Day Seventeen

Older 

I have changed.

I just noticed.

I want less sound of humans

more of nature.

I am heavier.

content to guide.

offer caveats.

adventure is still there to be sought

but not by me.

I want the sublime.

resonance.

affirmation

and underscore,

these are my punctuation marks

before my

full

stop

.

 

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Day Twelve, Part II

The Oaks are Blooming 

I have counted the ways

now let me tally them before anyone else will

and before I must stop thinking in “we” but instead as “I “

If given the chance, I would still elect

this many-pot-holed road that

did real damage so seldom

I would choose you again, before any,

would gladly fall in the steps that you tread

if just to keep your company, and

if just to learn the opposite of “no “

You will be waking from this dream…

You have packed and are ready to set out, but

there is one thing missing, which is this:

There would not be the me of today without you.

We caused these pieces that have readily come

and a part of me is traveling away from here today too.

* * * * * 
a 2nd 'golden shovel' poem of today based on a certain stanza from Rilke (same lines)

 

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Day Twelve

Do You Know... 

If I had my wishful ways

there would be a shift in your will

and I,

now certain of what you would elect,

could unleash all the love that

rushed up in a way felt so seldom,

and give you any,

and I mean any, permission to tread

through and around and

into my heart, with no

limit I could dream

but

you would need to know this:

I want the same for you

so that when I wide open come

you’ll be certain too

04/12/2014

Based on a stanza from Rilke, in ‘golden shovel’ fashion

 

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Day Six

Simple Simon

I met a man

he asked a question

I gave an answer

he acted grateful

I took his picture

he asked for payment

I said 'paper, or plastic?'

he grabbed my elbow

I started screaming

he took my camera

I guess I'm grateful

 

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Day Five

Today, a “golden shovel” poem, inspired by the Day Five optional prompt at NaPoWriMo.net, and using the words of one of the suggested poems, this one by Charles Simic:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas

On the fruit stand.

We eat the smile

And spit out the teeth.

- Charles Simic

The nifty challenge is this:  You can read his poem by reading the final word in each line of my subsequent "golden shovel" poem.

I liked this prompt so much that I kept on with it, using the exact same poem to stretch my imagination several times in different directions.  I found ‘spit’ to be the most challenging word to incorporate, but isn’t it the necessity of an acute problem that pulls for the most creativity ?

Here are four versions, in order of their emergence, driven by the same ending words for each line.

Saying grace for a lovers’ picnic

Paths that wind through bursting green

traveling silent as buddhas

the feather-soft of trails we’re on

disturbing not a one, to taste the

shimmer song of tandem fruit.

Lush as down, in an open stand

single file through the archway we

sigh a blessing, kneel to eat

through pores and passages the

many visions of your smile.

Delving newly into familiar and

luscious ground, leaving traces glazed with spit

no pinkie lifted, no slurping left out

this is the last supper, the

christening of love, sliding over tongue and teeth.

First Mate

you liked them green.

“unspoiled buddhas”

you said.  sex with the lights on,

not so hard to get past the

hard shell to the fruit

and leave them in a thoughtful shoulder stand.
as if you hadn’t -- we

hadn’t had enough to eat

in days of good fortune, the

ease of getting by on a smile.
just my luck, and

here I am, trapped eddying behind the spit

that formed from your love siphoning out

while you danced with the

excellent rose between your teeth.

Embarrassed

rows of green

figurines, laughing buddhas,
with a smile permanently turned on.

you take your time selecting the

most right identical one, as if it were fruit,

and I do my best to stand
far away from you, not a part of ‘we’

because my pride is that hard to eat,

and there are real yoginis here, flashing the

epitome of that smile,
but it’s live, and genuine, and

it makes me so jealous I could spit

so instead I dash awkwardly out

jangling the peaceful strand of bells, the

tiger showing all its teeth.

The Recipe

jealousy is coloured green

forbidden to buddhas
but precisely what turns me on

is maybe, probably, the

lure of forbidden fruit.

it’s not a one-night stand
but a long-term, ill-fated sense of ‘we’

that yields nothing to eat

while the honor drains out of you, the

impetus for your smile,
the tastiness of “I can’t” becomes “tomorrow again” and

we are roasting on a spit

of waiting to be found out

or if not that, the

digging in of innocent teeth.

 

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