My palm is open.
lifts my nose
the outer rose petal
whispers my name.
I listen for notes
to hang it on.
a limp bracelet
onto shore. Faceless,
listen from the same,
and I wonder when
I first heard your lips
define my skin.
On Wednesdays we run to the spit. Low tide
swallows our footprints, phenotypes dissolve
en masse where barnacled pebbles collide
on Wednesdays. Raptors raid, herons resolve
building stick on stick so young ones will live.
Wielding our wingspans like birds, we evolve
with Wednesdays. Toeing root mud, jumping limbs,
turning switchbacks up cold drip stairs, we run
to a wind warped meadow, me behind him
each Wednesday. Tenacious as highest sun
calling rock rose and nettles, he leads us
leaving other days in shadow’s beak. Fun
takes on Wednesdays, heavy-treaded with blush,
leaving survival of the fittest crushed.
I am playing @ dVersepoetspub tonight where Anna is tending and meeting the bar.
Her absence throws an anchor.
Silver-bristled poppy heads
shrug off black-spec bugs
and fronds send gawky roots deeper.
A single white cabbage moth lifts
and lifts without landing,
looking for lost legacies
between filaments’ lash-lipped strikes
at her retreating heels.
Lilac’s heavy blooms
sing una chorda mantras
with springtime timbre.
Spitting out this hasty thought!
Stay for twice as long as not
More than that will force the plot.
You assume by clearly planning,
Morning sees what’s really standing.
Continents lead a steady fight-
Erode by day, and drift by night.
During thunder’s wartime shade,
Is nothing left when something’s made?
ALL that we consume or make
Is doing so for doing’s sake.
Experience lifts a glass,
Kindness finds a patch of grass.
I pluck and blow the flower’s head
Watch the rusted water spread.
How much! Unchanging moments lie
Between my toes, out of my sight
And this is joy, this joy denied!
I can not let this one fall slick,
Sediment rich and promise thick.
Still I harden as I grasp
Resigning to a tighter clasp.
Is all that we consume or make
Doing so for doing’s sake?
NaPoWriMo DVerse OLN
30 poems in 30 days. Complete.
This poem is response to a prompt at NaPoWriMo headquarters: take an old poem, rewrite in opposite.
I didn’t entirely rewrite in opposite, but you may recognize the old poem.
Cheers, reader! Thank you for your bright support.
Under swollen cedars raked with afternoon light
a cherry-tomato-sized bumblebee passed so closely
by my ear, I became the littlest one.
Megalith buzz, did she anchor her baskets
of trillium gold on my tiny collar, claiming
the nectar deep pathway as her own?
Midnight has arrived.
I sit empty-handed, words
have left me for sleep.