The stuff of songs. Well, NaPoWriMo challenged us to write a poem in ballad form. I’ve been working on sonnet form as something different and more challenging than haiku and free verse so this wasn’t too far away from that.
Being in a silly mood, the topic seemed to just flow.
| If I could slay dragons baby I’d slay them all for you Without a doubt nor a maybe I’d give all my rep to you too All my gemstones and all my craft I give you the wealth of this world |
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Deirdre, who’s often nose to the door these days, took her shot and bolted out the door this morning. She wasn’t even near the door when I opened it. I didn’t think she was going to stop but she did, on the sidewalk.
She was out the door
before I knew she was near
Deirdre the cat, out!
She ran out the door
and showed no sign of regret –
did not look when called
She hesitated
in the sun on the sidewalk
so I caught her up.
Deirdre looked around
she was glad to go inside
once she’d been outside
—
the rain woke me up.
Warm April night turned windy;
i closed the window.
I found this on Lorianne’s blog and am sharing it before it goes into the quote box.
People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child—our own eyes. All is a miracle. – Thich Nhat Hanh, The Miracle of Mindfulness
I spent some time outside today, whacking away at dead and not-so dead roses. I was trying to reclaim an area that has some old moss roses which are thorny beyond words but in amongst it all is a whopper of a dog rose. I’m still standing, but I’m not sure what to do with the pile of trimmings.
Still and all it was a great day to spend outside.
Cutting away the dead roses, thorny
stalks brown and tangled canes which grab my sleeves
setting to work on my ungloved hands which
accept the thorns sharpened by last winter.
The drops of blood dry in the crevasses
barn red paint dry as the skin beneath it
the hot scratches itchy, stinging, pricking,
the last revenge of the sprawling wild rose
Then there’s the question of the dead branches
they fight being bundled, can’t be carried
despite being cut down to the ground, they
grow upward, flaunting curvy abandon
I can release the thorny, weedy wont,
by holding to the fragrance of the rose.
Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound.
