April 30: Two Littles

She reads to her sister now,
bedtime stories, and then,
they cuddle through the night.
In the morning, she'll tell
stories. They'll hide
in the closet for a meeting
to plan out their day,
little one following big one
to chase around and around
in the kitchen,
climb on the roof, or
take turns petting that kitty
named Cupcake.
I do remember those endless days
marked only by
a yellow school bus,
stories told before bedtime,
heartfelt hopes
the parks will open, and
summer will come.

Childhood by jyliagorbachevya (Pixabay)

Today's prompt, the last one for National Poetry Month, comes from Robert Lee Brewer, who challenges us to write a praise poem. But, this morning, I'm missing the grandchildren who give freely such big hugs and run as fast as they can, being nearly eight and five, into their next adventure. Even in quarantine, with only virtual hugs, they spread love.

April 29: Blank?

Maybe no writing
of a poem today, for the prompt
goes sideways: 'total blank,'
and that's what I am, pulled like taffy
stretched too thin
in that shop on the boardwalk,
the ocean outside, relentless
in the early spring afternoon.

I keep hoping for inspiration,
wanting to take that unexpected leap
into what? A total blank?

Where does art hide
when we wish it to smooth
those rough edges?
Don't call her a flighty muse,
for I have seen her
at work, healing my soul.

"Vintage" by ArtsyBee on Pixabay

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer is simply write to a poem about a 'total blank.' Unfortunately, that's how the day has gone. At least I can rely on the visual inspiration of photos from Pixabay, and I did get the laundry done.

April 28: Look Back or Don't Look Back

Today I picked up a 20-pound bag of rice.
Wore a mask inside the store.
Didn't stop for a latte.
Felt like I was preparing for Armageddon.
Don't look back.

Two months ago, grocery shopping,
a sensual delight. Marmalade made
of bitter oranges from Seville.
Artisan breads reek of rosemary
or garlic. Fresh bananas and sushi:
let me count the ways
I will cook for you.
Oh, look back.

I pace my apartment, ready to fall
into my computer, far from
these four rooms and yet, at home,
books, quilting, the next writing projects,
friends a click away . . . zoom!
Cooking ever a challenge: Where
did those eggs go? What can I make
with the last can of black beans?
Maybe I'll water a few struggling house plants;
today's sunny outside on Day 50
of stay-at-home. Birds
scrabble after seed in the feeder,
freshly full, and my love sleeps.
Don't look back.

Finch by 272477 at (Pixabay)

Today's prompt for National Poetry Month comes from Robert Lee Brewer who asks us to respond to this prompt: 'look back' or 'don't look back.' I couldn't help it. I chose both, for these days, aren't we all poised between looking back to what once was and, somehow, not wanting to look back?

So, I'm sending wishes to you all, whether at home or not, that you stay healthy, close to family and friends, and as we move into an uncertain future, stay brave.

April 27: The path ahead

Path in the Woods by Aitoff (Pixabay)

Sometimes the path ahead is dark.
We can't help ourselves.
We go forward, hoping
that bit of light will lift
this massive sense of foreboding,
the walls closing,
too many loud noises, too much clatter,
virtual and otherwise, lists and maps
show where and when and who,
too much death, too much crime,
even dropping a knife on the kitchen floor
is an omen. 'Nevermore,' the raven calls,
a murder of crows gathers on the front lawn,
unexpectedly, a bear lifts his head to sniff
before crossing a city street.
We all wait and watch, perched by our windows.
Spring rain falls, and we hope for some sweet glimpse
of tomorrow, maybe the past deconstructed,
reconstructed anew, and when
we least expect a glimpse of hope,
someone begins to sing.

Jonny West, last night on American Idol, simply sang, "What a Wonderful World." This morning's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asked writers to write a poem about something massive. I kept thinking of Jonny West and his simple, direct affirmation. Let it be.




.

April 26: Lessons from an Elephant

I'd rather be third
in a line of elephants
ambling somewhere
in that endless, grassy savanna,
or the next wet wadi
where I could roll in the warm mud
and not think about change.

Something about elephants
makes me calm.
Their eyes aslant,
their bodies slow to move,
their ears flutter and
their trunks wave
in a language of touch,
close to their companions or
to herd that little one.

I saw an elephant in Tanzania strip bark
from a tree with his expressive trunk
and lift his head to trumpet a warning.
They twist and rip grasses
from the land, as they follow each other,
a measured pace, close together
for protection, undulating across the land.

Never underestimate the creativity
or change that hunger brings.
In times of drought, those tusks
can dig the earth to find water.
Female elephants don't discriminate:
they mother any baby in their herd.
We could learn much from elephants,
though I'd rather not weigh up to ten tons.

"Elephants" by Alex Strachan (Pixabay)

Today's prompt for National Poetry Month comes from Robert Lee Brewer who challenges us to write a poem about change or not-change. I wasn't sure what to write about until I found this photo by Alex Strachan, an image that took me far away from staying-at-home and our world of coronavirus. I'm wondering what animals appeal to you just now and why?

April 25: The Tenth Muse

Did Sappho write every day,
fret over words that clung
in strands of clumps,
and stare within?

She was an island girl, living in a Mediterranean clime,
blue skies and blue seas. She ran wild like any other girl
with violet hair, along a ridge path, taking care of sheep,
looking out to sea.

One day, she turned to pen. Who knows
what drove her then, what night of terror, what loss,
what inner music; only fragments remain
that soar and soar.

Around her, others went about their work,
made bread, sewed clothes, or directed slaves,
for Greece was then a democracy
for the very few.

Perhaps a slave caught her eye, some tragedy,
some loss. Perhaps her mother died,
her lover sailed away, her family scattered,
and she alone.

So, in the mornings, when the light came,
this tenth muse began to write,
her words a music of their own, still lost,
still inspiring us all.

Sappho of Eresos (Wikipedia)

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write a remix poem, that is to take a poem from long ago and shake it up entirely. So here's a new version of a poem written in 2009, a musing about Sappho who lived on an island of women long ago (about 630-570 BC). She wrote poetry meant to be sung with a lyre. and invented a poetic form (3 longer lines, followed by a shorter line), which I have tried to follow.

Sappho may have written as many as 10,000 lines, but only fragments remain. One such fragment: “Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us.”

April 24: My Cowboy

My grandfather was a cowboy,
back in the 1920's, just before
World War I. He used to entertain us,
as we sat around the campfire,
poking at the logs, with stories
of his life then, bears and wolves,
rattlers and mean snakes of men
who took a shot at him.
He made cowboy coffee so strong
it would curl your teeth,
and a cornbread pudding that lay
on your tongue like a promise
of Christmas. He'd wake us girls
up in the morning,
stick his head in our bedroom door,
"You gonna' let the sun burn a hole in you?"
He taught me how to shoot,
even if I was a girl and nearly
shot my foot off in the process.
He dared me to shoot a rabbit we spied,
far off on another ridge.
Guess he thought I couldn't hit it.
I did. Later, I borrowed money from him
when I went away to college.
Paid him back too. What did he say?
"You didn't have to do that.
Nobody else paid me back."
I guess even now, telling stories
about my grandfather nurtures me,
like half-remembered lessons
that led me here, to be with you,
safe, loved, and happy.

Frank Henry, about 1920

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write  poem about nature -- or nurture. Who knows exactly how a poem/story begins. I was thinking how much we need nurture now and remembering times I'd watch certain animals, elephants or gorillas, and how they constantly touch each other and hug each other, in a reassuring way. Truly, what is it that nurtures us -- even when we are alone?

By the way, that cornbread pudding can be sweet or a little spicy, depending on how you mix up the ingredients. Out on the trail, and sometimes at home, the taste depends on what you have on hand. Here's one recipe to try, if you like.

April 23: Social?

My socks say it all
'cause all
I want to do
is take my socks off,
run barefooted
in the green spring grass,
lay on a picnic blanket
under the pines, and
watch the sun flicker
between spring clouds,
while kids shriek and
run after a soccer ball.
Yes, I want it all,
even a cat.

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write a poem about some aspect of social, as in the 'social blank' (and fill in that blank. Busy today with proofreading, I nearly didn't write a poem today until I went sideways, inspired by my new socks, comfortable in front of the computer, but truly wishing we could ALL go outside. For real. I'm not anywhere near protesting, but . . . I can fantasize that soon our quarantine will end. Maybe in another six weeks or so. Meanwhile, I'll cuddle up next to my computer -- and work away!

April 22: Quirky?

Writers are supposed to have their quirks.
I know one who kept apples in his desk,
breathing in the scent as inspiration.
Not me. My quirks are simple,
switch the hat from morning writer
to afternoon editor and formatter.
Think about it: Two hours to
insert headers and footers
in a 55,000 word novel.
Who could be inspired by that?
But once the task is done,
I can move on. Since my books
take a luxurious two to three years
to write, well, smile with me.
Once this puppy is out the door,
I can switch the hat back
to morning writer
for many days to come.

Writer by Angela Yuriko Smith (Pixabay)

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer asks us to explore a quirk we may have -- or that someone else may have. The famous writer referred to above was 18th Century German poet Fredreich Schiller; he literally did keep those apples rotting in his desk as he wrote. I truly can't imagine doing that, though a nearby cup of coffee with lots of milk or hot tea sounds good.

You know which hat I was wearing when this poem came along? After all, it's afternoon, but I truly did finish two monumentally difficult formatting tasks today! Hooray!

Have a wonderful day. It's raining just now, but afternoon movies or a nice read await. Enjoy the quiet.

April 21: Tribute to a Soddy

"Come with me," he said.
"We'll move out to the Great Plains.
We'll have our own place,
a long way from all this."

She said yes. They bundled up
their belongings, and,
carrying what they could,
walked west,
too poor to take a train.
They hitched a ride,
filed papers in Lincoln, Nebraska,
grateful for the Homestead Act of 1862
and 160 acres.

By then, she was pregnant.
He built her a soddy out there,
dirt floor, sod blocks for walls,
one window to look out
at the stretch of endless, rolling grasslands,
coveted by ranchers.
"We have to stay five years,"
he said, dirt ingrained in his hands.
"Five years, the wheat will grow.
We'll be all right."

Remember those men and women
of the plains, and their sod cabins.
Many didn't know how to farm,
there were failures,
and then the cattle came.
But some persevered, facing
isolation and years of work
for a dream of something better.

A sod house, called a soddy (Wikipedia)

Great Plains near Lincoln, Nebraska (Wikipedia)

Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompts for National Poetry Month always take me someplace unexpected. Today's prompt (influenced by our current preoccupation with coronavirus), asked writers to write a love poem or an anti-love poem.

My poem began when I thought it must take more than love to follow your man out to the Great Plains and live in a soddy. When I went looking for images, I found this lovely photo of a sod house and another of the Great Plains -- near Lincoln, Nebraska, where my grandfather once lived. He was a cowboy.

April 20: Isolation

Long after you resume
the coming and going freely,
that swirl of errands
and work and children,
my grandchildren,
I shall remain at home,
isolated,
a member of that compromised group,
one who has lived too long,
perhaps with nothing to contribute
to that bustling world,
like butterflies that pass before me,
I see, but I cannot touch.
I feel, but I cannot speak.

Free Photos at Pixabay

TODAY'S PROMPT from Robert Lee Brewer at Writer's Digest focuses in on the effects of the coronavirus, that daily reminder that life has irrevocably changed, affecting us all in ways large and small. 

How do we confront each day? Some days, we comfort ourselves with routine, checking off that to-do list, and taking a daily walk. We can exhaust ourselves to sleep by binge watching TV, or reading, or making phone calls to loved ones, enhanced by FaceTime or Zoom, still missing the physicality of hugging our loved ones. 

The chaotic frenzy of 'breaking news' -- each broadcaster more intense than the last -- makes me want to get insanely drunk. In a loud bar. With a sports channel screened overhead (soccer, maybe something more physical, football?). Trump's assertion that the coronavirus can simply 'wash' over the country infuriates me. We have over 40,000 dead in the United States today. We may have plateaued, but that's the size of a small city. So many lives and dreams lost.

Yes, I embrace isolation -- no sharing of germs. But I still look forward to that day my extended family will gather together at dinner, or I can quilt with sewing friends, or I can walk at the park with my grandchildren, my only fears for them, a scraped knee.

April 19: A word or two from Shakespeare

If I were to resolve

that moment when

an embrace became a bump,

leaving me lonely, 

howling against the dark, dark night,

then I would be Shakespeare,

a fixture on the stage, pacing

back and forth, mourning 

that damned spot,

and crying, "Out! Out!"

Shakespeare by JJ Jordon (Pixabay)

Not every thought is sun-filled on Day 48 of quarantine. Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer of Writer's Digest fame (and celebrating that commitment to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month), asks us to write a poem around six words that Shakespeare invented:  Resolve, bump, embrace, fixture, howl, and lonely. The result is a little dark, for I haven't read Shakespeare in decades. But I do remember the shock of Lady MacBeth (not a namesake).

Tomorrow begins 9 days of free Kindle books. Starting Monday, April 20 through April 22, you may download the Kindle version of Standing Stones for free. Partly as a thank you for reading my blog, partly to celebrate the almost here release of my latest book, The Seventh Tapestry, and partly to offer another reading respite from this quarantine. Share the link!

April 18: A Polite Pineapple

If every word or action
could be decoded, we introverts,
happily quiet in these days of quarantine,
would wish for pineapples
to give those friends who
yet stop by.

For long ago, when travelers came to
plantations by coach,
and visits were measured
by weeks and months,
each morning, a fresh pineapple
would appear in the visitor's room,
perfectly sliced, juicy
and with a silver spoon.

Until that morning when
two pineapples arrived:
One to enjoy this morning
and one for the road.

"Pineapple" by ssenjakelabu (Pixabay)

Today's poetry prompt from Writer's Digest poet Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asks us to write a poem about a message, perhaps the message itself, how it was received, or what ever came to mind. This prompt reminded me of summer driving trips through the southern United States, where each plantation featured pineapples carved on the gateposts. I'm thinking now of a fruit salad for supper. No fresh bananas. No pineapple.

April 17: On Visiting Giza

I have stood on the banks of the Nile
and stared into the eyes of the Sphinx,
wandered between the tumbled small pyramids
of the three queens, and watched the sun
change the colors of the three great pyramids:
Cheops, Khafre, Menkaure.
They all hoped for that divine sleep
that closed their eyes,
but kept their souls alive.
Each gold-framed jewel, each sarcophagus,
each mural painting, each ritual prayer,
a great preparation. The ka/soul
now wanders lost without its body,
their mummies now carted off to museums
for public display. All three tried to buy insurance –
Cheops had four solar boats to ferry his soul to the next life,
Tut’s three sarcophagi intended to hold and protect
his mummified remains, the innermost one of solid gold.
Oh, how the pyramids at Giza cry out for respect,
The most solemn prayers warn intruders away.
The size of the pyramids, a competition,
Each larger than the last, each one saying
Pick me! Pick me!
The grave robbers came almost before
the painted seals were dry, almost before
the closing rituals were complete,
before the concubine’s tears had dried.

Tourists wander this large complex,
ready with cameras to catch images of themselves,
standing in front of the Sphinx,
the ‘Horus of the Rising Sun,’
guardian at one with pharaohs and the gods.
Tourists line up to buy a memory of this moment:
postcards, a tabletop pyramid, calendars,
a bust of Nefertiti or Alexander the Great,
an Egyptian flute, its melody in minor key.
They line up to ride the Bedouin camels,

gaily decorated with tapestries 

of green, red, and yellow yarns.
All this – even the tourist buses
which pull up in a great flurry of dust,
all this seems dwarfed by simple reality:
I sit on a giant stone block next to
Khafre’s temple. The nearby causeway, still flat,
reaches down to the Sphinx, the clouds
shift above the three great pyramids.
Even my tears dry in the wind
as black-hooded falcons fly, and
camels race awkwardly, their unshod feet smack
the pavement, and their drivers’ cries echo.

Pyramids of Khafre and Menkaure, Giza

The Sphinx at Giza

At the base of a pyramid, Giza

Today's poetry prompt from Writer's Digest poet Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asks us to write -- an exotic poem. This could lead in so many directions. I chose to travel back in memory, to that wonderful month spent in Egypt doing research, when all seemed possible. This week, I'm starting a new writing project, a story set in Egypt, where once I saw the black-hooded falcons fly.

April 16: The Last Breath

If I could imagine the last breath

life on this planet would take,

think underwater, 

that struggle for air, 

and then, truly, an ending.

Not even pandemic will alter

what we all must face at some point.

Not the time for joking

as family gathers by the window or 

an open door, unable to step near. 

I can only whisper, "Cherish each day,

for they are numbered."

What lies beyond is 

unknown and measured

by more than a gasp.

"Polar Bear" by Echoyan (Pixabay)

Today's prompt comes from Robert Lee Brewer who asks us to write a fill-in-the-blank poem that starts, 'the last . . . .' We're supposed to begin by filling in that missing word. I want to write positive poems just now that will affirm the beauty of each day, despite the effects and tragedies of coronavirus. But it's pretty hard to work around the implications of 'last'.

So, I'll tell you about today's first. I cleared my cork board off and posted 3x5 cards to seriously begin plotting for the next book. I only know 2-3 main characters and the setting -- Egypt. All else remains a mystery. Well, except the story will involve art crime, danger, and romance. Maybe a distraction for the days ahead!  Meanwhile, stay calm and safe. Cherish each day!

April 15: Dreaming

These days, we stay inside, quarantined,
except for that mandatory excursion
for groceries or prescriptions.
A daily walk is encouraged, ten blocks
up to the pond, a tally of birds just
beginning to nest, their mating colors
match their calls, vibrant, echoing.
Red-winged Blackbirds and
Yellow-headed Blackbirds argue over
who has possession of the reeds.

But, I want to fly,
not just in memory. I want to return
to the mountains, to sleep in a tent,
even if it’s raining, to hear night
rustles and to find a bear track in the morning.
I want to wander the Louvre once again,
drink café au lait sitting at a street-side cafe,
with you beside me, and fall in love
all over again.

"Girl on a Swing," by Composita (Pixabay) 

Today's prompt comes from Robert Lee Brewer who asks us to write about a dream. I'm hungry to just walk out of my apartment, visit friends really, and not virtually, and go somewhere else for a time, without thoughts of pandemic or worry about the world.

April 14: The marking of a moment

I have driven under a tornado, noting
its shifting form as we argued
whether to take shelter
under a bridge or to keep going,
the car lifting from the ground
with each gust of wind.

Nature follows laws, 

even when we do not know
their structure or form,
or how we are changed.
Doesn’t Nature’s beauty seem accidental,
the possession of artists, intuitive
and somehow intimate, a living poem,
a respite from our own commitment

to order, a commentary 

on the marking of a moment, 

or hours or days, or a life.

Cloudy Sky by jplenio (Pixabay)

Robert Lee Brewer, over at Writer's Digest, with his poetry prompts for National Poetry Month, asks us to consider/write about form or not form. That led to my thinking about how even the most chaotic objects around us have a form, even when we cannot see or understand it. This leads some philosophers to say (as they think about  molecular levels), "I am sitting upon a chair, but is it really a chair?"

Napowrimo's prompt suggests we write something about how we came to write, what other writer or person inspired us. I didn't want to return to that dark time but forever think of my aunt who invited me to come and live with her to go to college. That's when my writing began.

April 13: Don't Look

I read somewhere that when
you look at a gorilla with intention,
the gorilla, being a shy creature, may decide
you are a threat to his family 

and attack you in a flash, 

some 300 pounds of confrontation.
So, if you are traveling in gorilla country,
don’t look.

Once at a zoo with a large compound
for gorillas, I saw a male sitting quietly,

his back against a tree.
I looked at him and then away.
He looked at me and then away.
For just five minutes, we repeated
this dance of glances.
I wasn’t in danger.
Neither was he.
I wanted to communicate
but did not know his language.

Dismissing me, he wandered away.

I was obviously not a threat.
And then I wondered why this creature, 

capable of some level of thought, 

lived behind glass.

What had we taken from him?

Eastern Gorilla by Michael Bell, Pixabay 

Today's prompt comes from a mashup of Robert Lee Brewer's prompt to write about purpose (or lack of it), and napowrimo's prompt to not apologize for something you have taken, that is something that didn't belong to you. 

Not quite sure how that led to gorillas, but I did remember that trip we took to Tanzania where we saw herds of zebras and wildebeests, and mama lions at dawn taking their cubs to the watering hole. Time to get out the picture books on Day 36 of quarantine. Stay safe!

April 12: If I were cavorting . . .

If I were cavorting, deep in the woods,
dancing where no one can see,
is my song filled with ‘coulds’ or ‘shoulds,’
or am I left simply to be
myself, under the dark green trees,
hearing birds sing their own nocturnes,
the rustle, the wings, a warm breeze,
even at night, I feel patterns
as simple as moss under my feet,
and joy in my heart, surprise at a vision
of trolls, ready to dance with me,
dancing where no one can see.

Efraimstochter on Pixabay

Today, I wanted something whimsical as it truly is Day 32 of self-quarantine. I wonder how many of us still dream of dancing.

April 11: Who could control a flower?

Who could control a flower?
Yet I’ve seen it done – those
formal gardens in such regulated rows,
all blossoming in the proper season,

even a Japanese tea garden balances

order (those carefully raked stones)

with profusion.

Georgia O’Keefe knew something
about flowers, as did the Victorians,
coding each one, daisies for innocence,
gardenias, a secret passion,
purple hyacinths, their pungent smell
an apology.
I would rather walk alone in the woods
to find those hidden flowers
that speak of survival.

Anemones by Peggy Choucair (Pixabay)

NOTE: Today's prompt is a combo. For April 11, Robert Lee Brewer challenges us to write a poem about control, especially daunting since so much seems out of our control in these days of coronavirus. Napowrimo suggests we write a poem about flowers and that language of flowers (called floriography) from ancient times (think of Buddhists and the lotus flower) to the Victorians who sent bouquets with secret meanings. As you can see, on Day 32 of self-quarantine, I do not stray far from wishing I could walk in the woods.