NaPoWriMo 6

Today I'm using the official NaPoWriMo-suggested prompt, to write a goodbye poem.

Ode to Stripy Socks with Monkeys on Them
and an Inexplicable Large Hole in One

Hand hovers over the garbage can
wavering
I'll never use them again, I think.
There's nothing that can be done.
And somehow I'm sad, momentarily thinking the thoughts going through
their collective mind.
You used to love us. Where will we end up? Don't you have room in your life for us anymore?
No, I think sternly, as if they can hear me, as if they have ears
or a brain.
I don't need you.
I don't want you around.
I'll watch the garbagemen pick you up and think fondly of the times we had together,
but that's all.
Good day.
Relax the grip
they fall, with a whisper
that sounds like We loved you 
into the trash bag

NaPoWriMo 5

All the things

Sometimes in the shower I think of everything I should have written down that day--
all the snippets and crumbs that fell out of my ears, that I should have caught,
but got lost in the couch cushions instead.
I remember the vitamin I should have taken last night.
The missed appointment I'm never going to have the courage to arrange again.
The friend who's in town who I should have texted.
The shirt I should have remembered to soak in cold water before tossing it in the machine.
And if only I could live in the shower
and be on top of things
again
clean, but wrinkly

NaPoWriMo 4

Bowls

No bowls in the cupboard.
In these early days, we subsist on cereal and soup, sometimes salads
but nothing is in season and the garden has yet to be dug.
Plenty of plates, chipped, 
with veiny roadmaps from forkfuls past;
Dirty dishes and laundry, never-ending, 
done slowly in three-minute bursts between diapers and spit-ups,
after Henrietta's Hair but before Three is a Magic Number,
often taking several tries.
Wiping bubbles from my arm, I wipe bubbles from his mouth. 
I never saw myself here, not even for a visit.
And I'm not. At least, not I who never saw me here,
reformed nomad of no place interesting.
And oddly, the days are accommodating.
And strangely it makes sense.

NaPoWriMo 3

A short haiku after a distracted day

Tiny, Expensive

Bills accumulate
And I, in my pajamas,
Spill tea on the stack

NaPoWriMo 2

I struggled today to compose a poem in the few moments I've had to think about, well, anything beyond diapers and dishes. At first, I thought I would write a poem about bowls. That could happen, but not today. I feel today's poem is dashed-off and raw, yet not raw enough to be really interesting. 

The Aches of Spring

Eyes like headlights on a wet road,
it's cold and from her window she focuses 
on a shred of mylar languishing in an elm tree and
the remains of once-noble snow banks, ashy and small and missing chunks where children have dug their fists in
She wills the bulbs to rise from their own chilly beds and wither to brown again,
the flood waters to recede, leaving behind ramen noodle wrappers and mold and wads of tissue
Wishes for the spring to dry up, lay bare the yards to dry in the summer's sun, 
to ignite the true crops
to spur on real roots

NaPoWriMo 1

Easter Blessing

Pressing the tops of cupcakes into bright green coconut
My hands are smaller and more boyish than hers,
weaker too.
Holidays past, rife with anxiety and waiting for everyone to arrive
and leave,
left the mornings to us alone
to practice flour-based rituals
to be liberal with sugar and butter
to paste together too-warm crust
to gripe at each other in an ancient language
shove things under heavy furniture
stuff miscellaneous into other miscellaneous.
And now my hands, which look nothing like hers,
are dotted in green.
The coloring always sticks to me longer and I've never known why.
Scrubbing it off takes days.
Such a stupid ritual
and it's mine.

NaPoWriMo's featured poet/poem is brilliant today, by the way. You should read it.

Happy Easter '13!

Here in Minnesota, we're still waiting for the snow to go on vacation. But, we know the grass will reappear soon. We will plant carrots, beans, eggplant, and tomatoes as soon as the likelihood of frost has passed. Spring air in my lungs and dirt under my nails renews me as a gardener and as a writer. I will be starting April with NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month. Will you join the challenge? What creative endeavors are on your agenda, and what will you plant in spring?