Not an April Fool

How afraid they were, the everybody,

that he’d be born on April Fool’s Day, but

he came more cleverly, one day early. Saved!

He grew into a most unpleasant man –

an abrasive irritant, yet unaware

just how and why he causes widespread rage.

The child he was could never get a joke.

When others laughed incomprehensibly,

he knew it must be him they laughed at … mocked. 

And then at last it seemed he woke to humour.

Years later, I discern it was not so.

He learnt to fake it – imitate, pretend.

He’s gained a kind of humour now, at last:

the ability to laugh at others' pain

or their humiliation – just as, once,

when he was small, he thought they laughed at his.

He has his share of folly, but no fun.

He cannot clown around, devoid of jest.

If only he had waited just one day!

How much happier might we all have been
if only, blessedly, he’d been born a Fool? 

Written for Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': 1: April is for Fools and Poets

Weather Report

Closed –

my favourite track to the beach.

I lift the string, step beneath it,

take the risk.

Hard to believe … a cliff

where the ramp used to be.

Hurled logs and whole trees

lie splayed like bodies.

Far out, voluminous grey waves

in rich turmoil boil to white,

attack a shore

that can't escape.

Victory. The water surges

higher than it's ever been,

to the abrupt end of the track,

excitedly bashing the debris.

I've walked this beach in calm winter

gathering unlimited shells;

in spring and summer

skipped and played like a child.

Now: deep, cold fury

roars and hisses as I retreat. 
Tonight I won't challenge 
this menacing sea.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #295

Summer is Over

(A Dream of Zanzibar)

Suddenly, fiercely,

ponderous Autumn rains.

The sky churns, vanishes. 

Falling sheets of willowy water.

In humid aftermath

we burn, melt, elongate

on restless crimson couches, fatally alone. 

Night pierces: aromatic, forbidden.

Summer –

I wanted to kiss you

in golden sunlight under blue –

is over.

By mwanasimba from La Réunion (Dream of Zanzibar) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Poem written for Quadrille – 5: melt at dVerse. 
Also linking to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Climate


Process Notes:

I wrote an okay piece about the end of summer and rainy beginning of autumn, but it didn't really say anything new. So I used a tip from Diane Lockward's The Crafty Poet: If a draft's not working, list 12 of your favourite words. Add them to the poem.

Quite a challenge when you've only got 44 words to play with! But I'm much happier with this result than I was with my first draft. 

One of my added words was Zanzibar, and the only way I could work it in was by creating a subtitle. I didn't know exactly what that would be until I found the picture.

Running, Barking

Footsteps. A child

runs down our street

briefly.

A dog barks.

I remember all that

time of my life

long ago, when

I thought it was all.

The boys running

to their play,

and our dogs. Me 

trying to be wise.

I didn't know

how fast 

it would all be gone –

and never gone.

Immersed

in the moment,

hoping 

to do it right 

I prayed

it would all turn out.

It didn't, of course.

And it did.

A boy is running

down our street,

the dog across the road

barks, wrenching my heart.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #294

By Singing Light

‘In my craft or sullen art / Exercised in the still night / When only the moon rages…’ – Dylan Thomas

White full face floating in my window, you spread a sheet of light across the wide dark sky. You spread another over me in my child-size bed by the wall under the sill. You hold me wakeful, glad to be so, watching you watching me. You smile, serene. Your gaze on me twinkles: knowing. You know me. As I grow, you shine through many windows – my desk in deepest night, after everyone else is in bed and I am writing, writing; my kitchen when I rise, unable to sleep, and look out over the still street and somnolent houses, and above them to you and the stars.

You are my distant love, my pale beauty: luminous, mysterious. You are my close friend, right by my side, firm touch on my shoulder, whispering wonderful words in my listening ear. There are times in autumn when your face is enormous, golden. You roll along the horizon, keeping pace with our passing car – always riding with me, always looking with true aim across the space between and finding me, filling my sight. My lifelong love, others may see you too and even adore you, but the secret look you send to my eyes tells me our converse is personal, ours alone. You sing for me, very softly, very clear. Now and forever, I thrill to your secret song.

spreading dawn

more and more birds chirping

slow moon fade

Written for Haibun Monday #9 at dVerse, with a suggested focus on the moon. Also inspired by Brendan at 'imaginary garden with real toads' asking us to write of our Muse as paramour.

Image: Creative commons – full moon March 
(no other attribution given).

Construction

It wasn't an option whether to go or stay

(bodily). And so she sits

with her toys, or in the garden, pretending to play.

Secretly, she matches wits

with the adults around her, fits

herself into their inscrutable comedy

to all outward appearances, while her inner soul flits

easily away on the ether. She is building her own tragedy,

invisible to the naked eye

of the world or its denizens. They are not so smart

as she is – yet she will find a hard cost later. She will cry

then, from her old broken heart

for the soul that could only fly inwards. Now, no moan

nor sigh nor any sign must reveal the walls of stone.

Written for dVerse Meeting the Bar: Bouts Rimés Revisited, using the end words, in order:  stay, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone.

I chose to do a free verse sonnet – a contradiction in terms? That is, the 14 lines and the rhyme scheme are fixed; the line lengths are not and there is no metre.

The photo is of me and was taken by my Dad when I was four. It is my property and must not be copied or used in any way without my permission.

Weird, How

Weird

how my slender black cat

lifts her tail straight up

and it shivers

like a leaf ruffled by wind,

only quick – a tremor.

Is it fear or excitement?

Does she seek to communicate

or is it involuntary:
some sharp, sudden frisson of longing?

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Weird (in the 44-word form called quadrille).

Photo © Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2016. This photo is mine and should not be copied or used in any way without permission. 

On Remembering Bliss

A stream, soothing cold

on a fierce day…

On winter mornings

heat from the shower

pouring over my shoulders

and down my back…

After sobbing,

the peace

engulfing body and brain

before deep sleep…

Do I grin to recall?

No, I shudder with pleasure.

A quadrille using the word 'grin', written for dVerse Quadrille – 4.

Berta Cáceres, Indigenous Activist, Is Killed in Honduras *

The question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be  – Martin Luther King, Jr.


Extreme necessity.

Her voice sounds out.

Will not be silenced.

Until …

If you will speak

for forests and rivers

your mouth can be shut.

If you will defend

generations of future lives,

you may be shot –

Dead – as the land, water, air,

and all who dwell therein.

But her voice

rings even louder now.

* Link to story in New York Times

For Flash 55 PLUS! (5 March 2016) at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Also shared with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #292.

Rainy Day Flower

A flower was offered to me

on a wet day. The wide green leaves

were heavy and glossy with rain.

It was a larger than usual gardenia,

the scent of its radiant bloom

intensified in the misty air.

And that is my favourite flower.

Nevertheless, I turned away, walked past 

as if I failed to see the arm held out.

I turned away, and said in my head

to my invisible companion: Dearest Andrew,

I'd rather be in bed on this wet day.

If you were here, as flesh and blood, 

I'd like to be in bed with you all day, 

snuggling up, cuddling, reading.

We'd bring snacks and cuppas 
back to our bed. Now and then we'd nod off,

singly or together. We'd rise around 4,

do a bit of writing at our separate desks,

feed the cats, get our dinner, watch

some evening telly. Then we'd go back to bed

in the same warm pyjamas. Then 

we'd make love. It would last all night.

We'd have amazing dreams by morning....

A flower was offered to me. I turned 

as if I'd not understood, and moved away. 
To embrace armfuls of deathless flowers.


Written in response to Sumana's Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United: A flower was offered to me

Views from the Train

I have gone all away from the morning, the train rushing madly on, the chug chug chug of its wheels underneath me and the shaking of its rapid walls, the clang and rattle, and the long, repeated screech as we approach and leave the stations.

Morning was pale yellow as I peeped underneath the blind, the sky streaked and cloudy, the landscape flat and broad. Trees were sparse and low, bare and spindly, not the trees of home. I saw no mountains, I saw no rivers. 

But my father will be there on my arrival – there in the hot landscape where we'll live with his new wife; his new old, fat old wife with the white streak in her bright black hair and the scornful smile on her deep red lips.

hot and flat

low scrub in red dust

yet birds rise

MiIdura Vines

This work has been released into the public domain by its author, Longhair at English Wikipedia. This applies worldwide. In some countries this may not be legally possible; if so: Longhair grants anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.

Written for Haibun Monday #8 at dVerse