who else but the muse?
she peeks at me through tree limb slits,
lunation’s phases streaming; she speaks to me
in bubbling babble, peeper’s croak and avian
warbles and trills; she whispers in the wind, and in
stillness, barely breezing; she warms me on sun-splashed
shade-less afternoons, at night from crackling hearths,
in bubble baths, the glow of jasmine tea sating my thirst
to the core, and nips my nose and toes on frost-iced
mornings, crisp air stinging my cheeks; she infuriates
me, exasperates me, moves me to passion, to hilarity,
to tears, everywhere, she is there nudging me, filling
my head with beautiful words, so many words, I am never
at a loss for them, but dare not call myself a poet, though
I try to dribble out a coherent verse or three, especially
in those moments where I find myself utterly speechless
For NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo Challenge Day 14: write a poem that deals with the poems, poets, and other people who inspired you to write poems. I am inspired by everything, big and small, human, animal, vegetable, mineral. There are of course people in my life who inspire me…too many to name, so they shall remain nameless, though some of them know who they are. To simplify my adoration for these inspirational motivators that surround me, I tend to lump them all together into one…my Muse, I call them…her. I could not imagine my life without her.
10 Comments | tags: digital art., free verse, GloPoWriMo2020, NaPoWriMo2020, poetry challenge, poetry month, the muse | posted in Digital Art & Photos, free verse, napowrimo, Poetry, Random Thoughts and Musings
Helix Nebula (aka: The “Eye of God” Nebula)
think of being
past the point of
existence, a place
apart, a blur at the
edge of tangled
twilight, left to be
real as black stars
buried in ash
A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below:
The Celebrated Colors of the Local Sunsets
by Matthew Wimberly
The day feels as thin
as the letters fading from
half a can of spray paint
a decade ago on the brick wall
of the closed down
Suder Feed Supply where we used
to skateboard and think
of all the crimes the police
could punish us with
for being poor, and teenagers,
for wearing skin-tight jeans
and growing our hair
like a girl’s, for almost anything—
at least it felt like it then.
I can’t imagine home
without thinking of the past
and the faintest stir
of indignation. It’s beside the point.
Today, I’m revisiting Miłosz
with a pen pressed to the pages
making notes in the margins.
In 1987, in Berkeley,
he is doing the same, and thinking
back on the end of his countries, their
“posthumous existence.” Like him
I know a place
I can’t return to, and without
much imagination can picture
everything coming apart, one way
or another. When I imagine
how it might go, it is
just like this: I am memorizing
bird calls and wild
plants which become a blur
at the far edge of my yard,
their Latin names tangled
in my mouth. Didn’t I
already show you this?
The country at twilight
and a far-off darkness
of pines, a deep red sky
imagined for this page. What I left out
wasn’t meant to be remarkable—
a bruise faded from the surface,
the wounds buried
like overwintered wasps
beneath the snow. So let’s see
if I can draw it into focus,
like the truant daydreaming in class
suddenly with something to say—
the one end I know complete.
Once, I thanked my father
for the gift of this life,
something he didn’t hear.
It was two years before he died
and he was high
on the translucent painkillers
the hospital ordered to keep him
comfortable after surgery.
It was as real as anything
I ever told him. I stood
over him in the hospital bed
and traced the outline of his body
under the gown, the collar and hip bones,
his stomach, his penis, and balls,
numbered the black stars
printed on the cotton and listened
to him breathe, mouth
open, just so, a way
into the hive growing in his chest.
He didn’t hear, and then, he couldn’t.
In those years, I barely spoke to him
and now not an hour can pass
I don’t hear him, now that
what he has to say is always
final, always a last word. And
Miłosz is buried in Kraków
and my father has entered
eternity as ash, and I am
certain what doesn’t last
8 Comments | tags: blackout poem, Challenge, helix nebula, mondays, Poetry, the muse | posted in Blackout Poetry, Challenges and Writing Prompts, Digital Art & Photos, Poetry, Random Thoughts and Musings
i know quiet
i know quiet
twilight to tranquility
the slow languorous
hum of silk on sand
of words that hide
A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below:
I Know It Will Be Quiet When You Come
Joseph Auslander – 1897 – 1965
I know it will be quiet when you come:
No wind; the water breathing steadily;
A light like ghost of silver on the sea;
And the surf dreamily fingering his drum.
Twilight will drift in large and leave me numb
With nearness to the last tranquility;
And then the slow and languorous tyranny
Of orange moon, pale night, and cricket hum.
And suddenly there will be twist of tide,
A rustling as of thin silk on the sand,
The tremor of a presence at my side,
The tremble of a hand upon my hand:
And pulses sharp with
pain, and fires fanned,
And words that stumble into stars and hide.
7 Comments | tags: blackout poem, digital art., mondays, Poetry, the muse | posted in Blackout Poetry, Digital Art & Photos, Poetry, Random Thoughts and Musings
my mother is everywhere
among the things I return to
engrained in memory
forever open to me
then closed, hidden, dark,
mother, spilling everywhere
A Blackout poem inspired by the poem “The Question of My Mother” by Robin Ekiss:
The question of my mother is on the table.
The dark box of her mind is also there,
the garden of everywhere
we used to walk together.
Among the things the body doesn’t know,
it is the dark box I return to most:
fallopian city engrained in memory,
ghost-orchid egg in the arboretum,
hinged lid forever bending back and forth —
open to me, then closed
like the petals of the paperwhite narcissus.
What would it take to make a city in me?
Dark arterial streets, neglected ovary
hard as an acorn hidden in its dark box
on the table: Mother, I am
out of my mind, spilling everywhere.
Source: Poetry (November 2007)
7 Comments | tags: Blackout Poetry, Challenge, digital art., Poetry, poetry prompt, the muse, tuesday | posted in Blackout Poetry, Challenges and Writing Prompts, Digital Art & Photos, Poetry, Random Thoughts and Musings
photo courtesy of shrutikhanna at Pixabay.com
the bend in the road
at the bend where
the roadside devours
the dust of summer
we carry with us days
to hold in our hands;
to live as if death
A Blackout poem inspired by today’s poem of the day at PoetryFoundation.org by Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms”.
BY LI-YOUNG LEE
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour,
dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms” from Rose. Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions Ltd., http://www.boaeditions.org. Source: Rose (BOA Editions Ltd., 1986)
12 Comments | tags: blackout poem, Blackout Poetry, Challenge, Poetry, the muse | posted in Blackout Poetry, Challenges and Writing Prompts, Poetry, Random Thoughts and Musings