NaPM April 17 2015

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 







Topic 17: “April is the cruelest month…” - T.S. Eliot - Write a poetry inspired by the cruelty of nature.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more


Questions?

[just mercedes]

Dry lightning like echidna spikes
strikes along the ironstone ridge
above Peak View, desiccated land
stripped back to dirt and rock.
Wind gusts twirl dust devils
down along the valley.
 
Thunder grumbles
from clouds like bruises 
as if touching earth
hurts the sky. Slowly
the muttering dies.
Breaking silence,
a lone crow calls.
 
A gust screams past
raping white rose petals.
A wave of hail beats a tattoo
on windows, sharp and solid
as thrown gravel.
Rain whips the walls, windows melt
heavy with water, translucent, surreal.
Light darkens. The house flinches
as thunder vollies, strobe lightning
momentarily freezes trees
lashed sideways by the gale.
 
Shaken, deaf and dumb,
inundated,  you pour
as floodwater down cemetery hill,
destroyed and renewed
by the storm.
 
 
 
 

[Tiger the Lion]

King of the Hill

 
Could anything be more savage than nature,
racing top speed toward the weak; canines glistening
under a hot savannah spotlight, where dreams of
escaping the food chain become bloodied
leaves of grass, painted with a wanton brush?
 
Cancer, thirsty as august earth, and more acutely
ravenous than the common carnivore; a glutton
unravelling the carefully crafted crests
embroidered on souls says, “Yes, I am he,
let me lay down your temples.”
 
Cowering to mammoth fear, towering
real and imagined, over our heads and
under our skin, we fortify our hills with hate;
evidenced most graphically by terrified men,
living at the apex, for awhile.

[Todd]

John Wayne Flipper

When porpoises wash up
on beaches like so much driftwood,
we turn to the explanation
of animals--instinct over intelligence.
To know the pulse of the world
is to understand that the eater
will soon become the eaten.
For there must be a reason,
even when there appears
to be no reason.
They are the clown face
of John Wayne Gacy
with his pointed smile.
So like us
in the size of their brains,
in the way they understand.
Killing is more than a fish,
and more like a mate
in its pleasure.

[Erthona]

With Tile  

Making my rounds the day after.
Below: a pyramid of kitchen tile; above,
rabbit at the top of a creosote pole,
stapled to it, a splinter through his foot.
What else to do but fetch him down.
Rabbit wrapped in soft towel,
rabbit & towel in box followed by
my lunch: cucumber, lettuce, carrot;
nice cool food for a 115° summer's day.
Home: rabbit to vet, takes out splinters
and sews rabbit up, good as new.
Ten days later, under a beautiful blue sky,
the first hint of fall blowing through,
he's bouncing and ready to hop.
Rabbit released under the very same spot,
where the twister had left him with tile.
Nature as with humans, you get a mix,
the good, the bad and the twisted.    


Erthona


©2015

[bena]

was going to write this in 2011 after the Japan quake but never did...thanks for the push.


Moving the Axis


The Earth moved again,
and not just a hiccup,
it vomited fury.

It lifted an island 8 feet,
and shifted Earth's axis by centimeters.

I woke feeling the weight of thousands dead,
heavy from concrete or

mud filled lungs as chunks of debris slam against skin,
a tsunami surge lurching forth like a heaving monster,
taking down buildings in the wake of its black skin.

The merciless gods of the sky
plant the dead in the ocean--
taste of pearls on tiny tongues, bloating
eyes pecked by curious fish
wishing to take in last sights.

Air soon became a toxic cancer
slowing attacking the will of those left.

Here in my perfect part of the world I light candles
and pray to the merciless gods
for those who have passed,
but mostly for those who have not.

[Erthona]

nice one

mel

[rayheinrich]

                               
                                < weather from the north >
                               
                                rocks
                                cliffs
                                morning breaks
                                with the waves white
                                the sky empty
                                waiting
                                for weather from the north
                                the last of a bright sun
                                followed by years of cloud
                                horizon to horizon
                                a gray cotton sheath
                                a dressing for a wound
                                the voices
                                the wind
                                the notes filled
                                the baritone waves
                                the chorus
                                the seabirds
                                the last of the sun
                                the bulb of the planet
                                it's fragile glass
                                sucked of air
                                evacuated
                                the sea boils
                                the birds explode
                                the rocks are
                                as they always are
                                the rocks survive
                                even the giants feet
                                the deep sounds
                                of their footsteps
                                of drums
                                slowly marching
                                with sabers and axes and
                                whatever else is needed
                                to render flesh to useful things
                                like soap and leather
                                as the giants of wicker
                                filled with men and women
                                start to burn
                                and men and women
                                watching from
                                the cliffs
                                the sea
                                are listening
                                to their cries
                                confusing them
                                with seabirds
                                and with children
                                changing them to music
                                only music
                                as the voices sing again
                                welcoming the clouds this time
                                welcoming the blanket
                                made of smoke
                                and silence
                               
                                        - - -

[cidermaid]

The earth is friable and warm.  It crumbles into a fine tilth between the tines.  Raised beds, twelve feet by eight, covered with manure and black plastic for the winter are given a final smooth to erase the lines of the newly sown seeds.  Short sticks, carefully selected and placed, denote where the crops will grow.

See the April lamb
sunlight upon a soft fleece.
New growth outreach.

Lively lambs skip and jump,
tender leaves battered and torn.
Easter morning greeting.

Death in the raised beds.
Snow covers the silent fleece.
The lion follows the lamb.

[milo]

Invaders

Broad-leaf weeds, the package says,
kills on contact and up to 90 days.

but they still grow, the dandelions
breaking up my perfect green lawn

like cheerful lollipops or spatterings
of yellow paint changing my landscape

into an attempt at impressionism. I mow
and mow and try to catch them

before they send their seedlings
like an alien world trying to populate

the galaxy in a science fiction movie.
They bring the children

to my yard to test their love for butter
or compare popping their heads
to the ease of decapitating babies.

[cidermaid]

Invaders

Broad-leaf weeds, the package says,
kills on contact and up to 90 days.

but they still grow, the dandelions
breaking up my perfect green lawn

like cheerful lollipops or spatterings
of yellow paint that change my landscape

into an attempt at impressionism. I mow
and mow and try to catch them

before they send their seedlings
like an alien world trying to populate

the galaxy in a science fiction movie.
They bring the children

to my yard to test their love for butter
or compare popping their heads
to the ease of decapitating babies.

I love dandylions.    My drive is full of cheerful lollipops  - great description.   You just need to embrace the dandylions and get over this pointless fight with them ><

[Tiger the Lion]

Invaders

Broad-leaf weeds, the package says,
kills on contact and up to 90 days.

but they still grow, the dandelions
breaking up my perfect green lawn

like cheerful lollipops or spatterings
of yellow paint that change my landscape

into an attempt at impressionism. I mow
and mow and try to catch them

before they send their seedlings
like an alien world trying to populate

the galaxy in a science fiction movie.
They bring the children

to my yard to test their love for butter
or compare popping their heads
to the ease of decapitating babies.

I love dandylions.    My drive is full of cheerful lollipops  - great description.   You just need to embrace the dandylions and get over this pointless fight with them ><

I love 'em too. And the poem.
"What is a weed?" Emerson wrote. "A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered." 

In the case of the dandelion, its virtues are well documented, but almost forgotten.

[bena]

sauteed dandelion weeds are awesome!

I used to blow them all over the yard, my dad would yell and yell at me.

[milo]

sauteed dandelion weeds are awesome!

I used to blow them all over the yard, my dad would yell and yell at me.

Good for your father. Finally someone with some sense.
I'll bet you used to touch the thermostat too, didn't you?

[bena]

guilty.

---

Outside my Shell





I can't remember April
when it was young and unspoiled
like the pink peonies blossoming.


It remains hand-wrenching nerves
when I step outside,
my palms are bare down to bones.


I pull in wind as if it is fury
and when I close my eyes I try to smell
the Springs of yesterdays


but the rain just torrents memories
articulated by pain


and all I keep thinking is that this may
be the last one


and all I smell is death.

[rayheinrich]

guilty.

---

Outside my Shell


I can't remember April
when it was young and unspoiled
like the pink peonies blossoming.


It remains hand-wrenching nerves
when I step outside,
my palms are bare down to bones.


I pull in wind as if it is fury
and when I close my eyes I try to smell
the Springs of yesterdays


but the rain just torrents memories
articulated by pain


and all I keep thinking is that this may
be the last one


and all I smell is death.

A real upper, this one. Donny & Marie would steal it. Mary Poppins is jealous.
Death is a word until you face it.

[jasmine.m.wardiya]

They push the eggs and watch them fall
without remorse.
All the more for them,
after all.

The mother comes back
to see her precious eggs
on the ground.
Only two chicks, already hatched

Remain.
She feeds them what food she brought
for four.

Such is the way of life
after all.

[Keith]

Cold Snap

I'm not sure it knows,
it only thinks itself
pretty, polishing lakes
with its still breath
a pale complexion
reflects,
flurried by the laughter
left behind
as it drifts over,
filling fields with silence
deep enough to drop
small birds in colour.

[rayheinrich]

Cold Snap

I'm not sure it knows,
it only thinks itself
pretty, polishing lakes
with its still breath
a pale complexion
reflects,
flurried by the laughter
left behind
as it drifts over,
filling fields with silence
deep enough to drop
small birds in colour.

Now, damn! I enjoyed the other ones, but this contains the simplicity of true beauty.

[Keith]

Cold Snap

I'm not sure it knows,
it only thinks itself
pretty, polishing lakes
with its still breath
a pale complexion
reflects,
flurried by the laughter
left behind
as it drifts over,
filling fields with silence
deep enough to drop
small birds in colour.

Now, damn! I enjoyed the other ones, but this contains the simplicity of true beauty.

Thank you Ray its good to know it works. Best Keith