Day 29: Taylor Swift Lyrics/Words

Albatross

I feel its dead weight

with every gong of the hour.

Try to walk but lumber,

dragging years of doubt,

everything is a chore.

When I go to speak

a puff of dry feathers

chokes my tone, turns

excitement to lethargy,

a smile to gaping bone.

Its one yellow eye can't be ignored

watches me with virulent power

something bad will happen

it ensures, there is no good

left in the world.

And how the shrivelled,

gnarled feet needle

just above my heart.

I carry the corpse of my dreams,

I will never be free of its grasp.

Day 28: Sijo

 Thought

A stone drops into a silent moonlit river, ripples,

and then sinks into the deep dark abyss of unknown;

a petal falls and floats a heavenly pink, skein of light.

Day 26: Assonance, Consonance, Ailliteration

 Day 26: Assonance, Consonance, Alliteration

Spring

Mirth or miracle, how the keen green multiplies

on every barren branch, every lean stem.

How, within weeks, days, there is a flourishing; tufts of tender leaves, shoots, seedlings, new growth swaying in the breeze.

Mirth or miracle, how there is a lifting of spirits,

on every winter-wilted heart, every dead dream.

How within weeks, days, there is a growing; tender touts of new ideas,

beginnings blooming, the self, seeding.

Day 25: Proustian Questionnaire

Always been intrigued by Marcel Proust and his tome of a book! He also got me to try madelines (delicious!). So, not the Proustian questionnaire, but an ideal coffee date...!

***

Having Tea with Proust

Lime tea and madelines.

He dips, I sip.

Nostalgia on the menu,

perfuming the cafe air.

The one thing we have in common - doesn't everyone?-

obsession with the past. A golden shroud of memory so vast.

We measure out our moments

in sublime attention.

He murmurs, I nod. Living,

this huge, quiet thing to muse upon.

Every day a page in a manuscript, we write and rewrite.

The madelines keep coming. The moments too.

There is no rush here. No hurry.

We pour and stir, repeat, again.

Flâneurs on an afternoon stroll

through Life's boulevards.

There is so much to remember.

There is so much we can't forget.

Time scatters around us;

we pick up and savour every crumb.

Day 24: Borrowed Line

'I cried to dream' - from The Tempest, Shakespeare

In my poem a day book for today so just went with it!

*

Night

I cried to dream

and swallowed the moon

in a black river of night.

Did you know that the language of darkness

is hope not despair?

Look, the soft wings of a moth

flutter open. Dawn breaks blossoms of light

in a shadow's tear.

Day 23: Superhero

An unlikely hero....!

Dear PMS

How I admire your feistiness,

your fierce and unbidden temper

that can rise like a geyser,

pummel spectators with the force

of dam-burst water.

Your uncanny ability

to spout lava language

when politeness just won't do;

you have no fear, forge ahead, tirade

over all that is timid, tame, untrue.

How you wage war on the uncouth,

any out-of-line action, no lousy act let go.

Behold the warrior within,

Vesuvius fault line marked:

you laugh at limits, breathe dragon fire

at any grievance, combust doubt

in a superhero power show.

Direct as a slap on the mouth,

your red arrow shall pierce the heart

of any pending foe.

Oh worthy ally, sister of sacrifice, silent voice amplified.

Unexpected but real

battle-scarred hero.

Day 22: Fight

 For Earth Day

Dialogue

City: I need more room

Tree: But you need me

City: My way is modernity, the future, the heaving mass of the human race - move over

Tree: My way is the present. Here and now. Just breathe.

City: People need me. I am a metropolis of the many

Tree: People breathe me. I am a living eco-system of body and mind

City: Grey is the new green, as strong as steel.

Tree: Listen to the breeze

City: I am a pool of refracted light, a glaze of ambition, power, dreams. Ever-fluid, changing, growing.

Tree: I am rooted to this spot. I am the dream of growth

City: Come to me all you refugees

Tree: I am a harbour for birds, bees, insects, people's gaze; the healing light of a leafy sun-dappled haze

City: I am the future

Tree: I am past, present and future

City: I am growth, longevity

Tree: Ahem, ask the oak

City: I am brain and brawn

Tree: I am heart, lungs and spirit

City: I am the human race personified

Tree: I am life. Trinity of person, place, nature.

City: I am here

Tree: I am gone

Day 21: Colour

Sunday Morning

Sun peels the layers of morning,

ever-changing treasure by the hour:

marmalade, saffron, lemon, chartreuse.

A goldfinch flickers, loiters at the feeder,

wings streaked with sun.

Buttercups open to dawn's caress,

tickle of birdsong.

This morning light is April's blessing,

a blaze of possibilities all before breakfast.

Aureoles of sunlight dance in waking rooms,

cat sprawls, lounges in golden pools.

A yellow cardigan drapes a chair,

Van Gogh's field of sunflowers,

the colour of

burgeoning daydreams.

All at once everywhere is aglow,

a profusion of buttered brightness.

Day is warming, sweet,

ripe with joy.

Every moment

a honeycomb of happiness,

a discovery of precious gold.

Day 18: Something/Someone Else

 Cat

Imagine amber eyes

two little moons

that feast on darkness.

Svelte, like velvet, like night

decanted and sieved

into elegant ink.

Cunning and comfort.

Indolence, guile and grace.

A languid question mark

that answers any vacant space.

Curvature of charm at home

in a coil of slumber,

companion, talisman.

The self-assuredness

of slink and purr and pour

oneself into silhouette,

into dawn, into dream;

the wild an underbelly cry

caught in a stare

of glass-green, feral-fire,

instinct wicked, alive.

Attuned to time's finesse

I pounce, attack, uphold

the secret of myself

like an ancient Egyptian,

little god of alleyways

and acquired wisdom.

Day 17: Song

 Dream a Little Dream of Me

(Paris 2002)

https://open.spotify.com/track/27hhIs2fp6w06N5zx4Eaa5...

Feather soft dusk.

Moon a hammock in sky, silver lining smile.

Ballroom theatrics. I remember

a music box made of brass

spinning around and around,

lost talisman, romance found.

Up in skies above the city

the sound wafts, couples abound;

cocktail hour, Martinis and moonlight

and tulle dresses. A soirée á Paris, enchanté.

White wine gold, champagne bubbles,

aerodynamic fizz of anticipatory

kisses;

the warm caress of

sunset; swagger of jazz; you lean close -

in all the years since -

the moon is swooning in a summer sky, tipsy stars

and a love story blooms like a rose

in midnight's secret garden

whispers a lullaby in night's ear.

All reaction

Day 15: Stamps

Love is a fool's errand.

See how the clown contorts

himself as proof;

the curvature of compromise

that leads to spinal twists

and unnatural angles - painful stuff.

Red polka-dotted pose,

flower on hat never loses a petal.

Love makes clowns of us all.

Silly-grinned, floppy people

willing to bend ourselves backwards

to fit someone's idea.

All the while the bouncing heart

loving the party,

a balloon so full

it can only burst.

Day 11: One Liners

April

Heartache is the cherry blossom neon-pink in rain

Loneliness is one white feather abseiling to ground

Hope is the leafing of buds on trees, a multitude of green.

Day 9: Ode

Ode to a Croissant

Meal maker of morning.

Crescent-shaped

buttery gold

flakey pastry

a warmth in the air,

scenting the kitchen

like a Parisian bakery.

A Dali-esque artwork

concocted

from crumb and layer.

Is it a crab or a slice

of moon?

An air-kiss of a word.

Pocket patisserie

in Boulevard St Germain.

A Venice morning

with apricot jam.

Continental cabaret

for breakfast.

Food of the gods

or those who know

how to take each moment slow;

summer mornings

eating al fresco

sun melting in mouth.

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 8: Two things that should never meet

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,

my 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 7: Postcard

Dear Paris

Cigarette smoky dawns.

Black and white art

of lampposts, poetry, jazz.

Roses on balconies, midnight soirees.

La Vie en Rose on the Metro,

accordian solo.

Croissants for breakfast,

raspberry tarts au Champs Elysèes.

Sugar scent of crepes coating the air.

The city like a watercolour in rain;

oil painting in sun. Place du Tertre,

ruby red cafes and artists like flocks of pigeons.

L' etoile. Mirage sightings of the Eiffel Tower from afar.

Montmartre escalier. Cherry blossoms falling at Notre Dame.

Sunset on the Seine painting

everything gold. The light

of a shimmering summer evening.

Halcyon time.

Believe it or not, the portrait you painted of me

all those years ago

still hangs in my heart; boulevard of broken dreams, forgotten fantasies.

Ours was a love affair of youth.

Paris, I miss you; tu me manques.

Until we meet again -

wish you were here (taps heart).

All reactions

Day 5: Trio Blessing

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Some things will hurt.

Rock knows this and accepts

in grey steadfastness.

Just like a fist. And the clenching of it.

The blessing of rock is strength.

Some things will heal over.

Paper covers the wounds in white gauze;

lets words do the rest. Sometimes silence

is a smothering.

The blessing of paper is write.

Some things will cut deep. Some things will bleed.

The sharpness of scissors, their poise to attack.

Our blunt defence.

The blessing of which

is to forgive.

Day 4: Strange Things

 

A Flower That Blooms Through Solid Ice

Blue moonwort,

towering over arctic ground.

You know exactly

how to protect yourself,

fragile but tenacious,

do not let the ice and cold

douse your inner fire to grow.

You keep spring nestled

in your heart

and when the time comes

bloom

unexpectedly

scattering hundreds of blue petals -

little love notes of joy -

like ink

across the white earth.

Day 3 : Surreal Prose Poem

 

Wonderland Underworld

The Red Queen wonders where all the hearts came from.

The vanquished, the torn. The ones in jars, pickled in regret,

their muscled tartness reduced now to metaphor.

She wears an inverted heart as a crown, a permanent pursed

lip frown, her scarlet dress threadbare and worn.

Where did all the passion go?

The days are long now. Each sunset a thorn

in her velvet armour. Time is a bone-white clock that ticks

somewhere over her, a Cheshire smiling moon.

Every heartbeat a harried old tune.

Off with their...Oh she can't be bothered. Goes to fix

her narcissus garden, each day a flower beheaded

to adorn a golden throne. What was the definition of madness?

Her heels upturn. A frayed hat, a rabbit's lucky white paw.

Tomorrow and tomorrow she will meet the....

opposite of doom? But what is ever-after unless you accept

the mundanity of doing the same thing over and over again

ad infinitum... Seeds replace stars. If she plays her cards right...

hearts, spades, black dreams...A wish gone up in a puff of smoke.

A cat smokes a cigar and lounges upside down in a tree.

Wonder is a break in the normal, how rare.

Her senses regained. Black and white and carmine.

Things falling under. Even a drop of blood fades

to a tear.

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