Posted tagged ‘draft poem for National Poetry Month’

National Poetry Month – Day 26 – Posting To The Other Side ( A Dog Poem)

April 26, 2011

Very pleased with my iPad 2 drawing above!  This one is of my dog Pearl, an old dog but very much extant.  Draft poem of the day below.

Posting To The Other Side

You talk to me of waterfalls.
I think not so much of spray–well, yes, I think of
spray, splash, droplets, glasses bespeckled–
but what I think of most
is this side and that,
the icy flow of everchanging wall, the stillness
behind that wall, and how,
as a child, when my dog died
my first beloved dog, that is, the first
dog who felt truly younger than me, needful of my protection,
I tried, like Demeter, to reach beyond such a wall, to
communicate, as it were, with the other side–no easy task with a canine–
and how, since I was already being mystical, I wrote the dog a letter,
and since I was desperate in my grief, I posted that letter
in one of my Junior Britannicas, a cherry red series of volumes,
under the letter D, praying that the Dog (Deceased)
would find it, and how, for many months afterwards,
I was afraid to open that volume, to retrieve that carefully
folded piece of lined notepaper,
in case it was still there.

All rights reserved.  Suggestions welcomed.  (One question – “retrieved”.  I like it because of the dogginess–but may be “seek” or “look for” would be better?)

National Poetry Month- Day 21- “Sleep-Deprived Ride”

April 21, 2011

20110421-080519.jpg

Here’s another poem written in my favorite venue and time – New York City subway car, a.m. just past rush hour. Today, however, I was not in the best mood. Here’s today’s draft poem, again in honor of National Poetry Month.

Sleep-deprived Ride

Three days of 2 AM
makes for a wan
morning commute.
Brain is mute;
colors blur along edges.
When a child screams–SCREAMS–
at the hedge of his
stroller, the brain
twists at its own edge,
or just pushed over,
‘my purse!’ it panics next;
awareness jerks
to the strap
over arm, wrist, lap,
that stolid mass of care that never
stays up past midnight, holds all.
Still there, thank God
(though barely sensed),
still, there.

All rights reserved.  Suggestions welcomed

National Poetry Month – Day 17 – Dolphin Dream

April 17, 2011

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!)

National Poetry Month – Day 8 “Dear Fred” (Astaire-way to Heaven)

April 8, 2011

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.