Cheating a bit: this was my post today at Haiku on Friday, MySpace,
then I realised it also fits the prompt I'm up to.
the returning moon
once again
I dream of the dead
30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 6
Prompt: Write a poem that takes place at a specific time of day
Showing posts with label 30 Poems in 30 Days '09. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 30 Poems in 30 Days '09. Show all posts
17 September 2010
1 October 2009
Sevenling (Orchids and clover)
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 30
Write a poem about the end of something.
You can find out about sevenlings here.
Orchids and clover hung from pots
on the outside wall of his house,
and that strange white night-blooming flower.
The stars were out, shining clearly,
and moonlight vied with lamplight,
illuminating his hanging garden faintly.…
When he moved away, he took not one plant.
Write a poem about the end of something.
You can find out about sevenlings here.
Orchids and clover hung from pots
on the outside wall of his house,
and that strange white night-blooming flower.
The stars were out, shining clearly,
and moonlight vied with lamplight,
illuminating his hanging garden faintly.…
When he moved away, he took not one plant.
30 September 2009
LOLcats Morning
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.
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.
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.
"Get a Life"
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 18
Write a poem in the form of a letter (epistle).
For the sake of the exercise, I've taken personally a comment which was not actually directed at me. And because this piece is long and prosey, I've at least created a pattern of words per line: 4/4/3)
Dear CyberFriend, thank you
for this excellent advice.
I also liked
the suggestion of hobbies:
speed-dating, you thought,
or the gym.
I’ll certainly try hard
to fit something in
between making poems,
running writers’ groups online
and also off,
arranging my trip interstate
for a featured performance
this coming December,
regretfully declining the latest
invitation back to Texas
for the festivals,
planning my new course
for the Community College
in “Brilliant Blogging”,
editing a friend’s website
as a gift because
I like him,
editing a student’s assignments
for the lovely money
(liking her too),
visiting a sick cat
an hour’s drive away
to give Reiki,
afterwards having a swim
in the grateful owner’s
heated inground pool,
attending Tai Chi classes
weekly during school term,
taking long walks
on the local beach,
doing beginners’ weight training
with my husband,
being his official carer
and usually his chauffeur,
taking the Minutes
of Neighbourhood Association meetings
monthly as their Secretary,
reading my way
through the library books
piled beside my bed
and constantly changing,
rewriting my Tarot course,
testing the proposed upgrade
as I go
on the current students,
working at the markets
giving psychic readings
three Sundays a month,
doing daily magickal rituals
which I love,
casting spells as needed,
interacting with nature spirits
and with angels,
looking after my cats,
sometimes cleaning the house,
pruning and weeding
the resurgent Spring garden,
waiting again for buds
on the rosebush –
that twice yearly miracle
both Spring and Autumn
(just add water),
assisting a writing student
who decided to produce
a class anthology,
taking a car-less friend
on fortnightly shopping trips,
giving budgeting advice,
having a monthly massage,
meeting friends for coffee,
going to movies,
watching favourite TV shows,
also catching old movies
now on DVD,
talking to old friends
on email or facebook,
making new ones
on MySpace and Twitter,
discovering all the ways
of cyber activism
e.g. for the Iranians,
Aung San Suu Kyi
and climate change,
taking part in meditations
both worldwide and personal
to manifest peace,
in global Reiki groups
as and when requested
sending absent healing,
listing names of people
asking me to start
a lightworkers’ group
here in this locality –
and I will, but
it’s just, when?
I could go on
but it’s now clear
why you think
I need a life
not to mention hobbies.
I simply don’t
blog all this stuff;
not a daily diarist.
I post essays
on matters of opinion,
or for light relief
fill in quizzes.
I confess I only
occasionally manage to read
other people’s blogs,
even yours, which may
surprise you – notwithstanding that
it’s so enthralling
reiterating your life dilemmas,
those circles you keep
going around in …
anyway I do hope
I needn’t give up
my self-pampering sessions:
the long, leisurely baths
with scented oils, candles
deep breathing exercises,
colour therapy and meditation,
to get this Life
dear CyberFriend? g2g
Write a poem in the form of a letter (epistle).
For the sake of the exercise, I've taken personally a comment which was not actually directed at me. And because this piece is long and prosey, I've at least created a pattern of words per line: 4/4/3)
Dear CyberFriend, thank you
for this excellent advice.
I also liked
the suggestion of hobbies:
speed-dating, you thought,
or the gym.
I’ll certainly try hard
to fit something in
between making poems,
running writers’ groups online
and also off,
arranging my trip interstate
for a featured performance
this coming December,
regretfully declining the latest
invitation back to Texas
for the festivals,
planning my new course
for the Community College
in “Brilliant Blogging”,
editing a friend’s website
as a gift because
I like him,
editing a student’s assignments
for the lovely money
(liking her too),
visiting a sick cat
an hour’s drive away
to give Reiki,
afterwards having a swim
in the grateful owner’s
heated inground pool,
attending Tai Chi classes
weekly during school term,
taking long walks
on the local beach,
doing beginners’ weight training
with my husband,
being his official carer
and usually his chauffeur,
taking the Minutes
of Neighbourhood Association meetings
monthly as their Secretary,
reading my way
through the library books
piled beside my bed
and constantly changing,
rewriting my Tarot course,
testing the proposed upgrade
as I go
on the current students,
working at the markets
giving psychic readings
three Sundays a month,
doing daily magickal rituals
which I love,
casting spells as needed,
interacting with nature spirits
and with angels,
looking after my cats,
sometimes cleaning the house,
pruning and weeding
the resurgent Spring garden,
waiting again for buds
on the rosebush –
that twice yearly miracle
both Spring and Autumn
(just add water),
assisting a writing student
who decided to produce
a class anthology,
taking a car-less friend
on fortnightly shopping trips,
giving budgeting advice,
having a monthly massage,
meeting friends for coffee,
going to movies,
watching favourite TV shows,
also catching old movies
now on DVD,
talking to old friends
on email or facebook,
making new ones
on MySpace and Twitter,
discovering all the ways
of cyber activism
e.g. for the Iranians,
Aung San Suu Kyi
and climate change,
taking part in meditations
both worldwide and personal
to manifest peace,
in global Reiki groups
as and when requested
sending absent healing,
listing names of people
asking me to start
a lightworkers’ group
here in this locality –
and I will, but
it’s just, when?
I could go on
but it’s now clear
why you think
I need a life
not to mention hobbies.
I simply don’t
blog all this stuff;
not a daily diarist.
I post essays
on matters of opinion,
or for light relief
fill in quizzes.
I confess I only
occasionally manage to read
other people’s blogs,
even yours, which may
surprise you – notwithstanding that
it’s so enthralling
reiterating your life dilemmas,
those circles you keep
going around in …
anyway I do hope
I needn’t give up
my self-pampering sessions:
the long, leisurely baths
with scented oils, candles
deep breathing exercises,
colour therapy and meditation,
to get this Life
dear CyberFriend? g2g
20 September 2009
Pottsville Beach, Late Afternoon
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 17
Write a poem that is set at or near where you live.
The shoreline is utterly altered after the storms
but summer is coming, we can get to the beach again.
Someone has partly restored the path that became a cliff
easing it into a soft hill of sand we can trudge down and up.
Others are here already, walking or fishing.
The waves come in now in opposing directions
turning on each other like the edge of half a whirlpool.
The shallows are all uneven; in places huge licks extend
reaching nearly to the foot of the cliff, in far beyond the rest.
This is a sea I don’t want to turn my back on.
But I do while I fossick for stones in the slush:
interesting shapes, beautiful colours, satisfying textures.
Here is a comma and here a heart. Some are marked with crosses
others circled by raised, contrasting rings. One is a pearl, translucent white,
others are black and smooth, shining like onyx.
Then everyone stops. We all stand still and gaze.
I’d heard two days ago there were whales about, seen
from the headland at Hastings Point, and now they are here
disporting themselves in leisurely ease, back behind the breakers,
cresting and diving, leaping and plunging.
A glimpse of graceful tail, a curving fin or a snout,
a sudden spume of white, a burst of foam. A silver glint
from the underside of a fin caught by the sun. And the sky vast,
pastel blue with long white feathery stripes of cloud stretching across.
The ocean sparkled, seeming to sing.
Write a poem that is set at or near where you live.
The shoreline is utterly altered after the storms
but summer is coming, we can get to the beach again.
Someone has partly restored the path that became a cliff
easing it into a soft hill of sand we can trudge down and up.
Others are here already, walking or fishing.
The waves come in now in opposing directions
turning on each other like the edge of half a whirlpool.
The shallows are all uneven; in places huge licks extend
reaching nearly to the foot of the cliff, in far beyond the rest.
This is a sea I don’t want to turn my back on.
But I do while I fossick for stones in the slush:
interesting shapes, beautiful colours, satisfying textures.
Here is a comma and here a heart. Some are marked with crosses
others circled by raised, contrasting rings. One is a pearl, translucent white,
others are black and smooth, shining like onyx.
Then everyone stops. We all stand still and gaze.
I’d heard two days ago there were whales about, seen
from the headland at Hastings Point, and now they are here
disporting themselves in leisurely ease, back behind the breakers,
cresting and diving, leaping and plunging.
A glimpse of graceful tail, a curving fin or a snout,
a sudden spume of white, a burst of foam. A silver glint
from the underside of a fin caught by the sun. And the sky vast,
pastel blue with long white feathery stripes of cloud stretching across.
The ocean sparkled, seeming to sing.
The Definition of Lost
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 16
Write a definition poem. A definition poem takes a word or a concept and attempts to define it,
provide perspective, redefine it, or create a definitive example of it.
It’s this three-year-old girl
face screwed up
eyes and nose streaming,
turning in frantic circles
looking and looking and looking
for one familiar point
in the swirl of large legs and bodies
noisy faces thrusting, asking,
“Where’s your Mummy?” – as if
that wasn’t the whole problem –
in the strange new landscape
of the picnic ground.
It must have been only a moment,
then she’d have reappeared.
A little woman, as I discovered
when I was much older,
she’d been hidden, perhaps,
by the crowd. Maybe
I let go her hand
and so we were separated
briefly, but long enough.
I always thought my ridiculous
fear of losing my way
in unfamiliar places
came from that time the conductor
put me off the tram when I was seven
for tendering the wrong fare.
I cried and wailed then too,
feeling not only small
but somehow dirty,
until kind strangers took me home –
at least I was well taught
to remember my address.
But now, in old age, exploring
that distress, that panic,
that wretchedness,
I find the three-year-old,
her terrified abandonment
my defining moment
of being lost.
Write a definition poem. A definition poem takes a word or a concept and attempts to define it,
provide perspective, redefine it, or create a definitive example of it.
It’s this three-year-old girl
face screwed up
eyes and nose streaming,
turning in frantic circles
looking and looking and looking
for one familiar point
in the swirl of large legs and bodies
noisy faces thrusting, asking,
“Where’s your Mummy?” – as if
that wasn’t the whole problem –
in the strange new landscape
of the picnic ground.
It must have been only a moment,
then she’d have reappeared.
A little woman, as I discovered
when I was much older,
she’d been hidden, perhaps,
by the crowd. Maybe
I let go her hand
and so we were separated
briefly, but long enough.
I always thought my ridiculous
fear of losing my way
in unfamiliar places
came from that time the conductor
put me off the tram when I was seven
for tendering the wrong fare.
I cried and wailed then too,
feeling not only small
but somehow dirty,
until kind strangers took me home –
at least I was well taught
to remember my address.
But now, in old age, exploring
that distress, that panic,
that wretchedness,
I find the three-year-old,
her terrified abandonment
my defining moment
of being lost.
16 September 2009
A Tanka
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 15
Write a tanka.
It happens, as regular readers know, that I host Tanka on Tuesday at MySpace in order to teach myself this form, and to have fun playing with others who are doing likewise. And this prompt came on Tuesday 15th, after I'd done my tanka for the day, so again we have a piece doing double duty.
in September sun
as new leaves and buds glisten
my friend telephones
her dying father’s lucid
they have had a lovely day
Write a tanka.
It happens, as regular readers know, that I host Tanka on Tuesday at MySpace in order to teach myself this form, and to have fun playing with others who are doing likewise. And this prompt came on Tuesday 15th, after I'd done my tanka for the day, so again we have a piece doing double duty.
in September sun
as new leaves and buds glisten
my friend telephones
her dying father’s lucid
they have had a lovely day
15 September 2009
Walking the Ridge
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 14
Write a poem about a specific but minor memory you have from more than five, but less than ten years ago.
We were still living
around the bend
and up the hill
from Kouranga.
I set out for my walk
alone in the late afternoon
loving as always
the various trees along the road
their different tones and colours,
the calls of high birds
and glimpses of gullies.
I crossed the causeway.
The water was low.
I could see the rocks
underlying the shallow flow.
Up the rise where once
a red-bellied black
lay coiled in the sun
in the middle of the road
and I turned sharply
before coming up too close.
They are so fast and so deadly.
No snake today.
I go on down the dip
before the road straightens
by the turn-off to the Hermitage.
This day a group of men
sits at the roadside
wiping their faces and necks
and taking a drink.
Neighbours, members of the Land Council,
they’ve been clearing noxious weeds
all day along the creek.
I know them all. Good men.
But I’m suddenly shy.
I turn before I come near
and walk back the other way.
Write a poem about a specific but minor memory you have from more than five, but less than ten years ago.
We were still living
around the bend
and up the hill
from Kouranga.
I set out for my walk
alone in the late afternoon
loving as always
the various trees along the road
their different tones and colours,
the calls of high birds
and glimpses of gullies.
I crossed the causeway.
The water was low.
I could see the rocks
underlying the shallow flow.
Up the rise where once
a red-bellied black
lay coiled in the sun
in the middle of the road
and I turned sharply
before coming up too close.
They are so fast and so deadly.
No snake today.
I go on down the dip
before the road straightens
by the turn-off to the Hermitage.
This day a group of men
sits at the roadside
wiping their faces and necks
and taking a drink.
Neighbours, members of the Land Council,
they’ve been clearing noxious weeds
all day along the creek.
I know them all. Good men.
But I’m suddenly shy.
I turn before I come near
and walk back the other way.
14 September 2009
Sick
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 13
Write a poem using Skeltonic Verse (also known as Tumbling Verse)
Keep the line lengths between three and six words. Every end word rhymes with the last until you start a new set of rhymes. The poem should have energy and be fun.
I’ve got a cold
I’m feeling old
I can’t be bold
with daring verse
both funny and terse
I’m feeling worse
at the very thought
you didn’t ought
to do this Sport
inflicting strict rhyme
at such a time
when surely I’m
incapable of thinking
I sit here blinking
and might take to drinking
my mind is blanking
but enough of this wanking
I should be thanking
good Mr Hewitt
who believes I can do it
and look I’m through it!
Note: J.C. (John) Hewitt is our prompter at Writer's Resource Center (aka Poewar)
Write a poem using Skeltonic Verse (also known as Tumbling Verse)
Keep the line lengths between three and six words. Every end word rhymes with the last until you start a new set of rhymes. The poem should have energy and be fun.
I’ve got a cold
I’m feeling old
I can’t be bold
with daring verse
both funny and terse
I’m feeling worse
at the very thought
you didn’t ought
to do this Sport
inflicting strict rhyme
at such a time
when surely I’m
incapable of thinking
I sit here blinking
and might take to drinking
my mind is blanking
but enough of this wanking
I should be thanking
good Mr Hewitt
who believes I can do it
and look I’m through it!
Note: J.C. (John) Hewitt is our prompter at Writer's Resource Center (aka Poewar)
13 September 2009
As Needed
30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 12
Write a Ritual Poem that takes a ritual (real or imagined) and brings a sense of meaning and reflection to the ritual it describes.... Turn the actions into steps or commands.
I decided to write about an actual ritual that I perform often.
1. Enter the temple
(Mine is a whole room of my house
but it might be one corner
or a space outdoors.)
2. Close the door
(I also hang a “Do Not Disturb”
sign on the outside knob.
You never know.)
3. Take up the wand/athame
(Good to hold and wield,
its crystal point a laser,
mine is both at once.)
4. Describe the circle
(Me, I combine Druidry,
High Magick and Wicca
to make a strong, clear light.)
5. Call in the Archangels
(Or nature spirits, or creatures,
according to your training
or purpose. It all depends.)
6. Perform the core of the ritual
(Make the gestures, say the words,
create the visuals, absorb
and move the energies.)
7. Close the ritual
(Give thanks for blessings received.
Farewell the Guardians.
Open the circle.)
8. Return to the world
(Put away the athame/wand.
Open the door, take down the sign.
Notice you feel better.)
Write a Ritual Poem that takes a ritual (real or imagined) and brings a sense of meaning and reflection to the ritual it describes.... Turn the actions into steps or commands.
I decided to write about an actual ritual that I perform often.
1. Enter the temple
(Mine is a whole room of my house
but it might be one corner
or a space outdoors.)
2. Close the door
(I also hang a “Do Not Disturb”
sign on the outside knob.
You never know.)
3. Take up the wand/athame
(Good to hold and wield,
its crystal point a laser,
mine is both at once.)
4. Describe the circle
(Me, I combine Druidry,
High Magick and Wicca
to make a strong, clear light.)
5. Call in the Archangels
(Or nature spirits, or creatures,
according to your training
or purpose. It all depends.)
6. Perform the core of the ritual
(Make the gestures, say the words,
create the visuals, absorb
and move the energies.)
7. Close the ritual
(Give thanks for blessings received.
Farewell the Guardians.
Open the circle.)
8. Return to the world
(Put away the athame/wand.
Open the door, take down the sign.
Notice you feel better.)
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