NaPoWriMo
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 ERE.com. 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
Time
Elusively
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
burrowed,
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
blanket
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
Window
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
Whiskers
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
Click.
Closure. Sure.
Cacophony
of voices. Some yelling,
some cry,
some pray.
Trust in the Lord, your God.
That one, there
strikes some mighty fine fear.
Click.
No. (Here we go.)
You have to be strong
for you children.
Trust.
Fear.
In the— Stop.
Recall,
back online. Play melody.
Remember?
Lord.
“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.
God.
April 9
Mother
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
rebirth
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
Path.
Heads together.
brothers, comrades
of their childhood.
April 11
Gratitude
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
Question
Is the world going to end?
No.
It will change.
A new world.
A better world?
No.
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
Nursery
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
Dancing
My little world
Is round and supple.
Here,
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.
Cool,
smooth,
white—
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.
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.
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. : )