Day 20 – Two-Part Harmony

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Photo by yousef alfuhigi on Unsplash

Two-Part Harmony

The path beyond my garden leads
to worlds beneath blanket of sky
a verse of footfall’s lullaby
I walk the mist where breeze recedes

Her breath lifts wings of butterfly
the path beyond my garden leads
to shores where she heeds by her deeds
I add my verse as battle cry

Our voices foil and amplify
a duet on the winds and reeds
the path beyond my garden leads
to where our songs reunify

Melody sparks the Pleiades
starlight won’t sing a sad goodbye
she croons with me as we pass by
the path beyond my garden leads
***

Written for NaPoWriMo Day 20 prompt:

Our prompt for the day (optional as always) takes its cue from Notley’s rebelliousness, and asks you to write a poem that involves rebellion in some way. The speaker or subject of the poem could defy a rule or stricture that’s been placed on them, or the poem could begin by obeying a rule and then proceed to break it (for example, a poem that starts out in iambic pentameter, and then breaks into sprawling, unmetered lines). Or if you tend to write funny poems, you could rebel against yourself, and write something serious (or vice versa). Whatever approach you take, your poem hopefully will open a path beyond the standard, hum-drum ruts that every poet sometimes falls into.

Ironically, I’ve done so much free-verse in the past month that the most rebellious thing I could do right now is to actually stick with a form verbatim, and perhaps incorporate a rhyme scheme too. I used the quatern form and added an “abba-baab” rhyme scheme to enhance my little “rebellion”.

I first saw the quatern on Shannon’s blog post, located here. I told you I’d give it a shot, Shannon!

Day 16 – Mindfulness as an Exercise, or Something, Hell, I Dunno, Ah Fuck It

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Sunset in British Columbia, just south of Whistler.

Mindfulness as an Exercise, or Something, Hell, I Dunno, Ah Fuck It

Step number one.
Be your best self.

Right now!

Oh?
You weren’t your best self
at the first stanza?

No worries.
Just be your best self
right… NOW!

Good!
Excellent work!

Now…
just keep on being your best…
ah shit,

you’re not
your best self anymore.

No worries!
Just be your best self… right-
no, no, no, no…

now you’re worse than before
when you were at your best.

Get out of your own head,
it’s a fucking house of horrors in there!

OK, OK,
let’s level-set…

All right…
starting over…
So…

No worries, though!

The most important thing
is for you to be your best self
right…
no, no…
fuck later!

FUCK later,
fuck later like
you’re fresh out of prison!

(Easy, you randy bastard.)

Let’s just not get too
wrapped-up in later, OK?

Later is only for fucking.

The most important thing
is to be
your best self
riiiiiiiiight….

NOW!

Perfect!
No, not perfect,
but it was your BEST!

And it happened at
THE MOST IMPORTANT MOMENT!

You starting to pick-up
what I’m laying down, homie?

Dammit, I’m NOT patronizing!

All I ask is that you be
your best self right now.

It’s all relative;
your best could be dogshit,
but it doesn’t matter
as long as it is the
absolute best
you can ever be

right fucking now.

Professor X called it
that space between
serenity and rage.

In most anime,
the mentor tells the hero
to just yell a lot
until he starts glowing
and his hair changes color.

I won’t pretend to know
what these things are about,

But as they needed to practice
their serenity-raging,
yell-glowing, and hair-dying,

you need to practice
step number one so you can
call on it whenever you need.

OK, on to step number two.
You ready for this one?

It’s a real doozy.

OK, here it goes:

Not every poem
needs to start
with a view of the path
beyond your garden, OK?

If that’s your best self,
I ain’t mad at ya,
but maybe try a few new tricks,
see where they lead.

If they lead back to your garden,
then so be it.
***

Written for NaPoWriMo Day 16 prompt:

…write a poem that prominently features the idea of play. It could be a poem about a sport or game, a poem about people who play (or are playing a game), or even a poem in the form of the rules for a sport or game that you’ve just made up (sort of like Calvinball).

Since I’m already punchy and sleep-deprived, this is the perfect time to make some rules while breaking some rules.

Day 15 – Hero of His Own Story

Hero of His Own Story

The path beyond my garden
began decades ago
when I was Ivan Drago
to my lil’ brother Phil’s Balboa.

As kids,
we reenacted the classic scene;
the boxing exhibition
that ended the cold war.

In the film, Rocky overcame
insurmountable odds to win;

in my version, he just kept on
getting his tiny ass kicked
until he started crying
and throwing real punches at me

– or Drago, if you will – which led
to an unfortunate escalation,
and perhaps even a few
Queensbury rule violations,

which led to Drago and Balboa’s mom
bursting in to win the match by default.

It was in those formative years
that I learned the greatest truth
about action fiction;
the bad guy may not always win,

but he usually has the most fun.
***

Written for NaPoWriMo Day 15 prompt: “a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil).”

Sorry for the delay. It was a loooong drive to Whistler. I’m a day behind and punch-drunk from lack of sleep, but I hope to find my footing soon.

Day 13 – Tastes like Stardust

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Photo by Mike Fox on Unsplash

Tastes like Stardust

The path beyond
our garden
leads
where daylight
won’t tread

where she follows
with eyes that beg
for relief I live
to provide

touching her where
her lean suggests

spinning circles
where her breath
catches and skips
and lingers

her heartbeat
tastes like stardust,
moonbeams and
Venus dimples

I am her
percussionist;
steadily I drum
readily as a duet
is hummed to
an audience
of two

I exist as
both composer and
her instrument to strum
or tease a bar
or two

she is my music
I am her best verse

our groove
not nearly as harsh
as I’m able
or she wants,

but firm enough
to shift firmament
and furniture
where leeway
yields
to leverage,

not leaning into
the strong force or
dark energy,

but as she sheens,
slick from my sweat,
she knows I’m there
***

Written for NaPoWriMo Day 13 prompt:

…write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended. For example, if you chose the phrase “A stitch in time saves nine,” you might reverse that into something like: “a broken thread; I’m late, so many lost.” Or “It’s raining cats and dogs” might prompt the phrase “Snakes and lizards evaporate into the sky.” Those are both rather haunting, strange images, and exploring them could provide you with an equally haunting, strange poem (or a funny one!)

In all honesty, this prompt left me a bit lost. When I tried in earnest, I was left writing nonsensical garbage. I didn’t give up though; I shifted focus and tried writing about a known event between consenting adults in a new way. It’s not quite up-ended, but I’m ok with the result.

Day 12 – Town of Green Giants

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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Town of Green Giants

The path beyond the garden hidden among evergreen titans rises and falls on gentle sloping hills that seem to roll upon each other like sleepy lovers playfully jostling for their share of the asphalt blanket. The rain, ever present in a fine mist, tamps down much of the troublesome pollen, while simultaneously opening the senses to pine, fir, rhododendrons, and that smell that smells of renewal; the smell that shocks the lungs into expanding to take in as much as possible.

Children play at the end of the cul-de-sac with a sense of oblivious urgency as they sketch in chalk the scaffolding of worlds only they understand, their shrill voices, quaint little bells of amusement amid mild relief that they’re someone else’s problem as long as the squeals don’t turn into sobbing. Kids at play yield to love songs performed by the neighborhood bird choir, who then yield the stage to the sunset, next then a frog symphony, and if you’re extremely lucky, an owl or two might quiz you.

The path curves, rises, winds, and falls, weaving between tree line and homestead, painting unhurried, sleepy tracers from where love lives to where she wanders to prove herself. She need not travel far; all that is needed is within reach. It is a wondrous balance, living inside a temperate rainforest that hosts a town that hopes to remain sleepy; remote enough to be considered a hassle to visit, and yet somehow, at the center of all that matters.

green giants shush me
it’s the wind rousing the trees
yielding their secrets
***

Written for NaPoWriMo Day 12 prompt: Oh yeah! Stop! Haibun-Time!

Today, we’d like to challenge you specifically to write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live. It may be the high sierra, dusty plains, lush rainforest, or a suburbia of tiny, identical houses – but wherever you live, here’s your chance to bring it to life through the charming mix-and-match methodology of haibun.

Anyone who’s been sniffing around this blog from the beginning knows how much I love writing haibun. Still, I’m glad there are no haibun police, as I’m a habitual haibun rule-breaker. I think I did ok with this one.

Day 3 – Aggressive Pollination

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Photo by Jian Xhin on Unsplash

Aggressive Pollination

The path beyond my garden
of good-lookin’ and evil
the wrath of Kahn, your warden
is shook – tooken’ reprieval

The chain of fate I break
on the back of daffodils
remaining late, you skate
on the tracks of raptured wills

Our style, denying us sleep,
I stand, react,
fight the game that slick freaks would

meanwhile you trying to keep
the band intact
like your name was Mick Fleetwood

I can’t sleep good, subconsciously
wait for an elevator
your technique lured, and tonically,
fate’s a great generator

We fight, freak, stood upright,
sonically copulate,
resonator

alight, streak, should midnight
chronically evaporate,
venerate her
***

Written for NaPoWriMo Day 3 prompt; writing a list poem in which all the items are made-up names. I gotta be honest; I started out trying to make up band names, but midway through I became somewhat distracted… you know… by flowers.

Bah! I’m counting it.

Day 0 – Ode to my Dearest Portal

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Photo by Jordan Wozniak on Unsplash

Ode to my Dearest Portal

The path beyond my garden leads
to where asphalt kisses the sea.

I sit near the transition
and blow kisses effortlessly
to she who swims in
antipodean ocean
and backpacks in autumn outback,

shake hands with a man standing
in Swedish snow where winter
won’t yield easily to spring,

offer support and
love vicariously at
Vancouver seaport,

embrace a hug
in London fog,

swoon on Singapore island,
exchange dreams where eastern Europe
merges with Asia,

sharing tea, death poems,
and sunrises in the Land
of the Rising Sun.

Here within my cherished portal,
the sun always rises,
shedding light on new poetry
from brave, sharing souls
around the globe.

I’ve lived countless lives and loved in
ever increasing abundance,

touching without touch
via normal and long-touch,
swiping hearts and being swiped
while swiping-right and all directions.

Signals sent from points abroad
careen toward antenna,
out above atmosphere,
from satellite to satellite,

down through the thin blue into
receiver, decoded, delivered
to me via you; a device
designated both smart and phone,
but is actually neither.

Still, I’d never begrudge your
ostentatious designation,
as you have done well by me

in opening me to new poetry,
ideas, friends, and lovers
– platonic and fantastic.

And that you do all this astoundingly
half a decade past warranty,
makes me love you even more deeply.
** *

Written for NaPoWriMo’s Day 0 prompt, write a poem in the form of a love letter, to an object. Obviously, the object I chose is my phone, which takes me everywhere I want to be.

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A Cat

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Photo by Antonio Lapa on Unsplash

A Cat

On the first day of spring
a cat came to me.
Her collared tag sparkled,
reflecting glints of sunlight
from her bejeweled collar.
Regal, majestic, passive poise
was her manner of movement
and sitting stillness
– if a cat’s movement and
stillness could be considered
in such human grandiosities.
She received me just as
Grandmaster Yip Man decreed
when teaching novices
basic grappling techniques
– “Greet what arrives,
escort what leaves,
and rush upon loss of contact.”
A Wing Chun master feline,
ruler of our centerline,
razor claws, carefully
retracted while restricting
movement and momentum,
intimate dominance, fleeting
for before I made sense
of my senses, she fled.
Why she came I cannot say
– she wasn’t hungry, and
she only knew me in
the manner that all cats of
certain domestication
know their fellow humans –
and yet she came right to me
leaning into my space,
mewing a few kind words
I could only guess at
since I don’t speak cat.
Of course I mewed right back
unclear on the syntax
but knowing that only
lonely souls lean out to find
random comfort across
diverging species.
***

Shared at dVerse Poetics: Soul gazing , hosted by Paul Scribbles. Poets have contributed to this prompt here.