meeting place

we meet in your head

and mine

who do you see?

what do we say?

the dream is brief

this life is relentless

and lonely

should we have gotten over this

a long, long time ago?

Copyright © 2013 Nan P.

[This is loosely written to a We Write Poems prompt.]

a journey, of sorts

“the ways of karma are very strange”

shining, complex, gold-threaded knot

years in the making, travels

it its gloriousness, on exhibit

in its struggles, not easily un-done

tightening, pulling, scraping

stuck

sparkling bauble adhered to a ring,

a ball on a chain

tiny crevices gathering bits of dirt

and forgetting

source and purpose

thread of life,

simple, singular, golden

fluid

yet strong –

with utility and purpose

holding together

divine tapestries

knot,

coming undone with less pulling,

gentle, strategic, loosening,

allowing curving

of stringy spinal structure

less emphasis on the gold

centering instead on

what is inside

thread

happening

in no time at all

Copyright © 2013 Nan P.

[Written for We Write Poems. The prompt was to write a protagonist poem (9th poem in a series of 10 on a protagonist on a journey -- and I have jumped into this series at poem 9 when the journey is nearly done.) How has the journey changed the protagonist? The suggestion was to be mystical. I guess my protagonist is a knot. I wrote this quickly, and it needs more work -- but it is a start, anyway. I spent some time reflecting on my choice of verb tenses . . . some gerunds, some progressive "ings" -- both choices purposeful -- and some present tense. I am not sure about these choices, but for now will stay with them.]

hard frost

first hard frost

the first hard frost of fall
adheres colorful, curled leaves
to the still-green lawn at mid-morn

lace eyelet fabric of white crystals
covers patchwork shades and shapes
-- even in the shining sun

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.








Offered to We Write Poems for the prompt on landscapes.


[Note: The entire lawn is coated in a white crystal layer of frost. I was trying to show you some of the detail of the leaves and blades of grass, and in doing so, my photo misses the dramatic shrouded effect of the expanse of the littered, frosted lawn in the sunshine. The first few flakes of snow apparently flew in this area yesterday. I was out of town until about 6:30 p.m. last evening, and where I was it was considerably warmer, albeit very windy. Fall is definitely here!] I cross posted this over at tiny river splash with a different photo.

the circle game comes true

you don’t know this at your age

but cart wheels really do

turn into car wheels.

you also don’t know

that Socrates said that

wisdom begins in wonder.

therefore my advice is to

not forget who you are now --

hang onto your sense of delight.

you will change less

than you think you will.

future is an illusion.

every bit of your past

is an illusion too – and

you seem to know the now, now.

no need to keep singing

the songs to aging children come …

aging children, I am one.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

We Write Poems asked us to write a poem to our sixteen-year-old self to impart a little wisdom we have learned over the years. I thought back to my sixteen-year-old self -- happy, busy, friendly, smiling, loving life, loving music, and much more extroverted than I am now. I was listening to The Beatles and listening to Mother Mary's words of wisdom, and letting it be. I was listening to Joni Mitchell's Clouds and Blue albums over and over and over again. And so this is the little poem that bubbled up. (In case you don't know my reference to Songs to Aging Children, click here.)

these hands

my hands, 9.4.2012

open flat in front of me

olive-tan on top, pink-ivory 

on the palm

lines and veins traverse

the skin --

do they a story tell?

[these hands grip

steering wheels and drive,

bicycle handles and ride,

wheelbarrows and transport,

water jugs and lug,

canoe handles and carry,

laundry baskets, full, and

don’t forget

the firm handshake]

strong fingers

have moved keys

furiously

slowly, smoothly

keys of the flute

keys of the clicking keyboard

keys to pressure points –

the healing touch

touch of a sick child’s face,

forehead, temple

the warmth of the holding

of hands, the embrace,

the hands that wave

goodbye.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

[Written for We Write Poems -- write a poem focusing on our hands and what they do.]

dusk

We Write Poems asked us to "colour a poem." See the preceding link to read the neat John O'Donohue quote that led me to think about the beauty of dusk.

dusk

see the space called perfection:

dusk

when sun sinks surreptitiously

below the outline of the hills,

swirling the stone-washed denim sky with

horizontal streaks of mauve-gold

just before the moon rises

in the cobalt night sky

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

the camping trip

How is it that you can be whole again?

Well, you will just have to learn that for yourself.

something about the journey

trudging a third of a mile

through the forest, to the lake

clear as glass

with all your necessaries

for three days

towed in the aluminum canoe

in your hand and his

makes you wonder

if it is all worth it –

sweat beading at your temples

arms aching, stigmata blister

forming

on your palm

something about setting up

your little dwelling,

knowing it is

temporary, yet getting it

just right and in place and safe

so that after the work is done

you can lie on the sun-warmed rock

at water’s edge

with the book you haven’t opened

and spot the kingfisher

and the magnificent osprey,

heavy with fish, pulled low near

water’s surface and flying

down the center of the lake to

the tall, dead tree at the point

where it will lift, up, up, up

with weighted feast to enjoy

at the end of the strenuous flight

something about the wilderness preserve

with no motors, no visible people,

the bears from whom you hoist your food

and little cook stoves for boiling water

and clear, cold lake in which to swim

breathing the pine needle air

and taking in the sky above

and soft forest earth below

braves you, after three days, and

you are refreshed and replenished

and even with a little hole in your heart

that may never go away,

you are and will always be

whole.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.


[This was written for We Write Poems. We were asked to : "write a poem without our shoes and socks, a study in bare feet... to find a favorite spot, maybe one that evokes deep memory or inspires imagination, then take off your shoes and socks and be reminded… of what?"  This will also be posted over at Poets United, when the next Poetry Pantry goes live.]

dig

We Write Poems asked us to write a poem that started with a single one-word line, and ended with the same word, allowing the poem to shift the meaning of that word. This was a fun little write. See what others did, here.

dig
deep into the soil
through roots and rocks
all the way to China
in order to dig a ditch
or to lay a foundation
in order to plant a seed
or to pull the potatoes
in order to cultivate earth
or to bury our dead

we walk upright
and look out ahead
but don’t forget the dirt
under fingernails
there even when
we don’t focus on it

stay down to earth
dig?

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

drought

basil plant

on the wooden deck

bright green fading

to nearly yellow

white whispy flowers

popping from the top

as soil bakes

in the sun’s heat –

sapping fine flavor

and fragrance

from its leaves.

just what will I
put in my martini
now?

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

[Written for We Write Poems. We were asked this week to go about our day, pick an object we happen to see, and describe it in an unexpected way. No more. No less.]

adoration

in the church organ loft

adoration shines

and not just for God

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

We Write Poems asked us to write a poem in 12 words. Process notes: The original instructions said to"count fingers plus two," and instructed us that this process was obviously about brevity -- and breathing in and breathing out. The combination of fingers plus the moment of breathing in and breathing out brought me back to a moment of my childhood. I used to ride my bike to church by myself so that I could climb the long, winding stairs into the church loft at St. Mary's Church to watch my grandfather play the organ for mass. I would take part in mass, but I was really there to hang out with my grandpa. I adored him.

epitaph

if her life was measured
on a line graph

it was mostly an even

if slightly undulating

wave of joy

and pure grace

from birth until death

with just a few deep divots

in time

when she forgot her true self

and things got heavy and dark

like storms

that passed --

night into day.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

We Write Poems asked us to "put it in stone" this week, and write our own eptitaph in the form of a poem. It was a less daunting task to sum up one's life in the form of a few brief, enduring lines than I thought it might be, because I skipped all the details and decided to focus on gratitude. When I zoom out above all the day to day, year to year details... I am left with a relaxed smile. No matter what I accomplish, whom I serve, whom I love or loves me, I hope that this state of mind is what I will be able to enjoy the rest of my life through. Storms always resolve, and we make peace with the resolution. It reminds me of the great quote: "Everything is okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end." (Author unknown -- or debated). It also reminds me of this one too: "And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make." (The Beatles).

alternate ending

I grocery shop

with my teenage son.

We buy impulsively

to feed his never ending

appetite.

In the aisle with

Spanish soda

and rice and beans

he says, if it were

the apocalypse

I would try to get

here.

I could be stranded

here for a long time

and still be able to eat.

I say, is there any particular

aisle you would want

to be yours?

He says, produce, I suppose,

until it runs out.

And then maybe cookies

and chips.

I think to myself,

only he could make

the end of the world

sound kind of fun. 

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

We Write Poems asked us to write a "found poem" in a grocery store. Rather than find my poem in words that I read or images that I saw, I found my poem in a conversation I had about the grocery store while there. I realize it is a bit of a twist, and still, found it was. You can read what others did with this prompt at the preceding link. 

colorado fires lamentation

the now-homeless weep
as nature wreaks its havoc
neighborhoods in flames
security burns to ash
smoke will dissipate slowly

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.




We Write Poems asked us to write a tanka this week. Tanka is a Japanese form, and the rules are: "1.  The poem uses strong images to establish a mood.  2. The poem includes some type of literary device.  3. The poem has five lines, lines 1 and 3 with five syllables, and all others with seven (5-7-5-7-7).  4. The poem can also be five lines, but the syllable count is: 2-3-2-3-3, focusing on the accented syllables.  The subject matter is traditionally about nature, seasons, love or other strong emotions.."

hidden pleasure

We Write Poems asked us to write a poem that explains what the following quote means. I took a lighthearted approach. 

What if there were a hidden pleasure

in calling one thing

by another’s name?

~Rae Armantrout

on silly days

I name certain people

with fictional

and  fairytale names

inside my head.

so many are

the possibilities

for use of the

seven dwarves’ names--

sarcastic or sincere.

let’s not forget

Prince Charming

and Cruella DeVille

or most of all,

 angel of my heart.

these nicknames

get me through

tick-tock tricky times

as long as I don’t

use them aloud.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

face facts

face facts

my face, like any other,

is a doorway

to my inner state.

when I am not holding

it in purposeful

mask.

my eyes radiate wonder

when I see beauty

in an unexpected place

and when I feel pain,

eyes brim with tears;

my chin quivers.

my face, and others like it,

is thin and pale, with

black eyebrows and lashes.

my mouth smiles wide

and white teeth sparkle or

it holds flat like a line.

my face frames

 a strong nose

that breathes the air.

dimples in my cheeks

and crinkles around my eyes

betray amusement.

dark circles under eyes

and a vacant expression

show my exhaustion.

I may be good at poker

but my face, most days,

says what I might not.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

We Write Poems prompted us to write a poem about our face. I wrote this quickly this morning because it has been more than a month since I have participated at WWP, and I wanted to be able to say, "I'm back." It may not be my best, but I liked the idea anyway. I may come back to this and add one stanza about the worry line between my brows that I am trying hard to avoid. A shadow of it pops out now and then. Back, back, worry line!

a loneliness poem

a loneliness poem

in silence

or happy chaos

all alone

or with many,

the lonely vibe

of someone missing

rang through

every moment

for seven long years

until there was you.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

[Process notes: This was written for a prompt at We Write Poems, to write a poem about the feeling of loneliness. My most powerful lonely time took place when everything was seemingly normal and active. You might think this poem is reminiscent of the love song from The Music Man (later adapted and performed by The Beatles), entitled “Till There Was You,” … but it is only unintentionally so. When this little poem came to my mind, I was not thinking of the song. I was thinking of the years before my son’s arrival. I'll admit, when I got to the last line of the poem, I remembered that it was the the title of the famous song. Still, I didn’t want to say it any other way. ]

a spiritual

We Write Poems asked us to write a spiritual poem this week. We get to define what "spirit" means and how the poem might express this. This was a tough one. I spend my life trying to find my idea of spirit in the seemingly ordinary context of human nature and our physical surroundings. As simple an idea as that may be, I found it incredibly difficult to write this. Here is my start. It is also my poem for NaPoWriMo Day #18. 

a spiritual

what is spirit?

pay attention

to all things physical --

and ether.

listen for laughter

and hear yourself laugh.

see tears in others’ eyes

and feel the warm salted stream

roll down your own face.

what is spirit?

spirit is throbbing love

and its flip-side, pain.

spirit is flesh

and earth

and wind

and flame

and water.

what is spirit?

dormant and awake,

it is energy, life and love.

the universe pulsates

while the pond is incredibly still.

crickets call. a heron takes flight.

an old man sighs.

the divine is divine

and so is the mundane.

what is spirit?

pay attention.

remember to be

present.

it is lighter than you think.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

signs

It is nearly the half-way point of National Poetry Writing Month, and this is my poem for today. I made up my own prompt: write a poem inspired by the most recent movie you've seen (it can be new or an old favorite). This was inspired by Jeff, Who Lives At Home.

signs

I study faces

and the lines on your palms.

I look in tea leaves

and see patterns

in the fine coffee silt

of the overturned cup.

I read star charts

and study all sorts

of numbers.

It seems I see the signs

for everyone else

except me.

So you say, God is with me

-- now?

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

my life as a (pecan) pie

my life as a (pecan) pie

colorful fruit, red, blue and bright.

billowy whipped cream

or pudding sublime.

it’s all filling. it’s all fluff.

what is the foundation?

will you eat the crust?

not store-bought here --

this is homemade

to the last crumbly finish.

and my contents may

look plain and brown,

but it is nutty, crispy-top good --

and when it was cooking

it bubbled hot.

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.




[Written for NaPoWriMo Day #11 and We Write Poems . . . my life as a pie.]

the danger was real

[the danger was real]

It was March. She made seven consecutive weekend trips to and from cancer, driving two and a half hours each way. In between she thought of little else, moving through stages of grief . . . mostly denial and negotiation.  By herself, she lit candles and prayed. In his presence, she was light and made him smile. Her façade was cheerful and her heart was brave and strong. In the small tin-can car, with its four-speed stick shift, she listened to music to alleviate the distance of time and space. It was a good car stereo. She had invested in that above nearly all else. One day in April, two weeks before he passed, her car hit a patch of ice on the rural road. She spun, and spun, and spun, with no one to witness it but her, as the psychedelia of Pink Floyd’s Sheep filled her ears. When the car stopped, facing absent oncoming traffic, her heart pounded louder than the music. She drove the remainder of the trip in silence.

after the spin-around

suspended and still --

everything was different

Copyright © 2012 Nan P.

Written for We Write Poems. Thanks, Neil, for using the prompt, and for the timely and gentle nudge to remember to write.

[Process notes: I'll admit I have been in a bit of a writing funk lately. Just when I decided to hang it up for a little while, I happened to notice that We Write Poems was using a prompt I had submitted back in October. I had actually forgotten that I submitted a prompt idea. It seemed like I couldn't not participate in my own prompt, especially since I find haibun interesting. So, this pulled me back into writing at the moment. I decided to further explore something that actually happened back in 1988. I have written about it once before on this blog, and thought it might be interesting to move it further into a realm of poetic expression. The distance from it helps me appreciate the experience as a defining moment.]