Each life, a single note
a small vibration in brief
disturbance of the force.
A blip of energy travels
through the substantial
world on its way to
insubstance — and
This poem was written in response to Apiary Lit’s April 18 prompt on metaphor, as well as Poetic Asides prompt to write a poem about either life or death (or maybe both here.) NaPoWriMo’s prompt suggested coming up with a neologism, which “insubstance” is, believe it or not. I’m using it as the noun form of insubstantial.
Haven’t been home in a year or more
Don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow
Runnin’ down this dusty road
into the midnight sun.
We drifted apart,
It goes on
This found poem was written in response to the Poetic Asides prompt for April 10, asking for a poem about travel. All lines are taken from song lyrics sung by the band Journey, including lines from Don’t Stop Believin’, Faithfully, Open Arms and Wheel in the Sky. The form is a variation on the “melting snowball” with each successive line having one less syllable than the line preceding it.
Words, words, words
Words on the page
Words in my head
Words on the screen.
Drowning in words,
seas of ink. Or pixels
that dissolve and reform
into words, words in
the head but not the heart.
Fragments, phrases, whole
paragraphs but nary a word
(April panic. Poets
This poem was written in response to two prompts today, one from NaPoWriMo 2017, asking for a poem with repetition of a word or phrase and one from Poetic Asides to write a poem about panic. And, yes, I’m behind on the project to write a poem-a-day for the month of April, although I’m trying not to panic about it — too much.
stalks crescent moon
This is an attempt at American haiku, which is said to be a better fit with the traditional Japanese haiku than the 5/7/5 syllable form. (It should have twelve accented syllables and I’m a little uncertain about that.) However, this does reflect a nature scene that’s very familiar to me.
portents of witchcraft
never far from the surface
the hoots of an owl
In response to the April 5 prompt from Apiary Lit, this is a 5/7/5 haiku created of phrases taken from these two articles:
Cooper, Michael. “An Oratorio Resonates in Coal Country.” The New York Times 5 April, 2017: C1 & C2. Print.
Nuwer, Rachel. “Bringing Owls into the Light.” The New York Times 4 April, 2017: D2. Print.
“make me the monarch morphed from suffering” from Mai Der Vang’s Afterland
ova, larva, pupa (enigma?), imago
egg, caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly (monarch)
Tiny buds of monarch body,
emerge in the caterpillar soup of the chrysalis,
its smooth green shell hiding drama within.
The slow dissolve of obsolete life without
sure knowledge of the flight yet to come.
Suffering the presence of alien life for a chance
This sprang from all three of my prompt sites today, the “free writing” suggestions at Apiary Lit, the “beginning” or “ending” prompt at Poetic Asides, and the use of the word “enigma” at NaPoWriMo 2017. I am particularly taken with the phrase “caterpillar soup,” which scientists use to describe what happens to the body and organs of the caterpillar within the chrysalis, providing nourishment to the cells of the butterfly within.
Only the flowers are real to me, heavy
scent of stargazer lilies in the overheated air.
I stare straight ahead, not meeting
those eyes, the sympathy, the judgment,
the cloudy gaze of those who wonder
Those flowers, their fragrance an anchor
holding me in place, a moorage, a focus
secure enough for now. Soon enough
we return to a semblance of reality,
the daily tasks I can’t yet bear to face.
But for now
the rest is dreamed, the lamp,
the good white cloth on the table
their bodies. (Oh God, their bodies, no longer
to be nourished by the love I bore them, bodies
in small white caskets, starlit in the fragrant
This poem was written in response to three separate 4/3 prompts for April Poetry month. The title comes from Poetic Asides, asking for a poem titled The _____ of Love. NaPoWriMo 2017 asked for an elegy and Apiary Lit suggested that we borrow lines or vocabulary from another poet. I chose an elegy from Louise Gluck called The Drowned Children, with the lines in italics taken directly from that lovely poem.