The season tastes like
Mildewed bark from pine trees
That bend, not break, underneath
Adolescent feet and I remember,
As a child, I felt the needled bristles
Run through my hair
Nesting in my mind to sprout later
When I myself had matured
And learned that despite the opinions
Of self-proclaimed intellectuals,
Roots cannot be replaced
Only broken into pieces or dug up
And left to whither unless replanted
In the places these grand trees
Inspired by the flower prompt for NaPoWriMo. (I took some liberties!)
There is no time to be bored in a world as beautiful as this
He announced to the sidewalk
The sun finally crawling out from behind
It’s fortress of clouds and the ground still
Wet and smokey from the storm.
As the winds blow, they carry the
Newborn melody of chirping birds,
Sometimes the screech of children and laughter.
At every ending the storyline shifts and
In the scramble all that exists falls back
On itself finding its own perfect place.
His smile is the applause and he carries it with him
As he walks perpetually between the light and the darkness.
My grandmother had a brown kitchen with
A brown table, brown chairs, and brown
Faux brick walls that flanked a brown
Wicker chandelier that hung slightly too low
From the ceiling.
Just my grandmother and me in an old house
Filled only with generations of women and
Stubborn laughter, I asked for mashed potatoes
At lunchtime in the bright brown light of her
Kitchen windows. Eagerly, she pealed and boiled
The brown potatoes in her brown kitchen,
Cut pats of butter, and mixed the potatoes
Together in a huge steel pot.
Hungry, I took a big bite of the
Mashed potatoes and screeched that they were
Lumpy, that these weren’t mashed
Potatoes because mashed potatoes were creamy
Not lumpy like that and it tasted all wrong.
As my mom walked through the brown door
In the brown kitchen she explained
That we only ever ate instant potatoes
And that’s why I was so confused.
Walking over to the microwave
My grandmother heated up a fresh bowl
Of instant mashed potatoes and placed the
Flakes turned cream before me. Love, she
Seemed to be saying, plants its seeds
Throwing out the homemade
Mashed potatoes, she seemed to be saying
That love is effort, and sometimes love
Is effort wasted without expectation.
But it is love nonetheless.
From today’s NaPoWriMo prompt on food.
I have dragged myself across
The endless terrain of your smirk.
I turned towards your laughter as if
It were my sun and I blossomed
Forgetting that the first commandment is
Never to put any gods before myself.
You are a desert landscape and I have
Grown familiar with the sound of your
Rustling winds and cracked sands
As the wind and the sun desiccate.
This journey ends when the sky turns
From orange to blue and I arise amongst
The fauna, restored. Fatally dewey,
Like a velvet queen facing her throne,
Having tamed solitude.
From today’s heirloom prompt.
My friend reminded me on Twitter today that it’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). I’ve had a few days since I’ve started where I skipped or missed a poem, so NaPoWriMo is some extra motivation to make sure I stay on the ball throughout April. Plus, you can find some cool participants through the website. Will you be writing poetry this month?