Well, I fell a bit behind in the end posting my daily drafts to my blog. So, below are the last four poems I wrote, along with the prompts I wrote off of. Thanks to all who wrote with me and encouraged as we trudged along through another month of daily writing. May 1st always feels so strange because I don't have a poem "due" by the end of the day!
Day 27: I Dare you to Become the Wind
What would it be like to become the wind. To rustle seas of leaves like green water.
To hold the bodies of hawks on tendrils
of air. What would it be like to wheeze in
through cracked windows, and under doors. To cool
flushed skin. To cover everything in smooth
velvet breath. So many names: Anemoi,
Venti. The Greeks believed the wind was made
by horses running madly from their barn,
or winged men moving the air with their
enormous wings. Whatever it is to
be the wind, in it are secrets, wistful
and light that weave between us no matter
how far we wander from our barn. The wind
mends. Speaks a language only trees know to bend to.
Day 28: The buds are
just flushing the trees
Spring Still Life
We all have favorite Spring discoveries:
as soon as the field is waist-high the boys
throw their bodies into the green itch and
gather handfuls of Chinese lanterns to
cover our house and cars with the luck of
alive. Spring awakens on our driveway
thick clumps of yellow chamomile shooting
through gravel and dust while buds flush the trees
in white/pink fireworks erupting across the field.
as soon as the field is waist-high the boys
throw their bodies into the green itch and
gather handfuls of Chinese lanterns to
cover our house and cars with the luck of
alive. Spring awakens on our driveway
thick clumps of yellow chamomile shooting
through gravel and dust while buds flush the trees
in white/pink fireworks erupting across the field.
Day 29: Here is a little extra
___________ just for you.
Dear Water:
that held my son’s body this afternoon
when sun split the sky in two
and he giggled as he was swallowed
by your cool, shimmering skin. Here is a little extra density
and depth for you. Why not let more of us
into your joy? Why not open your wet
arms so wide whole smoldering cities slip
in? Why not baptize angry commuters
in your chlorine cellophane? Or, even
those like my neighbor whose heart was stoned
with grief. Surely, in your cold triumph we’ll
rise just as my sons thin body knifed back
to the surface smiling and wanting more.
Day 30: At the
Finish Line
When the radio announcer revealsroads blocked by dual car accidents, over
turned semis, bumper to bumper mishaps
I feel like Medusa. Each road is a
tendril I’ve untangled in my dirty car.
I am a highway flyer, commuter
the woman you see sipping coffee and
laughing in her own private world as
you pass. My commutes are legendary:
200-300 miles a day.
So many misty dawns slow reveal of
the slack-jawed bay, the thu-thung, thu-thung
rhythmic passage. Mountains would rise and fall
beneath my car’s weary tires until
now. The finish line waits. There isn’t much
ceremony. Just a quiet nod from
the man behind the counter at Chevron
(who’ll likely miss my business) and I’m off
to another life. One where dawn has sprung
by the time my wheels hit the road. One where
I stand still and happily forget the
names of roads mentioned on the radio.
