The creative world continues, it’s time for NaPoWriMo!

It’s April, and despite the chaos going on in the world, or perhaps just going along with it, comes National Poetry Writing Month. Throughout the  month of April, 2020 I will be publishing one poem per day here at This is the fifth year I have participated, and I will do my best to avoid another egg poem. Pink swear.


April 1

Tufts of Grass

They washed away January

like it was the plague.

And now here we are

sitting for this length of time

pushing up amongst the other blades

peeping for a glimpse of the mower.

And if a mother nests beneath us,

do we hide her little kits?

No. We begin to pray for the sun.

Curse the lily-white face

in the sky who betrayed us

who holds fast over time.

In the day,

in the day when the ground

is pure and green and the man birds warble.

It seems all is right in the world.


April 2



Through the window

I spy him

hovering like a helicopter at night.

The tower

blinking upwards

it’s red code.

It seems time has been taken from me.

From us all.

And there he is. Still.

And moving at once.

If I blink.

If I stare.

I wait.

Or get on with life.

In here.


April 3

The World is Mad, Mad

It’s madness outside these walls.

Everything is a headline.

Neighbors are now a post.

And I’m skimming. Scrolling.

Truth is

the edges of my life are lined

with candy.

Pastel foils and cellophane.

My children slumber.

My walls are painted.

My pantry door will not close.

But somehow,

I hear the sadness on the wind.

I don’t want to answer,

but I answer without hello.

Twist the cord around my fingers.

Try to tell her

It will be all right.


April 4

A Few Days

It’s a woman’s secret.

She has a secret


deep in her body.

That speaks to her in tongues

her ear pressed to the door.

She nibbles a nail,

then pushes away.

Dismisses the whispers—

fills her day

wiping down the walls

re-arranging furniture in her head.

She drops to her knees

prays to the North,

and vie,

bows to the East as well.

The next sun

she rises at peace.

Begin the small

tenderness of folding the


Ay. Blush this time.

Until two or so

in the afternoon

when her moon drops.

Ay. Joy,

and then to mourn,

a phantom. A hope.


April 5


It’s a calm view.

Light filtered down from the trees,

The curve of the fireman’s well.

(There’s a symbol of safety for you.)


Poets spend their lives looking through the  glass.

Filtering light.


So perhaps this is natural. In my blood.

To be an introvert and an extrovert at the same time.


For it happens. My window views eventually make their way

to the air.

The sunshine.


Pushing a stroller on a Tuesday felt like a vacation on the prairie.

The birds and the trees putting on a show.

The boys and bikes sweating like a warm afternoon.


A moment that becomes a memory. A painting.


As if nature doesn’t know

The world is skipping a few beats.


Later, in the basement, I say a prayer. And yet.

Feel the comfort of these walls.


April 6

But Hope

It is a fickle, funny thing.

It can run hot,

and free.

Like anger.

A kitchen tap.


It can sneak in

like a voice in the night.

The edge of a song.

A melody that bursts up through the sunrise.


She can be a big act,

on a wild, open stage.

As delightful as vodka and ice.


And yet in these dark and dreary times,

the people lose sight of her through the drizzle.

They eat too much cake and fall asleep holding their phones.


But she is there,

bright as a star

Warming us through the day.

Feeding the Earth

as she takes her turn of spring.

The eternal symbol of hope.


April 7


The little, tickly ends on my face,

When the sun rose

And you were hungry.


When I sat, you sat.

I laid, you laid.

Your motor an ever present comfort.


You went from Texas to Oklahoma to Texas.

To Florida, which you loved mostly for the lizards.

To Virginia, where you explored so many rooms.

Every windowsill.


My dear heart. I long for the softness of your presence. Your comfort at the end of the day.


I miss you, my friend.


April 8

The Filing


Closure. Sure.


of voices. Some yelling,

some cry,

some pray.


Trust in the Lord, your God.


That one, there

strikes some mighty fine fear.



No. (Here we go.)

You have to be strong

for you children.






In the— Stop.



back online. Play melody.





“Yes, yes. I remember.”

Just a tune. Tinkling

of keys.

“Yes, of course.

Every Sunday at 10:00.

It’s here. I hear.

It’s still here.”


Your. Yes, you’re still here.




April 9


She moves it along, they say.

She moves it alone, I say.


The wind and the leaves.

The sun in the sky.

The thunderstorms

scurrying like Friday.


We’re watching it all through the window.


April cries out

and suddenly

there are blooms and bird songs.


But the world that goes on

is not much of a world

without us in it.


This argument—

meant to reduce humanity

to a pile of dust.

A stack of albums.

An empty house.


Still shot: A merry go round

spins. Childless.


’Tis not so.

For we were

His greatest creation.


She does not disregard,

she is bursting forth to show

her love.

(Insert hearts in the margins.)

The evidence: the power of survival.

Nature finding its way.


In the years to come

Spring will be the most revered.


The revival


The most precious time of all.


April 10

The Bigs

Their worlds are so small.

A bit more square footage than others,

but little,

Tucked beneath a bunk bed

circles around the island.

The never-ending trails and trees

out the back door.

Arm in arm

they wander down the



Heads together.

brothers, comrades

of their childhood.


April 11


Is a bowl of split pea soup

on a Saturday.

It doesn’t know the steps it took

the aisles of masked customers.

That they were the only

legumes left on the shelf.

Nor that I sought them out

despite this lockdown

to fulfill this tradition

of Spring.


April 12


Is the world going to end?



It will change.

A new world.


A better world?



Just new.


April 13

Reflection of the Day

The light is gold and blue

against the mountains.

A flick of the blinds.

Another day down.


They are a comfort

these stoic rocks.

A protector from storms.

A lovely view.


In the night

she lies down

beside them.

Sees their view of the stars.


A reminder

of the fresh air

and the sky.

The space that existed before birth.


So different from her little world.

Filled with little giggles.

And laundry and toes.


April 14


It all began

When I fell in love with a watercolor moose.

And he spoke to me,

In a cool, northwoods voice.

Let them sleep

for when they wake

they will move mountains.

And I latched on to that melody, the order in the disorder,

The bleeding of blue to green.

We washed. We folded.

We built them a place to sleep.


So lovely in its juxtaposition.

Like the babies now who grew

In a womb that was long since closed.

Set up in this perfect order: two of everything.


Fast and furious they broke through to the light.

And before I knew it,

I rocked surrounded by blue,

And little nuzzles.

Realizing in this clean, sweet space,

The mountain they moved was me.


April 15


My little world

Is round and supple.


I waltz. I jive.

An occasional foxtrot.

Pull dodwn the bed,

hang the robe.

adjust the curtain.

In the quiet time

of sleepy heads

I am the Belle.


April 16

like disaster.

I try to focus

on the tile.




droplets from the shower.

(This is what I do when I’m not dancing.)


I focus on the dryer’s hum,

its lilting tambourine

of snaps and zippers.

(This is what I do when I am not ruminating.)


Some mornings,

when little ones have kept open my lids,

and two cups just won’t do,

I focus on my breath—

a count

or two.

(This is what I do when I’m not racing.)


I try not to practice

the art of Elizabeth.

(Of course, I couldn’t lose my keys

if I tried.)

To think about those sunshine things.

Playgrounds and picnics

and a fresh haircut.

They will return.

It’s the precious days of infants we’re losing.

The time of books and chalk

and singing a hymn.

A cocktail,

a talk.

To hug my mother again.

For without these

we’re truly lost.


© 2020, Lisa Ann Schleipfer. All rights reserved.


Leave a Reply


  1. Betsy

    April 16, 2012 at 9:05 am

    Wow Lisa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! what a great job. I will be reading the rest. Very proud to be an acquaintance.

  2. Jenny

    April 23, 2012 at 2:00 pm

    One more week! I’ve really enjoyed popping in and reading your poems. Hope you keep it up. : )