
But I need my tears
for the hurt –
to speak my hurt,
to show you and
to take my pain away.
I’ll cry it out
until I’ve used up
all my breath,
until I’m worn out
from crying.
Then I’ll fall into
a deep sleep
and when I wake up,
I’ll be calm.
I’ll feel new.
Don’t try to take away
my fierce tears,
my needful tears,
my gentle tears.
They’re mine.
21 September 2009
This Evening
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 19
Write a poem that begins and ends with three single syllable words.
Dark comes down.
What’s that noise?
Ah, it’s rain, fresh
rain, heavy, cooling the air.
The heat became thick
as the afternoon wore on,
like a blanket pressing.
Rain, welcome rain,
as night falls, air
you can breathe again.
Dry brown plants
plump up, stop sagging,
stop dragging limp leaves
along the ground.
But I’m tired
from the hot day, listless,
reluctant to move –
and from anger. It takes
much energy on any day
to keep being furious, why
don’t I let it go?
It has me, I can’t
shake it. I know
this is not the way, I
know I risk loss, might be
sorry later – don’t care.
The rain evaporates too quickly,
dark comes down.
Write a poem that begins and ends with three single syllable words.
Dark comes down.
What’s that noise?
Ah, it’s rain, fresh
rain, heavy, cooling the air.
The heat became thick
as the afternoon wore on,
like a blanket pressing.
Rain, welcome rain,
as night falls, air
you can breathe again.
Dry brown plants
plump up, stop sagging,
stop dragging limp leaves
along the ground.
But I’m tired
from the hot day, listless,
reluctant to move –
and from anger. It takes
much energy on any day
to keep being furious, why
don’t I let it go?
It has me, I can’t
shake it. I know
this is not the way, I
know I risk loss, might be
sorry later – don’t care.
The rain evaporates too quickly,
dark comes down.
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