Fell off the wagon yesterday (April 10) and didn’t write a poem in response to Found Poetry Review’s prompt. Perhaps will have a chance to catch up later today. Perhaps not.
Didn’t really feel any affinity for today’s prompt from that source which had to do with astrological signs and other stuff. Instead, attempted a response to this Day 11 optional prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: “…write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does….An abstract, philosophical kind of statement closing out a poem that is otherwise intensely focused on physical, sensory details.”
Waiting for the axe
She’s like a tree—all bark, no sap
inner rings wrung out
pre-leaf, as if leaves could limp out of buds
discouraged by April frosts
Winds sigh through her branches
arthritic, sore, stiff limbs
outstretched toward a pale sun in a pale sky
till, in the notch of a heavy bough
a robin lands, strands of grasses in his beak
Back-and-forth he flies
all day and the following day, too
to form a nest at shoulder-height
A messy pile takes shape
Hope flows to her roots
April 11: impromptu poem from another prompt
Fell off the wagon yesterday (April 10) and didn’t write a poem in response to Found Poetry Review’s prompt. Perhaps will have a chance to catch up later today. Perhaps not.
Didn’t really feel any affinity for today’s prompt from that source which had to do with astrological signs and other stuff. Instead, attempted a response to this Day 11 optional prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: “…write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does….An abstract, philosophical kind of statement closing out a poem that is otherwise intensely focused on physical, sensory details.”
Waiting for the axe
She’s like a tree—all bark, no sap
inner rings wrung out
pre-leaf, as if leaves could limp out of buds
discouraged by April frosts
Winds sigh through her branches
arthritic, sore, stiff limbs
outstretched toward a pale sun in a pale sky
till, in the notch of a heavy bough
a robin lands, strands of grasses in his beak
Back-and-forth he flies
all day and the following day, too
to form a nest at shoulder-height
A messy pile takes shape
Hope flows to her roots
underwater, without Noah
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