NaPM April 30 2016

[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 30: I received this message from Keith:

 Hi Milo

Just a quick thank you for all the hard work keeping us all going, I think the results this year are stunning.
Unfortunately I will miss tomorrows prompt as flying out on my hols, but just in case the topic is "things ending" I have prepared something in advance. If I have the topic correct could you please post it. I know I could do it in a week but my OCD has made me do it. Thanks again for a great 30 days. Keith.

In honor of Keith, write a poem inspired by things ending.


Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[Tracy Mitchell]

 I add my genuine thanks, Milo, for the effort and talent you brought to making this happen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------



    I Surrender

I surrender my lifetime digital library–
Moses through Wittgenstein,  Hera through
Madonna, Rachael Ray. Allard Lowenstein.
A happy-dance of electrons and fingerprints.

Even without matchbooks wedged under
wobbling legs, cities fall to ruin.  Without
threading tight each new nylon line through
the port storm eye, the coasts capsize – there is
this sudden certainty of senselessness.

I don’t pretend to know the heart of art,
how or why my eyes  flicker wild through
some openings, why my chest pumps primal  
the blue minerals and rust of cave-paintings.

I won’t pretend to be a  warrior in robes
by a banked fire, only to then lean against
a barren cross-wind in the dark, chomping on
genetically enhanced mastodon dick.

Let the wheels slow to a stop –
let the dust settle back to poverty.

[just mercedes]

Never-ending cycles




The shrub in the pot by my back door
has flowered bunches of white stars
that glow like ghosts through the dusk.
You were still alive when I poked the sprig
from a Mother’s Day gift into a pot,
for years now a drab scrappy plant
apart from this glory in autumn.

Harvest and store, the moon advises,
winter’s ahead. Dry leaves shatter
freeing the sticky flower heads from shade,
their sweated scent pungent. A clean
faintly antiseptic smell, like the 4711
you dabbed on your handkerchief.

Tomorrow is Mothers Day again.
I offer flowers for your memory, Mum;
heads of cannabis, and chrysanthemums.






Thank you Milo, for another year of pushing the boundaries! Thank you all, lovely poets of the pen - it's been a privilege to write beside you, as well as a lot of fun.

[Achebe]

Nihil interit

Nothing ever dies, but washes back
into the pool where they were formed.

We ride in laughing, from the raging sea 
on winged horse winds and westward overfly
red quartzite rocks split green with spinifex
grown in the cracks, until the canopies 
of karri trees punch straight into the sky,
and then we are the sky
of petrel breasts shone on the glassy sea
and then we are the sea
lashing the shore, bringing up the wind-war clouds,
and then we are the clouds
bursting on the parched plain endlessly.

[justcloudy]

because why not hop in at the end?


The end before it began


You would meow each time we brushed
past the parking lot bush you claimed,
hungry.

When your belly bloated we scattered
the others, allowing you our choicest scraps.

Now your stomach has sagged for weeks,
but you still hide the ones we nourished.

Or maybe they were taken from you too,
“adopted”.

[Todd]

Rewind
 
The noise of the chair falling
to the ground compresses
and fades into a single point
in space, a ripple returning
to the pond’s surface.
You pick up the chair to sit down again.
Tears run in rivulets backward up your cheeks,
cleaning the black smudges of mascara
to settle in shining eyes, now dry.
You remove food from your mouth
with your fork, and like an artist
reconstruct the unchewed almond-crusted salmon
with garlic crisp potatoes piece by piece. I unclear
my throat so that I cannot say,
“We need to talk.”

[just mercedes]

Todd - yes!

[Todd]

Thanks Mercedes.

We all did it. Thank you milo. This was the most enjoyable NaPM I've participated in. Now that the pressure is off I can go back and reread and comment on the threads.

[bedeep]

Wow, Todd, that's wonderful.

Mine here, not my best but probably not my worst (I fondly hope) and truly scraping dry the word well.

Dancing Lessons

Here at the end of it
what I still see is the old man
skipping and dancing
over the sparse brush
at dawn, playing a flute

so we might never notice
that what first seemed a dance
was really a limp, and the man
was a ghost, given what went before

      but there he was anyway

playing and dancing
so I can't regret much because
there's that old man,
and the story's not over
as long as he's dancing
and playing that flute.

~~~~~~~`

And many thanks, Milo, for running this challenge, and to everyone else who danced. : Wouldn't have missed this for the world.

[Achebe]

Todd - that's simply mental.

[Leanne]

It ends

with a whimper
a simper
a Möbius stripper
a tripper
with coins on his eyes
a sunflower spiral surprise
a caramel camel
in painted enamel
and three kinds of burger with fries
one orientation
without aberration
one nation
with infinite
lies

[bedeep]

Come on. Don't everyone commit suicide at once, there'll be no one left to talk to!

[Keith]

Tea in the park

Edit 1
Sparrows fight over scone crumbs
beaks covered with jam and cream,
serviettes swirl underneath
the faded bandstand.
A lone trumpet bends blue notes
to the spit of rain that calls home
the long shadows of a cool breeze
and rustles a curtain across the park.

The smart marching bands
have loosened their ties,
broke ranks to filter through the quite
of the towns narrow streets,
away from the clap of bunting
and ice cream faced crowds.

Sheets of folded music soften
in the summer shower,
ink washed codas ending
under mud soaked feet.
The weary brass section
looks to the burnt out baton
as the conductor taps
for one more request.

The hiss of rain stops,
hurried legs slow
and the sun throws itself
over the trees, a grateful reward
for the die hard umbrellas and folding chairs
that raise an empty wine bottle
in full recognition of the achievement.

orginal
Birds fight over scone crumbs,
beaks covered with jam and cream.
Serviettes swirl underneath
the empty bandstand
as a lone trumpet bends blue notes
calling in the long shadows,
a curtain that closes across the park.

The smart marching bands
have loosened their ties,
braking ranks, off beat
to filter through
the quite of the city streets.

Sheets of folded music soften
in the rain, erased codas end
under mud soaked feet.
The crowds are going home
to a slow drum beat
as they approach
their time of rest.

The weary orchestra
looks to the burnt out baton
as the conductor taps
for one last request.

[REW]

A Journey

The end of thread
can be a first stitch.
Pencil tip
starts a word.
Finishing brushstroke
leaves a masterpiece.

No tears no fears,
smooth the aggravation,
straighten disappointment,
prepare.

No fears no tears,
begin again
to make your best.
There is no end,
just next.

---

Thank you to Milo for providing the prompts and Pigpen members who welcomed me here closer to the end than the beginning. I actually wrote so much this month, but not to all of these prompts.

I may return to respond to the older ones...It has been fun and a challenge

Thanks

[bedeep]

Casey, I'm glad you did come in.

Keith, that is a lovely poem and just what I needed to read.

[RiverNotch]

LA MAISON DIEU

I live as if
I were married,

then by some
stroke of the poet's hand,
I died --

a marriage born
of a thousand kine,
a consummation
interrupted,

then by the swift
stroke of Agamemnon's hand,
my limbs unstrung.

It is to see and to be silent,
to walk and act
in dreams
yet by every
stroke and judgement
to love passionately, unconditionally --

the dead-end job
becoming hell,
the impractical lover
becoming Calypso's hand,
rather, Penelope's jealous shadow,
the needlessly expensive
collection of 60s records
becoming the Sirens' song,
better yet, the Phaeacians' gift.

Is there a greater peace?
to live, in this tower,
an exile,
yet to be
perfectly one
with humanity --