The Silences of Snow (#25 Na/GloPoWriMo)

 

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Where are the silences of snow?
Squelching in the remnants
Duck paddling in the meadow,
Now morning cacophony of birdsong.

Already distant are the early
Squeaking of so-cold snow
The sun a struggling idea
Behind cocooned mountains

Sometimes the dogs would leap
And disappear
In powdery white highs
Charged with the changing landscape.

Coffee steaming in both hands
Layers and a hat, guarding their joy
One crow, I hear the feathers rustling
His individual wingbeats.

 

Stream of Consciousness (#24 Na/GloPoWriMo)

“Stream of Consciousness” A style of writing in which the author uses interior monologue to show how the mind works. The unbroken flow of a character’s thoughts and perceptions are revealed either directly (first-person narrative) or indirectly through free-wheeling discourse

The crow hops, hops, crow hops,
Murky swampy mountain meadow.
Front loader raking mounds of trash,
Washing machine bent, broken, retired.
Phone, mom, phone, husband, phone mom,Phone husband, phone mom.
The rain is snow in tiny Styrofoam pellets.
Little girl growling guard over dry pellets.
Explosion, whorls of pink laid wide open,Latte stripes wound up in fiber.
Anxiety whirls in loving, packet, teaching, living,
Each needs its place.
Tomorrow adventure and work.
Today, more struggle, vainglorious trying.

On Unwhinnied Mornings (#23 Na/GloPoWriMo)

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When I think of how my flights were spent
Before these days grounded on my own feet,
A warm hide, coarse mane, hoofbeat,
Until my very being was rent.
Dark eyes, flicked ear, face buried in the scent,
My security, my dry future this love did cheat.
A lamb ambling to slaughter without a bleat,
Setting aside all that flying has meant.
My mind insists “Adults don’t need
The sieving sand steps when the world was best.”
My heart leaks the invisible essence of life.
Whosoever says a heart does not bleed
Has not from that ineffable organ wrest
The glory of those galloped heights.
inspired by John Milton’s “On His Blindness”

 

Trees (#22 Na/GloPoWriMo)

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At 4 years old, I grabbed my mother’s
Breasts.
Gasp, shock, knocked my
Hands away.

If she’d asked, “What are you doing?”
I could have explained that
I was trying to draw a picture.
Of her.

I decided that I only needed to
Touch the shape.
Then I could draw the
Shape.

I remember that crystal moment,
Amber suspension,
Not only embarrassed,
But trying to make sense of art.

Everyday I want to write a poem about
Trees.
I want to explain how the bark feels in my
Hands.

I want people to smell vanilla,
Or today is it butterscotch? Wafting
From sun-warmed Ponderosa
Pines.

Why, what did you see when I said tree?