April 7 NaPoMo 2021

[CRNDLSM]

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.

NaPM April 7, 2021

Topic: write an ekphrastic poem

Form: any

Line Requirement: any

[CRNDLSM]

It's certainly visual
You clearly took some time
But this means nothing
To me

[Keith]

The Dance

The chemistry of cocktails requires planning,
the band provide the base, the floor space
of a wide-open glass filled with swirling fruit,
a subtle blend of syrup and elegance.

The tall tail feathers of courtship
bob like fishing floats, hands hooked
on the mouth of a would-be bite.
The pale mood bathes in half-light,
we step outside to exhale
the warmth of our fires and steam
like racehorses after the chase.

The madness of desire constrained
by the cotton chains of etiquette,
my glance exposes your milk white chest,
the rise of a thousand stars
reaching out for moonlight, falling silent
behind the promise of deep blue clouds.
On nights like these we dream as castaways
lost on the ocean, our small boat
drifting with the tide. We slip inside
for one more dance.

[Mark A Becker]

The Awakening

In 1980 they buried me
at Hains Point, in East Potomac Park
as part of what they called
the National Peace Garden.

Yet I found no peace as I struggled
to free myself from the mud.
I laid there for 27 years, begging
for release.

My right hand reached out
17 feet, to break loose. But it was
no use. I thought I’d be stuck
forever, but then they sold me

down the river, like a slave
and brought me to a fake beach
at National Harbor.  Now kids
crawl all over me, and tourists

take selfies- can’t they see!
I’m crying out in agony.
Even you, flying in from the south
to National Airport

just look out the window
down below, and bear witness
to my misery. I am reaching up
to you, calling out for rescue. 



The Awakening, by J.Seward Johnson, JR

[TranquillityBase]

Fellini's Children

The producer asked,
“So, Fellini you’ve made movies 
about queers and whores
what’s next?”
“Producers,” replied Fellini.

Cabiria’s cinderblock shack on the outskirts of Rome
the subway ride into the ancient past 
Marcello’s sad wave to Paola on the beach
La Saraghina’s lewd dance outside her bunker 
before the frantic schoolboys, Sandra Milo’s prancing buttocks
the ecclesiastical fashion show, the dying hermaphrodite 
Casanova’s tryst with a mechanical woman.

Revelations from Cinecitta: 
moments that succored a middle-aged salary-man
locked into work world; 
Fellini’s women seemed a way out.
“Woman, who millions of years ago,
sent a message that luckily never arrived.
Life is waiting for that message,
not the message itself.”

He taught me the magic words
asi nisi masa, 
that for all of Fellini’s children
dispel fear amid stone and shadow.

Fellini was a born liar,
whose stream of lies made a universe
where truth is an actor
counting to twenty
as il maestro grins back from beneath his black stetson,
and teases him about his Fascist salute.

“If you see with innocent eyes, everything is divine.’

[dukealien]

This is Not That Day

[Any pre-Raphaelite painting of armored knight and his lady]

See them then, he in shining armor
she in gown of samite, mystic white
her slave, his mistress
her sovereign lord, his only lady.
His expression that true bravery of fear surmounted
including fear of infidelity
hers of fear concealed by outward confidence
that his power, sword and gleaming mail
is hers to command, her true defense
his abject subjection to
her singular integrity.

A modern or post-modern would
undermine them both for lies, hypocrisy, intolerance
inequity-- forbidden to acknowledge
that mutual accepted exploitation
forms a covenant
and a truth.

This is not that day
but when cynicism fails
it may return in glory.

[Leaf]

[No luck posting photo; I'll try tomorrow.]

Lament of the Leaning Trees

We were planted to stand, not to sprawl in this way
   by the larger of lakes in the park,
to stare straight at the sky through the night and the day,
   not to ogle our own shades of bark.

But the lake has swelled swampily over the years,
   seizing soil in her cool clammy clench,
with a treasure of twigs and grass, sweet chestnut spheres,
   and a hoard of hard wood, once a bench.

How we cling to the earth with our tendrilous toes,
   while the lake laps in sinister sheen,
rousing daily and nightly our powerless throes
   as we lean, and we lean, and we lean.