Posted tagged ‘April poem a day’


April 1, 2022


In Pablo Casals’ recordings, you can hear him singing along
with his cello—a gravely hum accompanying Beethoven and
his bow—don’t even get me started on
Glenn Gould—

Great musicians aren’t always great singers,
yet there is a delight we take
in their voices, the presumably unconscious drone seeming to show
how much they love the music, that they are playing
rather than performing,
their whole self
the instrument.

I suppose the hums could be considered “unmindful’,
and yet I wouldn’t mind living like that,
singing softly,
singing along.


Happy April!  I don’t yet know if I will write a poem a day for this month of April poetry, but this one came to mind today. Pic and poem are mine; all rights reserved.

The Impatience of the Lonely Heart

April 13, 2014


The Impatience of the Lonely Heart

I hear the wind and mistake it for
your car.
So, my heart hears.
There’s a child lives within it
who waits for you to come
to pick her up,
to take her home.

All life long has been
her after school.
You’re very late.
She confuses others
with her impatience.
They don’t understand what it is
to wait a lifetime.

Beside me now is a pond
where Spring springs.
Frogs cluck like submerged ducks
intent on you know what.
The water speculates in blue diamonds
like the Hope.
The sun works hard to warm away
the brown.
All, on this bright day,
take the dare
of rebirth.

But the heart is not like earth
that can be turned
for renewal;
and when the wind blows
from the South,
the child who inhabits
that strongest of muscles
twists to look for
your car,
even though she surely knows
that vehicle and all its parts
were long ago consigned
to scrap.

A sad draftish poem for the 13th day of April, National Poetry Month, written for Grace’s prompt on With Real Toads to write in an unusual way about routine. I’m not sure this fits, but I don’t think I will manage another poem today! (Ha.)

Process notes–the Hope Diamond is, I believe, the largest blue diamond known in the world.

Finally, this picture doesn’t really fit the piece, but I took the pic today! And kind of like it.

Home Awaying

April 9, 2014


Home Awaying

When you head off for days tomorrow
this little room will fill with sorrow;
won’t want to open any door,
my heart too jammed in acting sore.

To persuade you sooner to come back,
I will clothe myself in lack–
I don’t mean here a luring bare–
my version’s always matted hair,
woe-ven sackcloth, wrinkled ash–
somehow, it won’t recall you fast–

At least not faster, though it’s true–
when I call with voice full rue,
you hear below the drama’s pitch
the timbre of a wound unstitched,
an ache as deep as Lake Baikal,
a plunge as stark as Angela Fall–
I’m doing it again, okay,
but checked them both online, and say–

forgive me if I make it harder
for each of us to be a-parter–
stiff upper lip’s just not my style,
stiff other things (now, there’s a smile)
are far preferred for helping cope
when life is not a funny joke.

So, hurry, dear, and then stay put;
your head by mine, also your foot
aside my sock, my wooly sole,
paired together make a whole.
The little room of our tomorrow
will hold then just one cornered sorrow
required for a C of O
under every building code I know.

This started as serious lyrical poem, and then quickly degenerated to my typical ruefully sentimental couplets. Agh! I am posting it as my 9th April poem, and also for Helen’s prompt on abodes posted on With Real Toads–

Process note–“C of O” stands for “Certificate of Occupancy” legally required for a habitable dwelling under most U.S. building codes/zoning rules, etc.

The rather silly pic is taken in the room where I stay in the City–my husband down with me here for a day, but needing to take a trip elsewhere–so not my abode! (Thank God!)

Death’s Turn

April 3, 2014



Death’s Turn

How long it takes
for death to turn the stomach,
its odor as ochre as goldenseal
stopping the throat.

Unhabituated, we’re sickened, sure,
but like a child swallowing a roller coaster, gullet tense
so stretched,
we still–early on–relish the drop at the top, the spin
to our bottomless sure seat, locked guards against
our buckle.

Bitterness a supposed virtue
in the medicinal–
oh, the drama–
we even nibble
at Death’s edges, inking its stink
with a tincture of svelte shadow.

Until all those little doses climb,
like our clackety strapped cart,
to some high teeter
and of a sudden
we’ve had it up to here–
Death there–
cancer on our corner–

We want
to throw it all up–
all clots of seeming,
any empathy that even slightly smacks its lips.
We want something strong–
red wine, dark chocolate–
to take the taste–
open air,
bared arms,


Please don’t be alarmed.  I’ve had no bad diagnosis, just heard bad news of a few different friends.  I am doing a poem a day for April–this my third in three days–ha!–and I am also posting this for Claudia Schoenfeld’s post at dVerse Poets Pub about writing a poem about emotion that doesn’t name the emotion.  Not sure if it qualifies, but know I haven’t used the word “despair” in there. 

Note that I am going to have a hard time focusing on visuals this month–so they may not always fit!  I thank you for your indulgence in advance.  (As I say that, I realize that they often don’t fit!  Oh well.)