#napowrimo poems on Hello Poetry

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

I.
So well, honest people make poor poets,
since they want dockyard receipts from Sparta
for how many ships Helen’s face launched there.

II.
Honest details make the best poetry.
Poets plant made-up gardens with real toads,
where clothing and china patterns are art.

III.
Poets write because they have things to say.
They write because they have things they can’t say,
and so, start with the sobs they can’t swallow.

IV.
Poetry is like life, being one big question
that you live until the answers arrive,
And emotion finds thought and thought find words.

National Poetry Month Day 8. Writing prompt: Repetition poem

#poets #repetition #napowrimo #nationalpoetrymonth #robertfrost #mariannemoore #terrypratchett #rebeccalindenberg #rainiermariarilke

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

An Open Letter to Poets

So, you want to write a poem.
Dear, dear writer, don't you know?
I come on my own time.
Prepare me a space
with white linen and
scarlet red roses.
Sweet talk me pretty,
or you'll be the one
up all night pacing,
pining for your poetry.
So love, you expect the best--
Well, I give when I’m ready.

Yours truly,

Poetry

Day 7 of National Poetry Month. Prompt: Favorite thing on the Internet

#writersblock #poets #letter #internet #napowrimo #npminternet

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

Show-and-Tell

In first grade, I brought my music box and
baby frame from we lived in Italy to show-and-tell.
The frame showed me bald like an egg, half-smiling
with my length and weight written
with my full name across the middle.
It was something small to prove
something I couldn't remember.
Before I went home, I put the frame
with my music box on the floor by my locker--
Then I turned and found under my shoe
the shattered pieces of the frame.
A sense of loss twisted my insides,
like when you can't find your cell phone,
with all your photos and
messages you treasure
A piece of your life is stolen.
But a friend lends you a phone,
you break up with the boy
who sent you those messages and meet someone else.
That was how I learned to do it,
by gathering up the broken pieces
and bringing them home in a paper grocery bag.
When my mom said it couldn't be fixed, I believed her.
When she said not to worry, I still did.
She said everything was going to be OK and it was.
She lifted the lid of the music box,
and we heard mandolins playing once more.

Day 6 of National Poetry Month. Prompts: Fortutious poem and NPM changes

#italy #napowrimo #npmchanges #fortuitouspoem

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

The Lengthening of Day

In early morning, see your shadow now
borne from gold light from the window and here
it looks something silver on the desk and
bends over the chair, an arc of bird flight.
The morning light lingers like a halo.

Look further now, the richness at your feet.
For a moment, even your darkness shines.

Next morning, it will be here as usual
with the familiarity of a friend.
Not too long ago, life was all shadows
and not once did daylight shine on your own.

That time will come again, of course, but recall
that today stands alone and beautiful.

Day 5 of National Poetry Month. Prompt: "Write a poem like Mary Oliver."

#shadow #spring #seasons #napowrimo #nationalpoetrymonth #mary #oliver

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

At the horizon

the ocean holds and kisses
the sky so softly.

Day 4 of National Poetry Month. Unconventional love prompt.

#haiku #napowrimo #nationalpoetrymonth #npmlove

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

In church Grandma prayed

and made faces at the priest
while he broke bread.
Surprised, he laughed like a king
for the jester in the pew.

Day 3 of National Poetry Month. Elegy prompt.

#tanka #grandma #napowrimo #nationalpoetrymonth #elegy

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

Northern Spring

On the first day of spring, I see bare earth
and feel the cold in my fingers and toes.
So, I ask again when winter will end.
But the birds sing early in the morning
and remind me with the promise of the sun.
Wait, they tell me, for all good things take time.
So, I wait for sun shining on the rain
and for the rain falling in the sunshine.
Here, melted snow mixes with dust and dirt.
But remember, this is where flowers grow.

Day 2 of National Poetry Month

#napowrimo #nationalpoetrymonth #npmspring #francishodgsonburnett #asecretgarden

Corvus Apr 2017

Raven, Bury My Sins (NaPoWriMo #1)

He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******.
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.

Decided to take part in NaPoWriMo. http://www.napowrimo.net/day-one-it-begins/

#napowrimo #raven #abel #cain

yāsha Jul 2016

For the hands that shoot bullets instead of flowers

I stood still like a frozen pole
when you held your hand out to me;
With that one swift movement
I felt my lips suddenly turning pale
I felt it resonate–mumbling what ifs
I felt desperate
Of these comforting misfits
I was fine when there
was no hand in front of me,
I was fine with these lips
uttering my own apologies,
but then you held out
your hand just like that–
hands that I have been waiting for ever since.
You only came when I felt comfortably numb
so tell me why,
why would you only show up at times like these?

I would love to take your hand,
I would love to–
but every time I try to reach it,
anxiety starts to hammer my ribs
and I cannot let these break just like that
for these ribs are the cages that protect my heart–
cages that assures I am safe.

I returned my hand to where it belong,
to where it feels safe–
I put it behind me
and found pure bliss,
this bliss murmuring that I was safe—
you were safe for now.

I felt afraid
because holding another person’s hand means,
“I trust you”
“you are safe with me”
“I will fight for you”
but you see,
these hands are perfectly shaped weapons
I try to keep to keep close
for I cannot witness another
person bleed with pain,
I cannot witness another person
look at me with shame–
for these hands are guns
that learned to shoot bullets instead of flowers
to keep me sane,
and let you know that
people like me are dangerous for you to keep.

Here as I speak,
I give my deepest apologies
for the souls I shoot with bullets–
with the reasons that came out selfishly.
But I want you to understand
that I did it because I stood for my own defense–
because no one ever did.

When you held out your hand
When you tried to give me a flower–
I had this silly thought
that you knew I was dying.
It petrified me
that you would enter my life
to **** me even more.
To let me die even more.

I pointed my hand at your head–
now I hope you do not ask
any more questions,
I hope you realize
this is the end.

(a long *** poem)

#poem #poetry #depression #anxiety #ink #spilled #napowrimo