Earth Day 2015 – the coming years

My writers' group yesterday discussed an article in The Guardian about the choices made by the Oxford Children's Dictionary editors that set me off, so I wrote this today.

Formosan Clouded Leopard

Earth Day 2015 – the coming years

The Oxford Children’s  Dictionary

edited out words like acorn, otter,

blossom and walnut from the most

recent edition – in the editors’

esteemed wisdom these words were

no longer relevant to today’s children.

Instead words added included celebrity,

broadband, database. Database this

for relevance: remove northern white

rhinoceros from the lexicon – do it soon –

there’s only one breeding male left.

Erase mountain gorilla, predicted

to disappear this year. We are on the edge

of a mass extinction event say the experts.

For the clouded leopard, it’s already

too late. Wipe its name from the slate.

Delete, delete, delete: Hawaiian crow,

last seen in 1999; Pyrenean Ibex, 2000;

spotted green pigeon, 2008. Never say

their names. They deserve better than

to be categorized by the species that

supervised their destruction. Remove

them from the discussion. Other names

rise to  the top of the list, replace what
was lost, next to be forgotten.  Keep

the newly added word, endangered.
We’ll need it in the coming years.

Eleven Days

Eleven Days

clock ticks,

sun rises, crosses

sky, sets. i used to

call your name each

day: here. we promise

to visit: let me know. we

never do. not once.

no big deal. we were busy.

until today. i was told 
the crash was eleven

days ago. in my mind you

were still alive, smiling,

eleven days longer.

somehow i missed 

the news, missed the 

service, miss you. wish

we had kept that promise.

sun sets, crosses 

sky, rises. clock ticks.
i call your name.

Forecast Redacted

This is my first ever "Erasure Poem." Find some text, then erase words until you have something else. More concerned with form than message, I decided to have fun with a local forecast. Tomorrow I may try some political piece.

Forecast redacted:

Maximum umbrella usage,

the real rains may knock off

most of remaining cherry blossoms.

April showers keep flower power. Gusting

lets us know a wedge of cool,

but likely result is Confidence Clouds

in the evening stray breezes die.

Likely to wait until well after midnight

when chances rise just enough to make

pavements slick. Break up in the pop up,

mainly south of the city.

Remain light thanks to intervals.

fill the gap

sleepy tonight,

have been all day.

lids droop, leaves without water;

limbs sag, stick,

thoughts pummel me to bed,

drop me on the couch,

pin me to the chair.

take the easy way out:
close the eyes
fill the gap.

Writing with a Migraine

Writing with a Migraine

is an exercise in willpower.

Sunglare wince.

I must get this down

before pain,

disorientation,

confusion hits.

Before eyes

can’t  distinguish

one key from another,

see past the sparkle,

the visual aura –

the first warning.

Slow keystrokes,

deliberate, pull

muddled thought

down the arms, out

reluctant fingers; 

stunned, heavy eyes. 

Done then?

A nap to wash away

pain. Hide under

pillow, something soft

to sooth. Clouds move in.

Rain taps the roof.

Seven is the number of forgetting.

Seven is the number of forgetting.

I had to be there at seven, and the date

escaped me. At nine, when I slammed the trunk,

I remembered, tried driving fast enough to turn

back time. Didn’t work.

Tonight I was sure I needed to be there

     at seven.

Showed up 15 minutes early, to an empty,

dark house. No cars in the drive. Checked my

email from last week. Appointment was seven

…hours ago.  Seven.  The number of forgetting.

After the Storm

Again, a late night, another late post of a poem. The prompt was in the title.

After the Storm

When the wind takes a breath,

stops shaking the trees in a tantrum,

when clouds seize opportunity, scatter,

swirl and part, and the sun turns water

to steam on the rooftop, you step out

the door, tentative like tulips pounded
by the rain, lift your head, send brightness
back to the sun, to the sky.

Hide the Knives

A recent prompt in my writers' group was to write about things we keep in the kitchen drawer. Not sure how it turned into this, but here's today's Napowrimo poem, Day # 4:

Hide the Knives

We don’t keep the sharp knives in a drawer,

so accessible, they jump at your fingers

too easily, rest on their backs, claws out.

Like you, even with eyes closed, seeming

passive, angelic look on your face; anything

but benign, sharp edges hidden, ready to pounce.

No time to withdraw, seek safe refuge.

Too late. Drops of blood drip on the silverware.

I can’t keep anything nice. Sting. Run water over it.

Wash it off with clenched teeth: Stitches?

Not this time. No doctor, nurse necessary. Slap
Bandaid on the wound, a little Neosporin will take 
care of that. If you shed a tear, I’ll give you something 
to cry about.  Clean the knife when you’re done.
Put it away. It might hurt someone.

Like Trees

Napowrimo Day Three. In bed at 11:30. Shit! No poem today!  Half hour later, this.

Like Trees

the water changes daily–

gray, green, blue, white,

black, glassy, ripples, rollers,

whitecaps, mountains. Fish

jump everywhere you look one day.

The next is blank, featureless ocean.

I remember walking a park on the hill

in Louisville after a tornado:  hardwoods

snapped like children’s toys, six-ton Pick Up

Stix, strewn on top of one another. Hours

before, we walked the trail for the hundredth,

two-hundredth time. After the storm, we got

lost in the jumble. the water is like that. easy
to lose yourself. never the same. never anchored.

Veronica

Day two of Napowrimo. Been a rough couple of days around here. Somehow, I have been lucky enough to be with this woman.

Veronica

Only here can

I find someone

to listen, not bark

at shadows, run

for cover.

I unveil darkness,

you lean close;

I stumble,

you reach out.

You sort me

like the cherry

sorts blossoms,

like the sky

catalogues clouds.

Only here have
I found someone.

Jessica on April First

It's been a couple of years since I tried NapoWrimo, the poem-a-day challenge for April, National Poetry month. Last year I was battling back and eye problems, and working hard on the FisherPoets anthology I edited. This year I am healthier and have far less on my plate, so I'm giving it a shot again. This morning I had a visit right before I woke from a former student and friend who was killed in a car crash three years ago. Been thinking about her all day. It would be just like her to pull a stunt like this on April Fool's.

Jessica on April First

Before I awoke this morning

I opened a bathroom door,

and walked in on you. You stood,

ducked your head, and closed

the door again. Realizing

my mistake, I laughed, turned

away, and waited. I had to go,

and hadn’t known you were in there.

You opened the door and came out,

smiling as we both apologized. Before

I realized in my dream who I was

talking with, before I remembered

you are three years dead, I closed

the door a second time. When I opened

my eyes you were gone. After I awoke

and took care of my need, all I wanted

was to go back to sleep and talk

some more. Just a few more moments

with you, smiling, ducking your head,

before I awake.

                  ______

Before I awake with you, smile,

duck your head, just a few more

moments, all I want is to talk, go

back to sleep. I open my eyes, you

are gone. A door closes a second time.

I recall You are three years dead. Who

am I talking with? A door opens, you

come out, smiling. I didn’t know you were

there. Didn’t realize my mistake. Turn

away, wait again. Before I awake, this.