National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[Deb]

A work in progress.

    Embers

Finished constructing another meal, she hands her husband
a corrugated lunchpail and thermos as he returns dutifully to work.
With a goodbye kiss, the opened door announces today's weather.
Morning chores accomplished; she sits for intermission.

Window filtered rays of sunrise cast a halo on her worn-out, wiry hair.
She rests her elbow on the sinewy woodgrain of the walnut table
oozing memories, revealing stains, and underneath, forgotten bubblegum
from three generations of family sprouting into the next.

Auburn highlights whisper of her youth.
The leathered cracks that score her lip-line tell of bittersweet realities,
wind, and the sorrow she’s weathered in the high desert
with mosaic Joshua Trees that wave at you as tumbleweeds roll by.

Between rising ribbons in a spectral of steam,
she peers over her white, porcelain coffee cup,
angles her head sidelong and shakes a cancer-stick loose from the pack.
Then she picks up her Bic and spins a flame with the snap of a finger.

Takes one, lengthy drag from her long, slender Pall Mall, sets it in the ashtray
among crinkled, lipstick-stained cigarette butts to be forgotten.
Then she seizes the newspaper to dissect 
and folds the page that remains to her proclivity. 

She turns to scan a cluttered counter for a #2 pencil. 
Her tool of choice retrieved,
she flicks its eraser beads into the bed of cigarette butts
and checks to ensure the graphite is sharpened to a fine point.

Concentration fierce on her brow until that a-ha moment
is meticulously scribbled onto her crossword puzzle
while her cigarette lingers, smoldering relentlessly 
into a train of ashes held together and bent as if sculpted in Play-dough.

Reminders of the war, misplaced possibilities, and unknown consequences
no longer haze her consciousness, not now, anyway.
Peeking over the rim of her glasses, the champion looks up, smiles,
and cheerfully says, “Good morning, Honey Girl.”

Smoke still climbing from the heavy, leaded glass ashtray
the embers advance while the nicotine cloud lingers tenaciously. 
Eventually, the fire gives up and succumbs, as did she.  
Her blaze of aspirations not designed to be wasted as they were.


~Deb
 

[Dave]

Hey folks. Having the impression we are all flagging a little now we are over halfway but still quite a stretch from the end. It has been quite a ride so far and so many heartfelt words, great lines, amazing stanzas and stupendous poems. I have been having a ball and look forward to what is to come so keep it up.
 My poem today is, and I apologise for this, is not a comedy. Sorry.

Jallianwala Bagh
 Massacres have birthdays too but what does one do?
Commemorate, remember, celebrate or apologize?
We could eulogize, compromise, disguise, even forget.
Some suggest that we might hang heads in shame,
acknowledge the pain, the loss and gain
or we could lay wreaths and shed a tear,
take our loved ones and the TV cameras to the scene,
the square where the bodies fell;except now
the ghosts have dispersed in the crowds.
I have no idea.
Stop dead in our tracks and fall silent.
Still all sense of being right.
Use the time to lay down arms,
swallow any harsh words we've prepared,
give up our defenses after all these years,
be humble, say, yes, our people did this,
will never do such like again.

[ajduclos]

Dave - powerful, a self examination and plan of attack, of moving forward... right on, and well written
Aj 

[ajduclos]

After reading Gyppo's "50 Years", I picked up my guitar and music came out, a new tune... and soon lyrics started to form and I began to scratch pencil to paper.
That's the way it often works for me, first some music which then informs writing.
So, here is a song/poem, inspired by Gyppo's awesome and tender timeless and universal poem. 

Day 18

Time Has A Way  

In a silent nook of my soul
where warmth and pain find a home
sheltered there wrapped in love
memory and hope still slow dance 

Long years ago our paths crossed
easily they did entwine
all too soon you had to go
we'd meet again we both said 

Time has a way to mess with plans
change life about    deal a new hand
your gentle touch never again felt
your soft image always in my heart 

I've been around    done pretty well
loving family    few regrets
busy and happy yet in quiet times
thoughts of you rise through the mix 

A tear in my eye    a smile on my face
I hold you dear    treasure the trace
the light you shone still brightens my night
if you're still with us might mine brighten yours   

[Vaughn Neeld]

A work in progress.

    Embers

Finished constructing another meal, she hands her husband
a corrugated lunchpail and thermos as he returns dutifully to work.
With a goodbye kiss, the opened door announces today's weather.
Morning chores accomplished; she sits for intermission.

Window filtered rays of sunrise cast a halo on her worn-out, wiry hair.
She rests her elbow on the sinewy woodgrain of the walnut table
oozing memories, revealing stains, and underneath, forgotten bubblegum
from three generations of family sprouting into the next.

Auburn highlights whisper of her youth.
The leathered cracks that score her lip-line tell of bittersweet realities,
wind, and the sorrow she’s weathered in the high desert
with mosaic Joshua Trees that wave at you as tumbleweeds roll by.

Between rising ribbons in a spectral of steam,
she peers over her white, porcelain coffee cup,
angles her head sidelong and shakes a cancer-stick loose from the pack.
Then she picks up her Bic and spins a flame with the snap of a finger.

Takes one, lengthy drag from her long, slender Pall Mall, sets it in the ashtray
among crinkled, lipstick-stained cigarette butts to be forgotten.
Then she seizes the newspaper to dissect 
and folds the page that remains to her proclivity. 

She turns to scan a cluttered counter for a #2 pencil. 
Her tool of choice retrieved,
she flicks its eraser beads into the bed of cigarette butts
and checks to ensure the graphite is sharpened to a fine point.

Concentration fierce on her brow until that a-ha moment
is meticulously scribbled onto her crossword puzzle
while her cigarette lingers, smoldering relentlessly 
into a train of ashes held together and bent as if sculpted in Play-dough.

Reminders of the war, misplaced possibilities, and unknown consequences
no longer haze her consciousness, not now, anyway.
Peeking over the rim of her glasses, the champion looks up, smiles,
and cheerfully says, “Good morning, Honey Girl.”

Smoke still climbing from the heavy, leaded glass ashtray
the embers advance while the nicotine cloud lingers tenaciously. 
Eventually, the fire gives up and succumbs, as did she.  
Her blaze of aspirations not designed to be wasted as they were.


~Deb
 

Wow! Deb. This is one fine poem. No apologies needed here! Von

[binx]

4/18 poem

When It's Cold

Any city street is a portrait in itself—
a woman with beads in her veins,
children begging for insults.

In any given cafe, a waitress
with raspberry eyes might stare
perceptively or examine emphatically;
and they are sad, after all.

On these types of mornings, I ask myself
who might eat with me this small bowl
of pale fruit.


by George

[Vaughn Neeld]

Gyppo, this one is for you.

Cupid

He sat at one end
of the pew; I
on the other.
We glanced now and then
shyly at each other.

And Cupid in the guise
of a teenage boy,
with ear and eyebrow pinned,
sat on the pew behind us
and grinned.

Many years ago
we met on a pew;
our eyes locked,
and time stopped—
for a moment or two.

And Cupid in the guise
of a teenage boy,
with upper lip and nostril pinned,
sat on the pew behind us
and grinned.

He rises stiffly,
his hand on a cane.
His fingers twisted.
My own body’s stiff
and echoes his pain.

And Cupid in the guise
of a teenage boy,
with clothes slashed and pinned,
sat on the pew behind us
and grinned.

He shuffles toward me
as I raise my eyes,
and as years fall away
again thunder cries.
I hear myself say,

“I’ll love you forever,
plus a day.”
He holds out his hand—
then we hear his wife say,
“It’s time we were going.”

And Cupid in the guise
of a teenage boy,
with tie-dyed shirt and red scalp skinned,
sat on the pew behind us
and grinned.

For a moment longer,
each other we held
in our eyes and hearts
and knew in our souls
what we should have known then.

And Cupid in the guise
of a teenage boy,
tattooed with a heart by an arrow pinned,
sat on the pew behind us
and grinned.

[ajduclos]

Vaughn - this is simply marvelous............... see what Gyppo started? 
Aj

[Gyppo]

NAPO 18 - 2019

Smile as you say goodbye

It was a glorious day for a funeral,
blue sky with a kestrel hovering,
breeze enough to gently mute the heat.
And as we waited,
in the usual family or friend groups,
never quite mixing despite common purpose,
someone mentioned the idyllic weather.

And we all smiled as someone else said,
as if it should be obvious,
"That's down to Sally,
fussing around as usual, 
making sure all her guests are happy."

Gyppo

[indar]

April 18

Air All Around

Breathe, breathe,
drink some orange juice,
open curtains,
morning light,
open windows
breathe the scent
of sweet allysum
still blooming bravely
in the garden,
green growing things
go about their business,
remember lessons--
junior high biology,
photosynthesis--
inhale, exhale,
breathe, breathe,
on my knees,
Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison,
forgive, forgive,