National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[indar]

with multiple cruciforms
garnishing more than a few sharp curves.

Hi Deb,
Looking back over this thread I realized several comments I made are missing--I suspect operator error. I think I forget to hit the "submit" button. Originally I commented on your "mother' marked on a headstone poem. I read it with a different emphasis than your intention I'm certain. Two years ago my family gathered for my mother's 100th birthday. my daughter, her son and his daughter---5 generations. We posed for photos and I was overtaken by our collective history and this intergenerational bond. The history includes all kinds of dysfunction, bad choices, misfortunes, as do most families I'm sure. "my mother was beautiful but damaged" is such a beautiful line. Loved the poem. I also realized you are DGsquared and my homey.

I also loved the white out poem and quoted my fave line above.

 

[Deb]

with multiple cruciformsgarnishing more than a few sharp curves.

Hi Deb,
Looking back over this thread I realized several comments I made are missing--I suspect operator error. I think I forget to hit the "submit" button. Originally I commented on your "mother' marked on a headstone poem. I read it with a different emphasis than your intention I'm certain. Two years ago my family gathered for my mother's 100th birthday. my daughter, her son and his daughter---5 generations. We posed for photos and I was overtaken by our collective history and this intergenerational bond. The history includes all kinds of dysfunction, bad choices, misfortunes, as do most families I'm sure. "my mother was beautiful but damaged" is such a beautiful line. Loved the poem. I also realized you are DGsquared and my homey.

I also loved the white out poem and quoted my fave line above.

Hi Linda! Great to see you here and as always, I enjoy your work. I too have lost complete posts with thorough input and comments about the first three days of this thread. I can’t get the copy/paste to take and have frustrated myself to say, “Forget it, for now.”

Then, looky here! It accidentally worked.

I love the images conjured by your, "One." Hi-Ho-Silver indeed.
I love this, 
"to discern her true nature, a wandering orb
tallying time by phases,
shifts the world."

Wow, your mother made it to 100! That's impressive. You've got hearty genes, then.

Thank you for your kind words and as to family dysfunction... my aunt says we put the "Fun" in dysfunction. My cousin says we put the, "Func" into it.   

My intention for "Mother" was that as momentous and influential as motherhood is (the most important, best, and most difficult job I've ever had), I feel acknowledgment is due to the little girls we were, who grew into young ladies with an entire life, (in my case 32 years) that helped shape us into the mothers we became.  Children tend to forget we were full-fledged people before we took on the title, the crown of, Mom. My grandmother was a pilot and on her way to be an astrophysicist before the war and her first pregnancy, my mom, followed by four other children. She did so much more than, "Mother"  as did my mom, as did I. I really was surprised at my reaction of indignance to a movie scene. I've loved being a mother more than anything.

But you're right and said so beautifully, the generations of collective history are astounding.

Now, back to your work - April 4, "Heitkamp" is spot on! "Suspicious of change"  comes in groups forced to survive or endure together. If we don't belong to such a clan, most of us are somehow related to one.

Your April 5 throwdown with Tracy cracked me up at slipping on shiny goose poo. That line got a guttural laugh. Way to stick up for us gals, with superior feathers, no less. Love it!

---

 

[Deb]

Colm, who better to write 30 Ways to Die, than you? I hope Death does grant you an easy passage but I hope it doesn't happen for many years. I enjoy how your poetry thumbs its nose at Death, sometimes with humor, and sometimes somber, but always in an unexpected way. 
...'killed by a pig!'
It's all just Time
finding new ways to entertain itself."    Nice ending. 

Tracy, enjoyed, "Driving Home" it sounds like a familiar road.

Hugh, enjoy the flow of your poem, "Messages" and the (seemingly) relaxed attitude about the decay of the roof.

Nicole, BLUE STREAK has me intrigued. Nice imagery.


Gyppo, enjoyed the poem about jingling change and love this line, "...they represent an ancient freedom."  So true.

Von, Kansas wheat, I saw and felt it.

Judi, funny how we ignore the warnings and uncanny how most of us relate.
~Deb

[Deb]

Dave, "The Realization"  wraps it up in one profound statement. An excellent read that evoked every emotion it was meant to with striking imagery.  Heartbreak, well told. Then there is, "Spittlebug." Wow! It takes skill to turn slobber into something sensuous. Again, great imagery.

Tanglepuss, is it Amy? "Rusty" speaks to the poet, the singer, and the guitar player whose calluses have softened enough to make the fingers whine. It's best to succumb to whining fingers before they start screaming. I enjoyed it.


Sharon, "Mohs" is both a haunting and sad read, especially the last S. Your choice of words - indicative of suffering and healing and well chosen.  "Death of a Former Lover" takes us on the journey with you. Lapis eyes. Mmm.

Nichole, "Rounding Boards" another good one.

AJ, I too am guilty of being the smug, but earthbound human. passing judgment on the lowly seagull. Great read. Also, "When a Person Dies" is exceptional. I love the last S. Well done. 

Gyppo, your, "Mother's Dilemma" was executed perfectly from the mother's point of view. You never cease to amaze. "Courtesy" evoked a smile. Thank you, Dear Sir. I think one of those ladies would be flattered.

Tracy, "An Evening Walk" evokes so much, I'm not sure where to begin. Lovely piece with clever imagery. Love it! 

Colm, #2 Wow! #3 very sad indeed. You're killing it. To be clear, in case it's not a saying used in your region,  "You're Killing it" is slang that means, you're doing very well. 

[Gyppo]

30 ways to die. 
#12

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

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, Colm.  But the last two stanzas nailed it.  Yes, we are what we are.  Contrary buggers  

May I indulge myself with my own 'death poem' from a previous year?  Brought back into sharp focus by your last two lines.  I promise not to make a habit of it, there's too much other good stuff flowing across these boards.

 "Not yet, Pet."

Death moved amongst us that night
as we sat in the Biker's bar.
She was looking for company,
someone to ride with,
someone to take home.

In scuffed and well-used leathers,
dark red like venous blood,
she carried a black helmet
decorated with an inverted cross
wreathed in flames.

Overdoing the advertising,
but she always was a flash bint.

She tapped me on the shoulder, 
smiled as I turned.
"I've come to ride with you,
It's your time."

She had long black hair,
vivid green eyes
and a pale face.
Too pale for a regular pillion.

I bought her a drink, smiled back,
and said "Not yet, Pet."
I captured her wrist,
turned her hand palm up
and confirmed my instincts.

"No life line. I know you well.
I can't share mine with you.
Look!"

Two hands palm up,
two heads leaned over.
She saw the length and depth,
shivered slightly,
raised one arched eyebrow
then smiled again.

"One of those contrary buggers, eh?
"I can wait."

She finished her drink in one easy swallow
and moved along the bar.

Gyppo

 

[Colm Roe]

Glad you enjoyed it Gyppo.
And I remember your poem very well...MWC

[Deb]

Riverbed Dog 

Liberated from human restraints,
he dashes through bushes
tries to bounce rabbits from their burrows
with a comical, instinctive hop.
Marks his territory along the way.
Where does all that pee come from?
Surely, he'll run out. 

He scampers in large circles around us,
skirting our path, of chaparral fauna and sagebrush,
sniffing out game, seeking a capture.
We hear his approach from behind us,
as he sprints to catch up
sounding like a galloping horse. 

Creek in sight, he wags his tail eagerly
and bounds in, center stream,
awaiting a game of, “Chase the Rocks”
hoping my husband will lob pebbles up and down the creek
for puppy pursuit.
Unbridled energy, he beams his goofy dog smile. 

Until distracted by a couple of ducks.
He’ll never seize the Mallards but relishes the hunt.
They elude him in taunting dismissal.
He’s such a jolly, handsome mongrel.
I wonder what tales he’d tell if he could speak English
or what he’d ask if we spoke Canine?

~Deborah Manning-Galarza

[Gyppo]

Vivid, Deb.

I can see the rainbow splashes as he cavorts in the river, hear the 'hoofbeats' as he thunders up from behind like a runaway horse.

Gyppo

PS:  Stop apologising for being here.  You've earned your place.

[ajduclos]

30 ways to die. 
#12

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

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, Colm.  But the last two stanzas nailed it.  Yes, we are what we are.  Contrary buggers  

May I indulge myself with my own 'death poem' from a previous year?  Brought back into sharp focus by your last two lines.  I promise not to make a habit of it, there's too much other good stuff flowing across these boards.

 "Not yet, Pet."

Death moved amongst us that night
as we sat in the Biker's bar.
She was looking for company,
someone to ride with,
someone to take home.

In scuffed and well-used leathers,
dark red like venous blood,
she carried a black helmet
decorated with an inverted cross
wreathed in flames.

Overdoing the advertising,
but she always was a flash bint.

She tapped me on the shoulder, 
smiled as I turned.
"I've come to ride with you,
It's your time."

She had long black hair,
vivid green eyes
and a pale face.
Too pale for a regular pillion.

I bought her a drink, smiled back,
and said "Not yet, Pet."
I captured her wrist,
turned her hand palm up
and confirmed my instincts.

"No life line. I know you well.
I can't share mine with you.
Look!"

Two hands palm up,
two heads leaned over.
She saw the length and depth,
shivered slightly,
raised one arched eyebrow
then smiled again.

"One of those contrary buggers, eh?
"I can wait."

She finished her drink in one easy swallow
and moved along the bar.

Gyppo   

Gyppo, Colm - this reminded me of a poem, well, really a song, I wrote a couple years ago.  Please indulge my intrusion -

Ain't Ready To Die 

I saw the darkening sky
I watched the sun retreat
The winds began to blow
The clouds began to cry 

My senses filled with dread
Cold sweat drenched my head 

I saw the lightening flash
I watched it rend the night
Thunder shook the earth
Trembled under the lash 

My brain said I should hide
But I stiffened for the ride  

A Spectre dark and grim
Formed out from the maelstrom
And pointing right at me
Said I must go with him 

I looked him in the eye
Said I ain't ready to die 

You can go back to Hell
I'll stay here in my cell 

I hollered and I yelled
You can go back to Hell 

The Spectre faded away
The winds and rains did cease
The sun returned and I heard
I'll be back another day 

I'm not gonna die today
I ain't ready to die
I ain't ready to die
I ain't ready to die

 
 

[Dave]

12

Remember today Grace is child in a school room
at the edge of a forest or at the end of a potholed
path from yesterday’s narrow-mind,
She reads with all her might, her imagination reaches out
over tin roofs, the canopy of trees, across the cold mountain
to a doctor’s white coat or a nursery full of eager faces,
a pay-slip and time to sit in a sunny window and breathe.