Don’t look at the sun
she said; something
that holy, stretched
from the star that feeds us
is hungry for vision,
so starved for eyes
the sheer memory of that light
will be a shadow that burns
forever
***the NaPoWriMo prompt from today involves writing about things we see out of our windows. I wrote about what I have missed most this winter.
daisy my eyes
so they bloom summer
the way plants know it
unseeing mirrors
of petal and stigma
reflecting sun
There are lots of poets from Buffalo
but unlike the Bills
we are not defunct
We who
make over words used
to sing to dance to joy to
make a red unicycle ride
out of form to take a
? as meaning, curved watersmooth-
as the Niagara before falling, silver
the way water mimics metal, no stallion
for the lone ranger to tie and
otherwise break
count ’em onetwothreefourfive
words, like birds, like pigeonsjustlikethat
makes you believe in Jesus
in all the surrender he
who is before and after was
not belief as much as a
hope beyond handsome
painted-by-numbers god/man
and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death
Today, for NaPoWriMo, I am doing a form called a Golden Shovel. Hee, hee. I usually use simple iron ones for outside work. However, the last word in each line of this poem when read separately is the e. e. cummings poem, “Buffalo Bill’s.” Hope you like! I just left the last 2 lines as is, because you just can’t mess with perfection.
No blooms yet
but the air softens
into spring
Willow shavings steeped in spring water, drained
The feather of a bluejay
The kiss of a cat
Lemon balm
One moth’s wing
Grind to a fine paste (mortar
and pestle optional.
works just as well pummeled with fists).
Place on closed eyelids
and on the bow of your lips
and count backwards from 10.
***For NaPoWriMo today, we are writing charms. Silly, simple (preferably rhymed, but not in the mood to do that today) in the form of a recipe or nursery rhyme.
I brought you me, translated
but you don’t like poetry,
words arranged in bouquets.
You prefer
the subtlety of phloem
reject the dizzy
of breathing the bloom
Marie Marshall. Sigh. Pure, beautiful subversion. This succeeds where my dandelion poem did not.
Susan Daniels Poetry 