National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[Vaughn Neeld]

Re: White Out

Wow! This really hit home with me. In 1964, my husband and I made a cross-country trip from Michigan across the northern U.S. to Washington State. Once we reached the Rockies in Montana and Idaho, we were puzzled by all of those white crosses, but finally figured out that they had to connote a corner of death. As you've described, the corners littered with multiple crosses really made us nervous/paranoid about our driving habits. At that time, and perhaps still, lumber trucks barreled around those corners as if their mission was to scare poor "flat-lander" tourists out of their wits.

Von

[Vaughn Neeld]

Day 11

I used to dance
to this beat.
It is now passe.
But, oh!
how sweet
the memory.

[Deb]

April 1st


April 1st,
I'm blown away...
Writer's words dance across my screen
I'm in awe of their revelry
as some celebrate the cycle
of life in our solar system
or ponder drugs we take 
to manage our own,
while someone else wonders
if the roof will hold out.


One brave soul makes toasts to Death,
the trickster Death may be.
Or is the writer taunting time?
Perhaps a bit of both.
Where is my martini?
We play with words,
stirring emotional entertainment.


There is a kinship,
a symbiosis of sorts
as words evoke 
more than the depth in sadness
of unrequited and waning love.
Underlying meanings to each piece
too rich to decipher
in a single poem.


Jingling pocket change
recalls exuberance felt
when the sound of real coins 
clinked into a metal slot machine tray.
The tune now
manufactured,
cheapens the fun somehow.


For today I'll throw in
my ten cents
and a wealth of admiration
for other people's
words
on April 1st.


Deborah Manning-Galarza
  ~And we've only just begun!







 

[Gyppo]

NAPO 12 - 2019

As life gets quieter...

Bright sunshine,
bungalow windows flung open 
in a surge of Spring enthusiasm, 
An uninhibited old rogue,
belting out Wild Rover.

But what's happening?
Underlay and fitted carpet,
on a poured concrete floor. 
Comfortable enough to be sure, 
muffle the gleeful staccato rap
of the stamped chorus.

The wooden boards of the caravan floor,
or the thin lino in the house
used to echo my joie de vivre.

In retirement my life is quieter.
Guess I'll just have to sing louder. 

Gyppo
 

[Deb]

Sing it Gyppo!


 

[Deb]

Time Travel

Words transport me 
to glimpse further back on childhood.

I envision Granddad
as he pulls a handful of contraptions
from the pocket of his gray trousers,
opens the flat, oval-shaped coin holder
with the slit in the center
revealing copper and silver magic.

I wait until after he checks his pocket watch
then ask,
"Grandpa, may I have a penny and a
nickel for Jerry's kids?'

After I place the coins in the cardboard holder
with Jerry Lewis pictured next to a smiling child in a wheelchair, 
Grandpa gives me two more pennies for the gumball machine
and tells me to, "Run along."
I do so without the realization of how fortunate I am.

~Deborah Manning-Galarza
 

[lisaeagle65]

My apologies to all of you real poets for subjecting you to my poetry in prose. 


White Out

White-knuckle-drive on an iced-over road.
Northern Montana in a February snowstorm.
White crosses placed every few miles
mark a place of someone's death 
with multiple cruciforms
garnishing more than a few sharp curves.


It's dark and late, my progress slow 
as four-wheel-drive trucks and cars bear down upon me.
I try their patience on this road I do not know
as I cautiously motor on
afraid of sliding into a ditch
or worse.


Each passing vehicle creates a blinding swirl of snow.
Commuters accustomed to these conditions hurry by
but I wonder, how many structures with a transverse beam
represent voracious drivers like these?
And how many represent drivers like me 
who got in the way and lost?


Scars of white crosses litter the landscape.
The only reminders someone else's text, time, or drink 
was more important than their own life or that of another.
Why should they care?
They are no longer
their crosses to bear. 


Deborah Manning-Galarza
April 10, 2019






 

Deb, absolutely wonderful. What an ending
 

[lisaeagle65]

Love this lots...but not fond of Caps on every line 

Hi Colm, I'm glad you said something. We were taught that way in school which was aloooong time ago. Thanks, I agree. 

This place is better than school Lisa    With Caps on every line, I read a poem as if there's a full-stop before the Cap.
This place is better. Than school. With Caps. On every line. I read a poem. As if there's. A full-stop. Before the Cap. 
Very William Shatner 
I'm not a young man, and when I started posting online I used Caps. It was quickly pointed out that contemporary poetry is written without them.
Some people use form to create an extra dimension...

I trace my name on a frosted window
and watch the letters
fade
into
tiny
drops.

They dribble together

run
down
the
​​​​​​pane

drawing lines

that look like sadness.

Anywho, your poem is beautiful in its brevity and simplicity. 
  

ohh yeah, I like it that way..... Thank you Colm
 

[Colm Roe]

30 ways to die. 
#12

Cars and motorbikes 
were written invitations 
in my stupid years,
all that was missing 
was the date.

How many times did that hand have to stop 
when it got to the minute of my time?
I'm sure I frustrated its forecast
and it abandoned the Biro for 
a pencil and an eraser.

My Catholic mother prays like a devil
she would...I put her through hell.
She knows which specific Saint to phone
when a favour is needed. 
When she starts talking to herself
I won't get her sectioned  
I'll contact the Pope 
to begin the process of her canonisation.
She's old, we both are,
and I hope she prays more for herself now.

Being a man
I'll never be completely beyond stupid, 
still find myself in situations which
I may not get out of alive. 
Just a little more careful because I know
erasers and pencils wear out,
clocks run down

and that bastard's Biro 
is itching for closure.

[Colm Roe]

Time Trave

Sweet poem Deb 
And it does what good poetry should do...it shows...instead of telling!
Love it!