November PAD Chapbook Challenge, Day 3

For today’s prompt, I want you to take the phrase “Sort of (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles could be: “Sort of cool,” “Sort of strange,” “Sort of not into getting out of bed in the morning,” or whatever! It should be sort of fun to read all the poems today!

Sort Of Silly....?

Putting on a pointed hat
And a cloak--whassup with that?

Flying on a hand-made broom
(Though I never leave the room!)

Waving wands, and singing spells
Using cards for psychic "tells",

Watching phases of the moon
And predicting what comes soon,

Working in close harmony
With a flow of energy...

Some folks wonder, "What's she thinking--
Or, more likely, what's she DRINKING?

To produce this weirdo itch?
Does she think that she's a witch?"

All I have to say is, "Gee,
Watch, and learn. Then--you tell me!"

November PAD Chapbook Challenge, Day 2

For today’s prompt, use an epigraph to kickstart your poem. That is, use a quotation. You can use a favorite of your own, or if you’re having trouble thinking of one, I’ve provided a few below. To format an epigraph poem, a poet places the quotation between the title and the body of the poem, while also giving credit to the source of
the quotation.

Needing It Back

Quotation: From Warren G. Harding, 29th President of the United States, whose birthday is today: "America's present need is not heroics but healing; not nostrums but normalcy; not revolution but restoration."

I've lost it--we all have.
That amazing thing we cherished
But didn't know enough
To hold on to--

That feeling of privilege,
That knowledge of rightness,
That starry-eyed gaze
Into spacious skies.

Fields of amber grain
Aren't feeding our homeless,
And our purple mountain majesties
Are blocking immigrants.

I remember singing it,
I remember feeling it,
That brotherhood
From sea to shining sea...

But it's gone now.
We have protestors
Being tear-gassed
And homes foreclosed for one dollar.

We have the 99 per cent
Losing hope, losing health,
Losing jobs, losing everything...
We want it all back.

I want to love my country.
I want to trust my government.
I want to once again live
In America the Beautiful.

Listen to Mr. Harding.
Not heroics, but healing;
Not nostrums, but normalcy;
Not revolution, but restoration.

I am the one per cent.
I am lonely, scared kitteh...
Plz, I can haz America back?
K thx bye...

November PAD Chapbook Challenge, Day 1

It's "Two-Fer Tuesday", so the prompt is for TWO poems, and you write one, or the other, or both. Here it is:

So here are today’s prompts:

• Write a procrastination poem, or as I like to call it a “I’ll get to it tomorrow” poem. Or…
• Write a proactive poem, or the old “I’ll get to it today” poem.

Here's mine: (and I think it is both kinds)

The Write Way

My day begins now--I woke late, of course--
For Samhain has the way of doing that....
I missed a phone call, but the phone was off,
So no surprises. And I see the cat

Has spilled the water bowl again. So I
Will take a paper towel, mop it up
And then refill it. Everyday routine,
As well as making coffee, looking up

My morning e-mail, Facebook, and the small
Routine of morning ritual. So, fine,
I am awake now. Normal day--NO, WAIT...
This day is DIFFERENT! New routines define

The traffic of my hours. Sit back down
And open up the laptop once again.
Postpone the planned-for housework for a while,
Because I have to raise my keyboard-pen

And WRITE! It's Chapbook Challenge time, right NOW....
And NaNoWriMo's reared its quiet soul
Reminding me "2000 words a day...."
And I will do it...That's just how I roll,

A writer, sure, but blocked with much to do,
And many things to which I give my heart,
So, yes, I write, infrequently, and I
Procrastinate--'til something makes me START!

And so, today, I'm writing, happily.
Enthusiasm sometimes will belie
Procrastination--yes, I know, I don't
Write often....But I wrote this, didn't I?

No Longer Persuaded

Once I believed
In the infallibility
Of shining adult figures
Against the sometimes-brilliant sun.

Whenever such a one would speak
I thought the dictum applicable
To whatever bit of forgotten wisdom
My child-self had forgotten to live by.

"Eat your vegetables""Don't tease your sister"
"Go to church""Obey your auntie"--
Matronly posturing beneath feathered hats,
Face-powder caked in benevolent chins,
They spoke, always, as from heaven
And I listened. And I believed.

Now, I notice only the absence
Of the papers of authority
Whenever such a bloated figure opines.
Never do they speak the only truth I wish to hear;
"Don't listen to me.""Think for yourself"

Again And Again...

So once again I lift my eyes to view the scattered morning.
And find it welcoming, but waiting for my constant hand
To sort the piles of tasks and errands into some coherence
And somehow make of this day something worthy of remembering.
There is a feeling as I look around me at the chaos
That all I do will matter, yet not be the final act.

It's up to me, and I can organize the way each act
Of mine fits into the great plan to make a stab, this morning,
At once again subduing, making order out of chaos.
And usually, I do the thing that comes first to my hand,
The ritual of coffee, somehow, every day, remembering
That it's the steaming cup that will persuade me to coherence.

And so, what will I do with it? This morning, my coherence
Will lead me to the laptop, and the satisfying act
Of answering my e-mail. No, I have not ceased remembering
That there are also dishes, since today is Monday morning.
The soap is there, the scrubber, and in just a bit, my hand
Will grasp the stuff of housewifery, and end the sticky chaos.

But there is always, every day, the looming larger chaos
Of dusting, floors and cupboards, and, defying all coherence,
The repetitious threnody of chores which by my hand
Were all done yesterday. It seems no matter how the act
Of energetic organizing zips through every morning,
That it returns next day. I know I did it. I'm remembering

This same pile of newspapers, and I also am remembering
The weeds and dirty laundry, the same overwhelming chaos
That I organized just yesterday. Why is it, every morning,
Just as if no one had made a single effort towards coherence?
It seems a waste of energy, since each and every act
Is just to do again next day. Perhaps I'll stay my hand

And sit back down. The book I am now reading in my hand,
The stretch of tired luxury. I close my eyes, remembering
Just how it feels to sit at ease, to not be pushed to act
At all, but simply BE, and once again explore the chaos
Of my own scattered thoughts, tumbled out of all coherence
By the whirlwind of disorder to which I awoke this morning.

And now I close my hand around the book. Forget the chaos.
It's time I was remembering that any small coherence
Will be my act of willing to enjoy this fresh new morning.

Silence...

SILENCE... ...so different from "quiet"... there is texture in silence, and movement, and feeling... there is tension and release the inside of a large, cool sphere, green water, blue rain, gold light... the whirr of business... busy.....ness.... all the movement echoes.... all the strings are muted..... "hush" is such a pretty word, a crystal word... you can pour light out of your hands like water... ...you touch air... ..you breathe life.... the sun shines through your hand, and the bones slide and the blood dances.... ...conscious of me--- i --- small letter.... a separate creation-- a part of Creation... all moving and real and Alive... and all that is... ....Is.... unafraid of the wasps, as neither of us intrudes.... they breathe their universe, i mine... we share life... we notice, but do not mark, one another.... ...the mechanical world... not intrusion, completion.... an airplane right as a birdsong in time, space, silence to hear them both.... ...one speaks to the world in silence only... words retard communication.... the stillness shimmers, strings of silk... the sound of one heart beating is the pulse of the world..... ******** 1984, Dallas, Texas

Moon Mother

We stood last night, a circle of kindred, and watched Her

Coming out from behind the crag of Mt. Olympus

Not shy, this globe of glowing silver light,

But plangent, full and bursting, assertive, a Presence.

She was THERE....and we....?

We stood, cups in hand, watching the unveiling

Sight seen so often, never taken for granted,

Her bounteous presence once again with us,

And yet new, unexpected, ever vivid and compelling

like the air you breathe every morning,

essential and appreciated,

though often unremarked.

But we had to mark Her, this night, this appearance...

It was like the processional of an ancient Queen,

Panoplied in splendor, golden, coruscating, glinting with awareness...

She would not be unregarded.

And we raised our cups, and honored Her, and bowed....

None of us, we urban-dwelling Pagans,

even for a moment thinking of Science or Technology,

But all of us awed once again, as our race has been from time immemorial,

By the living presence of the Lady,

The Mother of Lights,

In Her silvered radiance.

She is a Mystery, and we watch in awe,

As her face reveals itself to us again and again,

Always for the first time.

We drank deep, mead we had made together, and savored the moment...

Ancient wine, ancient Lady, ancient mystery of craft and kith,

Loving our Presence here in timelessness

within the globe of silver light,

And still so essentially present in our own world,

The hiss of cars on the motorway resonating with the pulse of crashing surf,

Recalled in genetic memory, though never experienced.

And at that moment, we recalled

Or thought for the first time,

Of all the Hidden Children,

over our land and other lands

All of them watching

Seeing Her in radiance,

The same glowing silver face

The same breathless awakening,

The same Awe,

Time and place compelling different circumstances

But all kindred, honoring the Mother of All.

We lifted our glasses again,

Gazing ever upward,

And felt our connection

To those unknown faces,

Perhaps also raising glasses in tribute.

We drank to them

A toast to "the Others"

Her other children,

Those we will never see,

But whom we Know,

More intimately, perhaps, than those

with whom we brush careless shoulders

In offices and stores

Where her face does not shine.

We connected

In moonlight

to all those we may never see,

But whose hearts and minds are kin to us

because of Her shining silver radiance,

And She smiled.

Aisling the Bard, 2005