The night the river remembered its true size

All night, it rained, and in the morning,

from our vantage point on the hill we saw 

the maps had been re-written while we slept. 

There was an angry delta where the bridge had been and

our road home had turned to water.

GloPoWriMo Day 4

Painting a Wall

 

Painting a Wall

 

On my wall I paint a house and a sun and

children going to school.

On my wall I write words.

They flow through me.

There is a river of words on the wall.

Noisy words.

I don’t control them, I never did.

They jump and run

and stomp their feet all over my wall.

Silly words.

And the painting on my wall grows.

There is  a house and a sun and a road.

A white road.

And it keeps growing.

And it is already a mile long.

And the wall stretches to take everything in.

I love my walls the way they are,

not white, not boring,

but full of words.

And poetry runs here like a river.

I try to contain it, but I can’t.

So, I put a full stop and

hope for the best.

 

GloPoWriMo Day 3

My Kingdom

 

My Kingdom

A math lesson on a hot day.

Thirty children, their eyes

eager, their hands

raised and I on my throne at the back,

a fairy queen, observing

my kingdom, while my subjects

suspect nothing. 

GloPoWriMo Day 2

The Key

 

The Key

 

The key did not fit

in the lock, at night someone

had changed all locks and

now I stood outside, the key,

a flightless bird on my palm.

I waited for the 

dream to find the lock that my

key fit in. Somewhere

an old memory opened

and beckoned me to walk inside.

GloPoWriMo Day 1 - a tanka

A silly idea my friend had

 

A silly idea my friend had

When we were in Stratford-upon-Avon, a friend of mine sat

on Shakespeare’s bed. He wanted, he said, the spirit of Shakespeare

to enter him and help him write. I want that too.

In Stratford, there were tourists everywhere.

They filled the little room, they stood in the doorway.

How did he manage to sit on the bed without anyone noticing?

He was brave, I am not.

I want to be brave too.

I want to go to people’s homes

and sit on their beds

and later, I want to write

about the experience.

Was the bed soft?

Was the pillow fluffy?

How many blankets did the person need?

I want a bed that turns into a magic carpet

as I dream. 

I want magic quills and parchments

that write on their own.

I want magic ink smudges

that form themselves into landscapes and trees. 

I want this poem to grow like a tree, organically.

Now, I am not implying Shakespeare had a magic carpet,

a magic pen, a magic parchment, 

magic ink or magic trees.

That was just a silly idea my friend had

as he sat on Shakespeare’s bed

back when we were in Stratford-upon-Avon

that one time.

GloPoWriMo - GloPoWriMo Eve

Nameless Storytellers

 

Nameless Storytellers

A story told and

never written, whispered in

secret, remembered.

Generations of 

women, shaping the world, one

story at a time.

GloPoWriMo Day 29

The Silent Procession

 

The Silent Procession

The orchestra couldn’t come because it was too cold.

The only music – the crunching of the snow

as the procession moved on.

That, and someone’s fitful coughing.

As if they were going to die too.

At one point, the coughing stopped.

I hope that person went somewhere warm.

After that, everything grew quiet.

Those who cried did so voicelessly.

No one wanted to disturb this pristine silence.

Surely it was more natural without music.

The snow kept falling and covered our tracks.

And soon it was 

as if nothing had happened here.

GloPoWriMo Day 28