Small eyes of bright dark glass, brighter than beetles crawling through infinite grass.
Tall and white as the flower beneath my window that opens each day and disappears each night. You move so fast.
I must step out for a better view. The bloom doesn’t mind…why do you?
{National Poetry Month is here. I will try to write a poem every day for the month of April. This is possibly one of those quantity over quality situations. There may be typos…
I don’t know if I will be able to publish a poem every single day, but I would like to at least attempt to write one.
This poem was inspired by the “early bird” warm-up prompt on March 31, 2020 at NaPoWriMo.net.}
Need a safe room?
For diamonds? Family heirlooms?
For gold and guns?
Deeds?
Winning lottery ticket
to hide from fawning relations?
Rare paintings?
None of these?
Unless they blind you,
or cut off your hands,
or put you in solitary,
can’t you still make
a cup of tea for pennies?
Until they set up a Payday Loans
where the library used to be,
can’t you always find good books?
Pens? Paper?
Opportunity?
Can’t you wake to sunrise?
Watch it set?
Listen for the winds of change?
Pet a cat?
Smell the coffee?
Forget?
{It’s still poetry month…and although I did not write 30 poems, I did read and write more poetry than last month, so that’s something.
This was inspired by another great Real Toads prompt: Write a poem using questions, and consider answering them. I decided to write the answers in the form of questions also…}
A child is standing in a gilded church
staring at the backs of strangers
all crowded together
in heavy winter coats,
hands by their sides,
until they make the sign of peace.
She silently mouths the words
to the hymn she knows by heart,
but is too shy to sing aloud– We hold a treasure, not made of gold…
She is thinking about school,
about a girl in her class
with bright, orange-gold hair.
“It’s red, not orange!” the girl snaps,
and shows off her new necklace
from Hawaii. And the child wonders
why she can’t have hair like that–
like the color of volcanic fire.
Why is her own hair so brown?
The voice behind her is a tenor.
The priest is wearing purple–
the color of royalty.
The gold felt banner by the altar reads: Celebrate!
Her hair is brown like the pews,
like the soft, leather kneelers.
Earthen vessels…She mouths the words.
Her hair is the color of earth,
the color of the ceramic jug
in the corner of the basement
covered with dust and daddy long legs. Wealth untold…the hymn says.
“I am not worthy,” speaks the congregation in unison.
And for one moment, the child feels worthy.
Because none are worthy.
And she joins in this time, on cue,
“But only say the word…
and I shall be healed.”
[Communion, from The Hours of Catherine Cleves]{Linking to dVerse for open link night. The final words of this (autobiographical) poem are a bit strange, unless you’re a Catholic. Here is a good explanation. Here is a link to the hymn, Earthen Vessels: https://youtu.be/IAZhIw49ULc }
Sophie’s Shelves 