Napowrimo Day 1: Negation Poem

No, not the lines

nor the reason behind

them make it glow.

Not the rhyme or rhythm.

It shines somewhere behind

the front of the brain,

in between the headspace

we call sentient and the part

that barks, coos, chirps,

yelps, yammers, yips,

strains against directive,

thought. It’s in there

somewhere, then it’s not:

a firefly really disappeared.

NaPoWriMo Day Thirteen: Riddle Poem

Am I coming on too strong?

You’ll miss me when I go

and leave you thirsty.

You talk of me incessantly

but pack your picnic

swearing I’ll skip out.

No, I’ll come, and all

your friends will have to leave.

You want to channel me,

predict my movements.

You try to smell me: arrogance.

I’ll smell you out, dirty you.

Take a bath.

Napowrimo Day Ten: Abecedarian poem

The alphabet’s my age this year.

Twenty-six years zip by.

Out in Fairfax, the Virginians

Still carry my birth certificate.

No exit from the alphabet,

The record of our lives.

I just knock my head

On every unused letter,

Going for a rhythm

I can place: then quietly

I’m done with it.

Napowrimo Day Eight: Palinode

I should not write poems of the spring.

Poems of blooming, budding things

add little to the vault of human striving.

Palinode: I will end up writing one.

  

The wind is likely blowing outside,

I don’t know. I stare into my neighbor’s

window, inside, him and I, together.

His hanging ivy grows the same

  

In winter and in spring, depending

on its human heat and moisture.

It lives likes roaches in our alley,

who feast with vigor, rain or shine.

  

If spring had beady eyes and sharpened

claws like winter, or summer’s leonine

indifference to a roasting corpse, I’d

show it more respect. It don’t though.

  

Myself, I’m molting as the rain

melts life with damned repetition.

April’s showers merely smell like

something that’s been drowned.

  

I wait for heat or cold to fry or freeze

the shredded remains of our lonely striving.

Ignored, my neighbor stares at me and waters ivy.

 

NaPoWriMo Day Seven: Money Poem

Glutted we lay, we bloated shapes post-prix-fixe meal.

We blew out for your birthday, sixty each with matching

bottle and it’ll be beans and rice for weeks to come.

I cannot romance you with stomach full so I arouse

your senses with our meal recast; I discourse

lightly, like I eat and drink five courses every day.

Foams, gelees, reductions, sous vide, souffles:

I fill our room with words too rich to digest and forget.

This is the gift of lack.

NaPoWriMo Day Six: Aubade

I used to stare at the gloam

until I saw shapes, half-remembered

lucid dreams.  I snoozed.

But now the glow of the Wall

stares back in morning light.

I swore for years I’d never

buy one, and then, when I did,

I’d only use it when I had to.

I’d mocked the twiddling thumbs

my friends woke up to every morning

since I had a stimulating pastime

staring at the wall and waking up.

But now those thumbs are mine.

I’m never bored. Yet I don’t

recall a single thing I saw this morning

as I swiped through reams of lives and pictures.

Instead, I dream I woke and walked to the window.

I saw the rain of spring in drops, then rivers, then a flood

rushing through the street outside, ignoring

thousands millions staring at their Wall

and wishing things would change.

NaPoWriMo Day Five: Dickenson, Remixed.

The soul has bandaged.

She feels some ghastly fright

Look at her, salute her,

With long fingers caress her,

 

Sip from the very lips the Lover

Hovered o’er  unworthy:

Thoughts so mean

Accost a Theme so fair.

 

The soul has moments of escape.

Bursting all the doors,

She dances like a Bomb abroad,

And swings open the Hours

 

As does the Bee delirious borne

Dungeoned from his Rose

Touches Liberty—

Then knows no more.

 

Noon, and Paradise the Soul’s

Retaken when, Felon led along,

With shackles on the plumed feet

And staples  in the song, the Horror

 

Welcomes her, again.

He is brayed of Tongue.