So, a week's gone by and I'm still doing NaPo. To be honest, I'm dead meat today. Completely brain wiped. I'm not surprised, though, as today marks the 5th month since mom's passsing. I've noticed a sort of pattern in my grieving - it always haunts me around the 9th. Well, it has so far. Not to say it doesn't rear up it's painful head at odd moments as well. It does. It's just that around the 9th for a few days, it gets me in it's jaws and I find myself shutting down a bit. Especially in the concentration department. Unfortunately, I had to cheat today for NaPo and submit a poem I wrote awhile back and posted here named "Becoming a Figment". But anywho, I thought I'd post some of my better efforts written for NaPo on the up and up. Oh, and let me say, it feel quite wonderful to be writing again! Thank you NaPoWriMo!

Remembering
-For Mom

Today I walked along the fragrant back wall
snipping stems of crocus, hyacinth and daffodil, remembering
how she always loved this time of year, and how

she’d sit and stare for hours at the garden as though
etching the scene deep enough to take with her
into the afterlife, or wherever it is we go after we die.

There are so many things I never told her,
like how her presence was an anchor
in my lost at sea life and how the essence of her smile
could still its white capped waves; so many things
I wanted to show her to bring her the joy that she gave.

And so today I will try as I do everyday:
I’ve put the flowers in her favorite blue vase
next to her picture on my night table, lit
a candle; and as I sit on the edge of my bed
I feel the essence of her smile again.


And the Moral of the Story is?

The wipers scritch their penultimate
displeasure as they friction along the glass,
but I delight as the sun light sabers
through a blanket of blue-black clouds
before hoisting half of a corona.

It is finally fini, this meringue-tossed
falling-out between Mr. Dust and Mistress Mist
which caught their gasbag counselor
Dr. Ozone in the middle.

So once again the tempestuous two lovers
return to floating on clouds; and the counselor,
well, let’s just say he got quite a charge
out of their row.

April 4

Fear of Flying?

That bottle of fine pinot noir has sucked
me into a heady drowse. My body is now
an iron boot rooted to my gyral mattress;
and the balloon of my head strains doggedly
against its cord, determined to detach
and drift far away from the anchor of continents.


April 6

Confessions of a Cowgirl

Always the same man, who commands
the same dream. He comes, diabolical
as a demon; assumes squatters rights
in my head; takes control and lashes me
spread-eagled. He smirks like a cowboy
who’s trussed a calf, then brands me
with his fire-kissed poker until I am welted
toes to head. Reduced to a shiver of desire
I want to suck ice until my tongue swells
numb, mum with protest, hungry for heat.

April 8

Dim Sum Delights

For lunch we feed each other with fingers
warmed by dumpling heat. Their delectable meat
has just the right amount of green onion crunch
topped by a tasty oyster gravy.
Their supple translucent skins beg our teeth
and delight our tongues.

We finish the bottle of fine rice wine and grow heady,
ready to slide between the sheets for an afternoon’s
sampling of non-caloric desserts.

*Note: Loosely translated, dim sum means “to touch your heart”.

All Poems copyrighted in 2006 by Cookala