a poem for late

Time ticks fast

my legs can’t keep up

my intentions are good

but my output ain’t.

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NaPoWriMo 2018 day 22: a poem for stars

The pattern of stars  in the sky above my head –

as I lie on my patio chairs, feeling the evening breeze –

is scattered and twinkly,

but not distinct.

I ask them for an answer.

 

The lights from planes on their way to

destinations far and wide, flicker

and flirt with the stars,

evidence that another flight took off OK.

 

I need to know my purpose, why I’m here,

and why I keep messing up my life.

I look to the stars for an answer.

 

What seems to be a plane

is a star that shines bright,

that is having its moment

in the firmament.

I pray for an answer.

 

I look away, look back,

The stars in my night sky,

above my patio,

have rearranged

into the shape of a heart.

My heart that I must follow.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 19: a poem for April heat

 

Heat today, hottest April record,

left garden scorching, plants wilting:

pot plant bowed head, thirst making humble.

 

Heat relentless, leaving sweat on brows,

blisters on hastily sandalled feet.

 

Sun’s heat, all invading:

down necks, armpits pools of

awkward, seeping sweat,

other flesh clammy to touch.

 

Sunshine welcome, lifting mood.

Heat dense, suffocating, sucking:

creating craving for whirl of air.

 

Weeds grow, inch by hourly inch,

loving power, stealth through hedgerow.

 

Spring here:

“hurrah”

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 18: the wind on a not so brilliant day

I tried to tend it, but nature overwhelmed my efforts

What’s the point of even trying

with all that withering around me.

Yes, take the leaves and petals, leave the ground free and clean

as I want to face life, not death.

All the flowers are gone, and I want them back

No, you can’t take their smell away from me

and I’m not sure about your odour of jasmine.

If it’s meant to be the call of my soul

then I’ll wait for the wind to blow it in.

 

This is an upside-down take on original poem The Wind, One Brilliant Day, by Antonio Machado

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’

‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’

‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’