NaPM April 18 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 18:  Write a poetry inspired going on a trip.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more


Questions?

[just mercedes]

‘Bobby McGee’ plays for my first acid trip
in the old timber house at Terrace Gardens.

I watch as words melt from speakers in ribbons
that twist together, flashing psychedelic purples.

Everything demands attention, even threadbare
carpet below me as it flows into throbbing walls.

Flowers bloom in vibrant cascades; exuberant

and magical animals pirouette around the borders.

The mirror is a crystal door into another reality.
My name called from the sky pulls me outside.

I stand barefoot in the cosmos, feel the earth
feed me. A revelation, that grass grows green.

A magnolia flower trembles with imminence.
A police siren. A cloud of sound. Colours.

[austin]

Each season passing, I see the change in others’ eyes.

They feel the seasons and hear the natural calls of their world.

I attempt to walk beside them, unable to discern the rhythm of their purpose, my touch numb to what they have felt.

Their bright eyes absorb all hue, leaving the monochrome backdrop
my only vantage into their dull and sodden world.

I see only the grays they leave behind.

Continuing infinitely, death begins its approach,
all color lost, apathy now my only companion.

I recount my memories unto myself as I wait patiently for the coach. I knew that it would soon be along for the journey. The memories are loose and vain, almost invasions of who I want to be. There was neither happiness nor fondness tethered to them. They are empty.

Of course, the coach is late.

As I wait, I walk to the edge of the cliff and peer at the angry waves crashing against the abused rocks below. I wonder what it would feel like, to fall, to touch those angry waves.

They probably feel gray, like everything else.

I cast the weighted memories into the fog, the only thing I hear is the faint splash of their landing in the frigid waters below. Though they are gone, the outline of their visage remains. Perhaps one cannot truly rid themselves of such things.

I hear the coach in the distance and know that it is on approach; it will be here soon.

I am ready for this to end.

There is now another sound that I cannot discern. As it draws closer, my heart beats faster, I have never experienced a sensation like this before.

Nothing could prepare me for the spectacle that was to come, the change that would so profoundly, immediately, and almost incomprehensibly reshape my days.

I wait.

Silence, then, I hear it again.

I had heard a song, it was you, walking nonchalantly in the distance. Your hair played the chorus as the fabric that flowed from your body filled in the melody. As you drew near, the opus of your life drew to a crescendo and once I witnessed your eyes, their forte fulfilled the prophecy of the clef; in this moment, miracles became real to me. Every note perfection; almost effortlessly, your harmony reshapes the broken world with its gentle will.

As I look, I immediately turn away, dazed, facing toward the ground. For a moment, I am unable to look again, it became hard to breathe, color now rushed into the once dead world, painting all that was lost.

Life again became the backdrop of everything that stretched out before me; humbled, it was hard to comprehend.

The coach arrived and I waived it onward hoping for something, anything.

Unsure, I muster the strength and approach you. I know, however, this new strength is not my own; unsure of its origin, I accept it as a gift.

Fortuitously, we immediately know that we have great need for each other. It is obvious to me that I need you more; however, I retain this selfish secret.
Enchanted, I take in everything. I absorb your presence like the thirsty ground absorbs the spring rains. With each passing moment, I watch you and learn your happiness.

Each sound uttered from your breath is sacred. With each syllable spoken, I am brought closer to you, to life and God. As though it were nothing, you fix everything wrong with my once dismal world.

Your spirit, angelic in its form, forces the unclean to be cast out by your noble perfection. Only paradise remains in your presence. Days pass; yet, time is frozen.
Each time I see your face, still, new colors come alive, and I become euphoric as I again witness them dancing in the October foliage where the glimmer of hope was once missing. As you enter their domain, their joy cannot be hidden.

There are hints of green, in-waiting, as the world again begins its slumber. The remaining slivers of red and gold, shimmer slightly under the sun and prepare to rest as fall gives its goodbyes and promises to return. With each breath, I can feel that all of my senses have been returned to me, I remember that I am alive, I feel the joy of completion.

For a moment, I close my eyes and listen to your footsteps as they give hope to the fallen leaves resting atop the forest floor. Your presence reminds them that with each rain comes change and a chance for their lives to begin anew. Even the fallen know, that to know you, is to be blessed. As they wait for the inevitable, they find peace.

They know they are blessed.
They are grateful.
I know that I am blessed.
I am grateful.

From the monochrome, color has returned.

[rayheinrich]

                               
                               
                                            < hiking >
                               
                                      gnats up my nose
                                      flesh
                                      rubbing against poison ivy
                                      ankles
                                      swarming with tiny ticks
                                      flies
                                      crawling in my hair
                                      mosquitoes
                                      sucking at my body
                                      (and wasps and scorpions
                                       only seconds away)
                               
                                      i'm itching in ALL my places
                                      and i scratch
                                      and they bleed
                                      and the mountain lions are thinking
                                      "wounded prey"
                                      and they're right
                               
                                                - - -

[cidermaid]

Love it Ray.
You have captured the distilled experiance of a hike perfectly,I love walking but the knats love me.
I would write a poem about the expectation - next time i'm thinking of a walk round the lake in the evening I will read this first.

[cidermaid]

Lost.

Day is held at bay, by darkening watches.  All is lost.
Cocooned in my nest, behind my wall, safe, yet lost.
 
There I lay, counted my ways - found grievously wanting.
Hidden by much desired mountain mists; but now lost.

I hear a voice that calls me forth, from my fruitless rest.
My heart found rest upon his breast.  My heart is lost.

My love he called me, “Arise” he said, but I was deaf.
I did not heed his leading voice; my love I’ve lost.

My search went round and round; my love was not to be found.
My heart said: Arise, search the streets – seek what was lost.

Through the darkened streets I strode, alone and now exposed;
I felt no fear; my only care was what I’d lost.

My path was marked, by those who see and hear. They keep watch.
Despite their looks, I asked; “Have you seen the one I’ve lost?”

I did not stop or wait, I moved on, in love starved haste.
My heart skipped a beat –  there he was. Complete.  Not lost.

Safe and well, safe and well.  My love is safe.  All is well.
Deep from this well I’ll drink, no more to feel I’m lost.

The sweetest taste, his water. This sweetness I’ll take home.
and slake my thirst. Replenish birthing waters lost.

Cocooned in the nest, where love first lay and there knew rest,
his water flows and my love grows; no longer lost.


*  ? If I will keep the last three couplets.  Like the expression / story of the words but they feel very forced.

[Todd]

Car Ride

Today, I wonder if his legs will still
be springs launching him up
into the backseat, or if I will lift
this small sack of bones—
lighter than my smallest child.
His eyes no longer track
the present. He remembers
us, but sees another time.
We will drive somewhere
he will not know
anymore, and enter a room
he will not leave.
His eyes will close,
and open to another place
on this journey.

[bena]

ugh Todd. That one was heart wrenching for me.

[Todd]

ugh Todd.  That one was heart wrenching for me.

I wish it was fiction and not my morning today. 

[just mercedes]

It's so sad Todd. I feel for you.

[Erthona]

Kerrville Folk Festival '82

Popped a 714 then bud
on bud, smoking and inhaling
myself into a sufficiently
relaxed state for hours
of music performance
—although the ritual needed
to be renewed minutely.
I did not mind, I was a faithful acolyte —.
Nanci Griffith took the stage
and not three songs into her set
the sky wanted to play along.
The light show that night
was beyond any the mind of man
could possibly conceive.
People say things like,
"a night to remember,"
but I could never forget
those images that were
seared into my mind
by lightening that night.

People said that storm
went through Austin and dumped
so much water that pianos were
floating out of the Straite Music Store.
It wouldn't be the weirdest thing
that happened that night.

Erthona

©2015  

[Todd]

It's so sad Todd. I feel for you.

Thanks Mercedes.

[Erthona]

Two thumbs Ray!

Todd, I don't like your poem at all. RIP. There's been to much of that sort of thing around here lately.

[Todd]

Yeah Dale, I like Ray's poem also, and I'm not a fan of mine for a lot of reasons--the main one being the inspiration, but it doesn't end there.

[Tiger the Lion]

Flattened
 
It wasn’t the scenic route.
There wasn’t one.
 
In Saskatchewan, the earth is still flat—
ask the locals.
 
We rolled west over beige carpet,
where the sun sets from noon ‘til midnight.
 
It would burn your eyes out
if it weren’t for the bugs;
 
specimens like you see pinned in museums—
exploding on the windshield, diffusing the light.
 
In shifts, we scraped bloody windows
or rested bloody eyes.
 
Tomorrow, there would be mountains to climb.

[rayheinrich]

Flattened
 
It wasn’t the scenic route.
There wasn’t one.
 
In Saskatchewan, the earth is still flat—
ask the locals.
 
We rolled west over beige carpet,
where the sun sets from noon ‘til midnight.
 
It would burn your eyes out
if it weren’t for the bugs;
 
specimens like you see pinned in museums—
exploding on the windshield, diffusing the light.
 
In shifts, we scraped bloody windows
or rested bloody eyes.
 
Tomorrow, there would be mountains to climb.

The visuals are suburb.
Can cream cheese be more integrated? (A compliment, admiration, that sort of thing.)

[Tiger the Lion]

Flattened
 
It wasn’t the scenic route.
There wasn’t one.
 
In Saskatchewan, the earth is still flat—
ask the locals.
 
We rolled west over beige carpet,
where the sun sets from noon ‘til midnight.
 
It would burn your eyes out
if it weren’t for the bugs;
 
specimens like you see pinned in museums—
exploding on the windshield, diffusing the light.
 
In shifts, we scraped bloody windows
or rested bloody eyes.
 
Tomorrow, there would be mountains to climb.

The visuals are suburb.
Can cream cheese be more integrated? (A compliment, admiration, that sort of thing.)

Thank you Ray. Very much appreciated. 

[jasmine.m.wardiya]

It's exciting for about five minutes
and then the boredom kicks in.

It's a long ride, you know.
Ten hours
doesn't just come and go.

And I'm already tired.
I yawn. I close my eyes.
There's murmurs all around.
That's the last time
I ride on a bus at night.

Nope. Still cheaper than a flight
and there's no-one sitting next to me
barfing their guts out.
Thank goodness.

Lesser of two evils and all that.
Guess I'll just go with it.
Shut my burning eyes
and wait until I'm tired enough
or the whispers slip off
into sleep.

[billy]

black horses tugged

the glass hearse floated
past through
the madding throng.

salutations creamed
air thick, and nondiscript
mourners lamented
me
the merry poet.
and a drained quill

Topic 18:  Write a poetry inspired going on a trip.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

[bena]

8th of August 

My trip is short--
up two streets to George Clem
the former colored school,
a shell now for storage
surrounded by a beautiful park.

My load is heavy, though,
dragging a cooler behind me
with hands sore from peeling potatoes.
I slip through the alley to save steps--
usually I would have to avoid
syringes littering the path
but they've all been picked up today.
Children will be dancing here later.

I deliver my famous potato salad
and am met with all smiles.
I will make another journey
before the day draws to an end
for the other batch in my fridge.
Running out is not an option.

Off in the distance
drowning out all the music and laughter
comes a thundering rumble of the Motorcycle Club,
arriving from Detroit.

Their trip was longer,
but this celebration isn't about the miles traveled--
but rather how far we've come. 


________________________________________________________________________________________

Information you may or may not know:  The 8th of August is the celebration of the Emancipation Proclamation here in East Tenn.  Although it went into effect on Jan. 1st, most slaves didn't know how to read so the news traveled very slowly by world of mouth.  It is said it reached Greeneville on Aug. 8th, and therefore the celebration is that day. 

If you are curious about the celebration, a few years back a local musician made a video during it...you can see what I'm on about--and my step son is the rapper.


[Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWxn46hiXiQ]


music starts at :30

Sighs...why didn't that work....this site hates me.