365 Poems in 2018: Week 9

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This week felt somehow longer- maybe because of cloudy whether, or the fact that my car decided to stop working on Thursday afternoon, or maybe because I got sick over the weekend (nothing major, thankfully! I blame it on weird weather patterns and allergies). I felt tired this week, and as such I found myself skipping days or just writing down a few lines to make sense of later. Similar to last week's, each of these poems are rather short, but I feel it's actually fun to work with the short form. Whittling one concept into a stanza or two, or even just a few lines, takes a lot of thought and a lot of patience, and I'm no less proud of these brief verses than I am of any other piece in this series so far.

And with that, I'm pleased to share with you: A Year in Poetry 2018: Week Nine!


A RECIPE FOR A PERFECT MORNING | February 26

A RECIPE FOR A PERFECT MORNING –

3 rays of sunlight, sifted through broken blinds
1 soft breeze whistled through a half-opened window,
a pinch of dog tags jingling and paws thudding across the floor
1 orange, peeled
1 cup of coffee, brewed black – no milk, no sugar
a floor cool from a night passed quiet
and glass doors warmed by the rising sun.

THE FORECAST CALLS FOR RAIN | February 27

 

The forecast calls for rain
and I wonder if it heard me
when I asked you to show me
you’re still here –

because you loved the rain,
delighted in the storms that crashed
like fireworks
outside your window,

and I remember how you watched the
drops collect and gather on the
glass, traced them like you might
draw their magic through your skin;

I still think of you when it rains,
and I still think,
maybe,
you pour those buckets out
for me.

TADASANA | February 28

Arms reaching –

further, and further, and further still
the pull of muscles and as fingers
stretch for the sun, the moon, the stars

and the chest filling,
deflating,
and filling again –

pull the good in
and push everything else
out,

draw in what you need
and leave what you don’t
in the air that drifts
around you

as you reach for the sun
and ask the clouds to
lift you
away.

UNWIND | March 1

The twist of muscles soon to be
sore –

arms bent behind backs
and
breath counted in fives,

dim lights
and eyes fixed
on the floor, the sky,
the floor again,

until it comes time
to rest.

SEVERE WEATHER WARNING | March 2

Wind whips the
sand and waves
into the wild –

into a storm
long-brewed
in a sky turned
dark with clouds,

that tosses water
into streets
and makes oceans
out of
parking lots,

I’ll wait it out
with you.

FEVER DREAMS | March 3

Sometimes I think
maybe you were just
a fever dream –

fragmented
in restless sleep,

and gone
by morning.

MAYBE THIS IS MAGIC | March 4

Maybe this is magic;

a quiet afternoon
passed beside you,
as the sun peeks out
from behind a veil
of clouds,

you and me
and a purple sky –

that sounds like magic
to me.