From the Poet

The last day of April is upon us, bringing our project to a close. As per NaPoWriMo’s prompt for the day, a farewell poem seems an appropriate way to wrap it up, though it is certainly anything but a permanent sentiment! I’ve developed quite a motivating sense of pride in this blog over the last thirty days, and I don’t think I could let it lay still for too long before returning with more literary inspiration. So until my next post, here’s poem # 30 to conclude the project (and my fiftieth blog post, at that! Time for celebration 🙂 ):



We climb into a blue embrace
beyond the spotted night’s cool breath,
where milky rivers sing and sway
between colored planets.

Eagerly, we unwrap clouds
beneath the moonlight
and spill some forgotten words
on muffled sunsets.

Every sacred stroke
betrays a certain tenderness
in the shadowed interior
of our brave dreams,

and in anguish, we spell our love:
bold, profound, but gentle
on waiting ears, if they listen
with their eyes open.

We come and go on the wind,
never staying for too long,
each new verse a wave goodbye,
a hand that’s left the window open.

The scar will stay with you,
reminding you of the beauty in silly words,
so treat it as a kiss goodnight
before the morning burns.


Missing Muse, Parts Five and Six, Plus Ensemble

You may have noticed my between-poem interjections on writer’s block as the month sped forward. The last two couplets reflect my final installments of “Missing Muse,” consummating my twenty-ninth and second-to-last poem of April:


I listen for her sterling word, a sacred whisper yet unheard
but muted sound from all around derides my solemn song deferred.

She sinks below the rising din of clam’rous currents closing in
and holds her breath, a voice bereft of pow’r to pierce the ocean’s skin.

Aloft upon the rise and fall, I struggle ‘cross the rugged squall
of knotted words and thoughts unheard to seek my sunken siren’s call.

Adrift on trech’rous waters wide, I lose the stars above the tide
and in my haste―a will misplaced―I’m caught where words and waves collide.

Beneath the raucous, roiling deep, a subtle sound in coolness creeps
to soothe my ear and quell my fear and lay my voiceless woe to sleep.

The world becalmed to placid blue, I hear my siren’s song anew
and upward rise in open skies to sound her sacred verses true.

Yogi’s Journey

Number twenty-eight was inspired by my yoga classes:

Downward dogs
turn eager heads,
salute the sun in
warming transformation:
toes root downward,
grounding the forest
as deepened breath flows
through swaying branches.
Stern warriors rise
from padded soil,
stand strong and firm,
then dive as swans
to the rolling earth
where they become boats
atop crystal waters,
bridges joining
shore with shore.
They cascade down,
waterfalls winding
inward toward
final relaxation.

Gratitude and Connemara

Well! If I’m to have the honor of being featured on NaPoWriMo‘s front page, I certainly better catch up to today’s quota! If that’s their method of motivation, I’ll take it 🙂

I’ll try to repay NaPoWriMo’s kindness by combining a number of proposed prompts for my twenty-seventh poem, including the photo prompt of Day 27 (though admittedly I’m using two), the masonry theme of Day 24, and the terza rima format of Day 15.


The Humble Stones

Earthen fences guard their keep
beneath the breath of heavy mist
that over hilltops gently creeps

to lay upon the earth its kiss.
Hardy as the hands that held
the grayish stones within their fists,

the ancient walls their task upheld
since man upon the island trod
and felt her verdant bosom swell.

But long before, the hands of god
once dragged the boulders from the earth
in icy fits that carved and clawed

from inland mount to salty firth.
The humble stones in patience laid,
awaiting no esteemed rebirth

til masons’ hands their borders made
when sheep and other cattle strayed.



I’m speaking, of course, about the iconic dry stone walls of the Celtic isles, particularly with respect to the Connemara region on the west coast of Ireland. The structures, as the isles themselves, have a rich and wild history, and they’re still maintained by the hands of their builders’ descendents today. I took both of these photos on a very magical journey to Ireland at last summer’s inception: the first shows the misty, somber atmosphere of Connemara; the second, dry stone walls atop the more sprawling land as it transitions to the Burren. I might rewrite the ending to this poem or maybe even add on to it, if the call continues to be as strong as the one that draws me to the Emerald Ilse…

l’Appel dĂ©sespĂ©rĂ©

En français, cette fois. Numéro vingt-six:

je pense
en cette langue
qui me manque
mais qui ne m’appelle

c’est pas
sa faute
mais la distance
est plus froide
que l’hiver
brutale du nord

je pense
que j’aurai
-encore une fois-
de la chance
un beau jour
quand les humeurs
me saisiront

que je vais respirer
son atmosphère

que la distance
va se fondre