prompt – Page 7 – One Woman's Quest

Hammer As A Symbol

A hammer is a driving thing,
as in driving home a point –
a moniker my husband bear’s
to depict his tenacious fight.

There’s hammer hold, and
hitting the nail on the head,
and “If I had a hammer” –
testimony to its symbolism.

A hammer, much like character,
is innocuous on its own, requires
willingness to wield, and practice
to perfect, but can be very useful.

A tool – not in the derogatory sense,
unless a dream assailant carries on
a relentless pursuit – a part of self
intent on breaking through walls.

So, should you dream of hammer –
not the M.C. kind – then ask yourself
these questions: Am I on point, or
are my efforts actually constructive?

(Kind of like me with this NaPoWriMo exercise, lol.)

Dream Interpretation: Teacup

A teacup is a social thing –
fits neatly in matching saucer,
requires raising of pinky finger,
prescribed by social etiquette.

Should it break or, heaven forbid,
spill – its fragile, china composure
spewing hot trails on white linens,
then disgrace could be the theme

which only matters if Victorian
protocols are the priority – perhaps
it’s time to question antiquated
expectations and purchase a mug.

(NaPoWriMo challenge today is to offer dream interpretation for a specific symbol. I’m afraid I might overdo this exercise, as I find it quite fun – so just ignore further posts on the subject.)

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Upended

Tomorrow, like yesterday
fell out of step with today –
any gifting involved must
have taken place while I was
not looking –

that which gives me birth
also weakens me, or
perhaps, I should say,
what is taken is beyond us

Oh, such gibberish
that falls from my pen –
it seems the devil cries
when we fail to plan,
or is it that misfortune
avoids the procrastinators?

Seems I’m having trouble
articulating what I mean,
but I’m sure you’ll understand
that failure owes itself
to talons and curses, and
whatever you do, be sure
to fixate on the ass who
dropped this nonsense
in the first place.

(Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge asks us to turn common expressions upside down to see what emerges.)

Talk To Me Of Horses

Talk to me of horses,
the young man says,
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.

Talk to me of horses;
the world is losing its grip
and I have no cares for
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional,
help me understand.

So I come to his bedside,
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.

And we discuss horses –
the power of their bodies,
their beauty and grace,
their relationship to people –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then

I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable –
between sleep and awake – figures grey
and frightening that hover
over my bed like body snatchers…

A chills runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin,
and I shudder despite myself,
scramble to maintain calm,
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light –
clouding his vision.

My timing is off the next day,
arrive too late to see him pass,
find his mother waiting to receive me,
with a message from her son, my kin,
says that it makes no sense to her,
but he assured her I’d understand.

“You were right about the visions,”
he’d said; “there was nothing to fear.”

I smile through my sorrow –
ever the teacher that one,
now dead at twenty-one –

“Oh, and one more thing – could you
talk to me of horses.”

(Today’s prompt for NaPoWriMo is to write about the mysterious and magical. This poem is dedicated to my cousin Tyler, whose aspirations were to be a physicist, but for whom life had another fate. He taught me so much.)

A Call for Harmony

6:30 a.m. alarm sounds.
“Time to wake up!” Compliance commands.
“Just a little longer,” Sensibility suggests.
Guilt, like an incessantly annoying child
tugs on Conscience:
“Come on; there’s lots to do!”

Body does not respond.

Sleep wins
and dreams come:
homeless,
relying on friends,
no food,
backed up toilet,
children’s wide eyes fearfully imploring:
When is this all going to end?
Guilt propels a return to consciousness.

8:25 a.m.
“Up and at ’em! There’s a good Soldier!”
Compliance attempts to be chipper.
“There’s really other more important than rest,”
Sensibility insists.
“Can’t lie in bed all day!” Guilt counters.

Body is MIA.

Dreams surface again:
setting up house in a thoroughfare,
people coming and going, oblivious
co-workers indifferent,
eyes scolding: convicting
Guilt mutates to rage,
Body wakes up choking, gasping
reaches for the rescue inhaler
sucks in, desperate for air.

11:11 a.m.
“That’s it! Up you get!”
“No! No! Rest is needed!”
“The day is wasted! There’s no going back!

“SILENCE!” A new voice emerges.

A collective intake of breath.

“Breathe; just breathe.”

A unified sigh.

“And breathe again.”

Tempers cool, and emotions begin to settle.

“What’s going on?” Guilt wonders.
“Just trying to stick to routine,” Compliance explains.
“It’s always been this way.”
“But she’s ill now,” Sensibility adds; “concessions are necessary.”

“Breathe,” the voice asserts.
All sigh again.
“Just be in the stillness of the moment…”

Stillness has no voice.
Her language is compassion and infinite,
infinite wisdom.

“…and surrender.”

Compliance sobs, releasing enormous obligation.
Sensibility gratefully releases burden of responsibility,
and Guilt – well Guilt is little – happily snuggles up
to Unconditional Love.

“There, there,” Voice soothes; “isn’t harmony so much better?”

Body concurs and rises out of bed.

(Today’s prompt challenges us to look at the differing parts of self and start a dialogue. I decided to rework a poem I wrote in 2014 when suffering from severe M.E. Dealing with a debilitating illness brought all the inner voices to the surface, and I struggled with the emotional and psychological aspects of having my life shattered. A Call for Harmony attempts to illustrate the struggle.)

On Snakes in Drawers

Moving on – it’s top priority,
sorting through the collected,
the unused, the forgotten –
ready to let it all go, but…

there’s a snake in the drawer
and the temptation is real –

to do the irrational, flee
in a panic, shoot the beast,
or set the house on fire –
I’m overcome with anxiety

there’s a snake in the drawer
and it sure is getting to me.

Practicality says this isn’t helping,
hasn’t got time for the drama, says
let it go, re-prioritize, focus on
what’s important, making progress

there’ a snake in the drawer,
and if it got in, it can get out

I’m terrified now, my skin crawling
with the certainty of confrontation –
the cold-bloodedness of a reptile
immobilizes me, and I’m certain

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and it will be the end of me.

Common sense directs me back
to the task at hand, uses distraction
to dissuade panic, promises to deal
with it tomorrow, tucks me in, but

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and I won’t sleep a wink, only…

I do, and in the morning light
it’s clear the snake didn’t make it
a lifeless body, coiled in death
revealing a harmless garter –

there’s a snake in the drawer,
dead now by my own negligence

an unfortunate serpent, lost
and afraid, misinterpreted
by a woman desperately trying
to move on, apparently still afraid.

(Day six of NaPoWriMo focuses on line breaks. It’s not to late to join in
for National Poetry month.

A Flower Knows

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenges us to move beyond our comfort zone. It involves selecting a photograph, and then finding a poem in a language we do not speak, and writing a ‘translation’ assuming the poem is about the photograph we chose.

The photograph is from my own collection. The poem is from a Norwegian poet, Gro Dahle (selected randomly). Here is the original:

Det er ikke alltid
like lett å være pave
sier paven
Han gjemmer seg under bordet
og roper hunden til seg
Der sitter han til det er mørkt
og alle har sluttet å lete
Når alt er stille
i Vatikanet
kryper han fram
fra under duken
og gir hunden
rent vann i skålen
Så spiser han bokstavskjeks
ved vinduet

***

Here is my ‘translation’, which is in essence is only a mirroring of the structure, as I do not speak Norwegian:

There is life here
even as a flower wilts
while wilting
has surrendered self to rebirth
is not burdened by self
there is no room for ego here
nor does merit hold space
death is stillness
finality
has no expectation
is mere passage
a silent pause
before the next breath
that violent push to blossom
live again.

(Aside: I went back after writing this to see the actual translation of the original, which of course, has nothing to do with my imaginary concoction. I discovered a delightful poem, that intrigued me to read more. To see the original and its translation visit: http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/22704/auto/0/It-isnt-always)

Thank you to Maureen Thorson for hosting and providing such interesting prompts.

On Nature

How is it that a tree can stir my soul, so?
Yet, set amongst the Douglas firs –
an orchestra of giants, the reassurance
of green towering and proud – the music
of my soul is nothing less than symphonic.

How is it that the sky can speak to me?
No words to convey its vastness, yet,
it breathes new life into empty spaces,
whispers promises, ignites a hope
synonymous only with its expanse.

How is it that a body of water – be it
serene, flowing, or turbulent, can tug
at the corners of my emotional well,
create a longing for the unknowable,
toss me from my bed of complacency?

And how does a single flower, growing
wild, crack this shell of indifference –
the determination to blossom despite
harshness of surroundings – instill such
inspiration, motivate me to rejoice?

(Day four of the NaPoWriMo challenges us to use nouns in our writing. The suggested essay is a good read, so you might want to check it out. )

Life Chapters

Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem of lists, based on fictitious names. I always thought I could write a memoir, with each chapter being a play on the name of the streets I’ve lived on:

Dawn: Life Begins
Kings way: Patriarchy Established
Towering Heights: The Rise Before the Fall
Wake – Elle: Feminism is Born
Black Acres: The Dark Years
Berkshire: A Male Chauvinist Pig
Springbank: Hope
William: A New Ruler
Topping: The Final Straw
Wonderland: Like Alice
Beached Wood: Pregnancy
Hardsley: Still Pregnant
Highview: Scrambling for Perspective
Deck Her: Perspective is Obvious
Bricks n Ham: Hard Life
Baseline: A Bottom to Build From
Griffin: Chasing a Myth
Crestly: Climbing
Mark Us: Noteworthy
Iron Wood: Gaining
Boler: Hats Off to Progress

Security

Silly really,
this relationship of mine –
how I hang on, despite
the tears, the fraying
edges, ignore
the waning
of fibres,
how lifted
to the light
I can see through –
warmth no longer
a reason for
clinging,
and yet
there are memories
woven in between
loose threads –
heartache and
consolation –
and so, like Linus
I cannot let it go.

(Decided to join NaPoWriMo, hosted by Maureen Thorson. A little slow on the uptake, I’ve started with the early prompt: to write a letter (poem) to an inanimate object.)