Day 8: Endings

Day 8:

Solar Eclipse

We were never meant to meet.

All those longing looks cast 

across dawn and dusk skies;

oh the light we made.

Every star a poem for you,

scattered map of love.

And you, turning the horizon aflame, 

heart sending out a flare,

gold furnace of desire.

Is this the closest we get?

April evening, pink blush on my face, Venus in the wings.

One blink and darkness winks.

I close my eyes: it seems

we almost touch -

silver and gold 

monumental moment

dissolving

into

translucence.

Sun-blindness 

is a real thing.

As for the moon? You knew

I was half mirage, a shimmering dissonance

of dream and romance. 

We can't ever meet.

The astrophysical axis

commands it so. In other words, Fate.

Too many shadows.

Too much afterglow.

Day 2: Platonic Love Poem

 To April

'April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers' ~Edna St Vincent Millay

A lullaby of lemon-light.

Days a procession of mellow yellow:

primrose, daffodil, saffron sun.

Easter chicks and bonnets when I was young.

I loved you then; promise of something brighter,

something new.

Dawn birdsong. Days jubilate into chorus.

Dusk serenade of sultry jazz,

blushing, blazing solo moon.

Applause of stars. Venus as wingman.

Inside, I'm singing (dancing too).

You dear are a balm after winter's harsh sting.

Honey bees alight in a dark cave,

dreaming of summer nectar.

Sustenance. Warmth and vigour.

Impressionist dots of buds on trees.

A flurry of lime-green daubed

by a giddy artist's hand. April giggles,

runs ahead, barefoot on new-green,

daisy chain in hand, dreams in head.

Floriferous fantasy.

Such softening. A dissipation

of everything that is tight.

April ruffles her hair and the breeze

is a rush of gleaming gold. Brazen rebirth.

Transformation complete.

The child of the year

hope shining

like cuckoo flowers at morning

lilac and wistful with dew's soft kiss,

day ahead a daydream

a mirage of youth

a wish for future mirth

a dandelion seed

airborne

a smile

the first thing you feel;

your newborn heart

alive now,

all the flowers

blooming.

Day 1: Early Bird Prompt & Book Prompt

 Welcome to NapoWriMo 2024!

Tried the Early Bird prompt of picking one of the chosen words, 'Flute' and writing a poem about it. 

As well as the Day 1 Prompt of writing about the plot of a book you read and liked but don't really remember. 

The Flute

Wind and wood combine

grace of air and breath and melody

entwine,

harmony

as thought becomes music.

I could get carried away

on notes as brusque as fairy wings

like new leaves budding on trees

a story of life's highs and lows

melancholy or mischief

intricately told by fingers

that move like grasses in a breeze

fluent in flexibility, dream-dappled light show;

a tune to carry within

as whistle or whim.

*Sensitive content*

Plot

There was a tiger, I'm certain of that.

Not just metaphorical, but real.

A stage hand of war. Lesson in a story.

A young girl, wise beyond her years.

Much hardship, violence. Trauma.

I don't know about love.

Love had no currency in those times.

Was there a butcher? A very bad man.

Women suffering. Tale as old as time.

The skulls beneath the ground

how they haunt the present.

The tiger like a flame

flickering through history.

As reality's seams tear,

strength and tenacity.

myth and dream.

-The Tiger's Wife - Tea Obrecht