I tried to post this draft poem from my iPad just to see if I could. (I couldn’t.) The effort may have put a crimp in my poetic style! (Ha!) On the other hand, mucking about with technology was a great escape from thinking. Oh well.
All rights reserved. Suggestions welcomed.
Over head
Draft poem for 17th day of April, National Poetry Month:
Dolphin Dream
The hospital required me to cart
the scanner needed to test my heart,
my torso too and abdomen,
the places growths had lodged within.
I carried the scanner in a bag;
those who saw it guessed the sag
that weighed my spirit, slowed my walk,
and, human, they began to talk.
Defiant, I broke for the sea;
the waves that day were high for me.
One forced my dive far far below
what looked to be a crushing blow.
The shelf’s drop was precipitate,
so fathoms deep, I had to wait,
and watch above the crushing bubbles
that I recognized as deadly troubles,
’till, as my lungs o’erswelled my breath,
I saw a sight beyond the rest,
from my cerulean deep sea bed,
a paisley pattern over head.
Stirs of silver, curves of grey,
muscled turns as clear as day,
Sharks? No, dolphins. My heart took flight,
awe subsuming background fright.
Their ease, their grace, were palpable;
to wish them past felt culpable,
though soon my lungs were too compressed
to sense much more than harsh distress.
The need for change brought exhalation,
despite the lack of further ration–
no air down there–and so far down,
I felt that I must surely drown.
I woke up treading toward the light,
gasping, panting, in the night,
afraid to settle back to sleep,
though longing to re-spy that deep.
That I could watch those dolphins twist
without a clutch inside my chest!
That I could sink into that dream,
sparing no thought for scan machine,
or hospital, or sense of tumor
the hush of the half-murmured rumor;
but translucent blue was not enough,
to smooth the diamond of the rough.
All rights reserved. Suggestions welcomed. (P.S. – I’m very happy with the painting! Made on the iPad 2!)
Its elephantary!
Yes, I know. The above is not exactly a draft poem, but it has repeating lines, that (sort of) scan. It also has feet!
Enjoy the day!
I don’t think the below qualifies as a draft poem! My excuse–I am traveling (sort of). Anyway, hope you enjoy.
First iPad Painting ('m not sure this bodes well.)
I admit to being very tired this eleventh day of National Poetry Month and Monday to boot! (More on boots below.)
Here’s a draft poem written in and about the New York City subway system.
On the subway, NYC
Oh the energy of the human!
Not only do we wend our tubal way
each day through track and dim
and the jim-jam of more
humanity; we also make the effort, pre-
trek, in some looking-glassed, dim-lit room, to don
a black gaucho hat
with a silver patterned band encircling
its crown, a band which nestles just above another
band of braided brown.
Nestled below the hat
come blue jeans embroidered
at the shins
with a cartoon hip-hot kid in crimson and white,
who carries a similarly threaded boom box
about knee-level,
which brings up, along this same track,
wonder at the energy of
manufacturers, their surging press for
logos, crests, pink princesses
interspersed with spirited teams–the man’s shoes
narrow to points unknown, while
the black leather boots of the woman just across are
open-toed, her nails like lips painted beige
to match her blazer, earrings
sparkling to the clavicle–all
of us poised in our best grim readiness–I myself
washed hair this a.m., rubbed on mousse–
inside these tubes of darkness, mostly,
to step on out into the tiled echoes, beneath the
ceilinged stars, of
Grand Central.
All rights reserved. Suggestions welcomed.
I wrote a poem on the subway this morning which I later deemed just too weird to post. So, feeling glum over the possibility of doing more than one draft poem a day, I spent much of the evening dancing. But dancing is just so great! It never fails to give you something!
What it gave tonight: another draft poem.
Dear Fred
Listening to Fred Astaire,
I feel that I could waltz on air,
my mind aloft in swirling swirls
of skirts and arms, top hats and twirls.
My heart is light, if movements less so.
(My tapping hits more heel than tiptoe.)
I clamber, but with grace and ease,
at least through my synaptic trees,
those nerve ends buoyed by Porter’s bubbles
to dance away a host of troubles.
Oh Fred, my hero bold and meek
who dances with me cheek to cheek.
So what you’re just a memory–
they can’t take you away from me.
As always, all rights reserved, and all suggestions welcomed.
I am linking this to Bluebell Books weekly submission re bubbles, since Fred is my favorite bubbly guy.
Another day of National Poetry Month, another draft poem! I have to say that when I wrote this one I was not (for a change) thinking of any kind of digital device.
If I could be
If I could be myself,
I would stand up straight as a stalk,
my arms flowing
from my breastbone like
the wings of a heron
sweeping the sky.
I would dance across
sanded planks, mornings, eating
blackberry jam,
flavoring the lips you’d kiss
with blackberries.
Afternoons, I’d write
novels, which would be
great the very first draft.
When their movies were made, I’d
play cameos; the directors
would get everything else
right too.
None of my loved ones, nor
their loved ones,
would ever grow ill, and when time
presented its bill,
I (who was myself) would still
stand straight as a stalk, my arms
flowing from my breastbone,
my lips tasting
of you
and blackberries.
All rights reserved.
P.S. if you are interested in blackberries (not digital) and poetry, check out my book of poetry “Going on Somewhere” on Amazon.
Draft poem in honor of April, National Poetry Month.
Sparrow Dreams
I dreamt, years ago, that my infant child was a sparrow.
My husband, just last night, dreamt of a huge pooled grill
upon which customers threw raw steaks.
He also dreams of flying.
I rarely remember my dreams now–I don’t know if I can’t
hold onto them, or if I just don’t have them. But I
dreamt, years ago, that I cupped the small brown bird,
who was my child,
inside my palms.
My husband dreams always, exciting scenarios. Khaddafi makes
a house call; my husband disarms him while
lecturing on the merits of Debussy.
My mother once led, with great difficulty, a horse
down long dark stairs
only to find at the sweaty stoop
a sign that read, “Elevator For Horses
Only.” Close to ninety, she still tells
that dream, but the words sometimes change:
“Horses Shouldn’t Take Stairs.”
My husband likes to tell his when he first wakes;
the surface of his sleep-furred eyes glisten
with the fantastical.
I sat holding my softly-feathered child on a bench
of women before sculptured green. It was
Rockefeller Center, I remember, and that suddenly
I seemed to have put her down, my sparrow child, then
weeping, could not find her.
It was before her birth–when you are pregnant,
you have many dreams–but I knew, when I woke,
that my life was forever different,
that I had been given a fragile, marvelous, chance, a chance
I could not grip tightly (even though it might take flight),
but that I could not bear to lose, not ever.
As always, all rights reserved.
And also, as always, please feel free to let me know comments or suggestions. This is a draft, and it would be wonderful to have guidance as to how to improve it.
Father with child and important package
Draft poem of the day.
Overheard in NYC
Man, breaking from snatches
of Hebrew song, to daughter
in arms (and pink),
“Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ve got
the ukelele.”
(All rights reserved.)
With great affection.
ManicDDaily 
Recent Comments