April was devoted to writing. Thirty poems. My goal was to get over a creative slump and make writing a daily habit once again. I don’t plan to slide back into that abyss. I will be the first to admit that most of the poems I wrote in April need a lot of work. However, there are a handful with which I am quite pleased. I have reposted them below.
What’s next? I have heard before– and here affirm– that to be a good writer, you must read good writing. So my focus for May is to get caught up on some reading. In June my book group will be discussing Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, our city’s selection for the Big Read program. My plan is to finish this by the end of May. I also plan to read as many as I can of Shakespeare’s 150 sonnets. (I’m weird, I know it, but I am a poet — LOL!). Throw in some Steinbeck and Robinson Jeffers if I have time. As far as writing, arting, and blogging? I plan to do these frequently throughout May.
My thanks to those who supported my attempt at “writer’s therapy” through your comments and likes. May the muse be with you all.
Selected Poems from April:
A Moon-Song Tritina
Apricot and lavender hues at dawn
on the beach under a setting full moon
my thoughts converge into a morning song.
Fractured word-bits turn to song
on the cool wet sand at an ocean’s dawn
made clear and smooth by the waning moon
Like ancients singing by the light of the moon
with their drums beating out a fireside song
to the eternal pound of the surf at dawn,
On the beach at a moon-kissed dawn, my thoughts conceive a morning song.
At the Beach
Lacy white foam splays over dark wet sand.
Soaking in, it sizzles like a steak on a grill.
Golden sparkles on sapphire water, blinding to the eye.
A wad of newspaper tumbles in the breeze getting
caught up in a tangle of wilting sea kelp.
Did I remember to take the laundry out of the dryer?
Somewhere between the Lo Mein and the Egg Fu Young They Fell in Love
A rain-slick night,
Red lanterns hang over a dark wooded booth.
Imperial Dinner for two.
Crab Rangoon and spring rolls.
Don’t forget the hot mustard.
Kung pao chicken and sweet-and-sour pork.
Stir fried broccoli in oyster sauce.
Their hands touch over the fried rice.
Moo shu pork and ginger beef.
Steaming cups of jasmine tea.
She giggles at his jokes.
Time slows down, eyes lock.
Fortune cookie say:
“You will marry the person across the table.”
Fortune cookie say:
The Tale of the Four Thieves
Four clever thieves, living close and thick,
Robbed from the homes of the dying and sick.
Despite the plague they stayed in good health
and amassed a fortune of ill-gained wealth.
The sheriff searched long for the thieves he sought
Until Luck turned her eye and they were caught.
But the judge declared they would not die
If to his request they would simply comply.
“Tell me, I pray, of your profound good luck
And how this sickness you managed to duck.”
The ring leader stood and commenced to say:
“It’s a magical potion applied once a day.
Distill fine oils into a flask–
Excuse me, sir, which ones, you ask?
Lemon, Rosemary, cloves strong and dark,
Leaves of Oz and cinnamon bark.
Blend them together with sweet almond oil.
Inhale it deeply the sickness to foil.”
The judge was astonished and stood from his seat.
He eyed them coolly and said, “Rise to your feet.
We shall make this elixir you so freely give
and if it’s successful you will continue to live.
But even so if it does not fail,
The four of you must stay in jail.”
And so thus ends the four thieves’ tale.
It is a sonnet today, why oh why,
Magnificent in its melodic form.
Five feet of iambs, it is not a lie,
Fourteen in all, a rigid rhyme the norm.
Today I have no time such verse to write
It takes long stretches, ample time in hand,
Such beauty crafted in eternal light,
Not in the dull wasteland where now I stand.
Mundane, the word that drags the poet down.
Though sonnets fly high on softened breath.
The day-to-day rigors in which I drown
My sonnets they take away unto death.
I tried my best with a free heart to bring
A sonnet on sonnets with grace to sing.
I remember my mother shaking me awake so we could,
in hurried hushed voices, sneak off in the night like thieves.
I remember my father’s 68 Olds with its new car smell
As we sped across the desert in the darkness.
I remember having breakfast in places like Barstow
And Bakersfield and– eww– towns like Fresno.
I remember the colors of the Grand Canyon,
The herds of elk, and the bears
Peering through car windows in Yellowstone.
I remember the summer where we explored, it seemed,
every cave and cavern between Carlsbad and California.
I remember our kicks on Route 66
My family and I on our yearly road trips.
All poems, LJGloyd (c) 2016