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