Pink

See how I have returned to you:

Bright and flushed and new!

You who have trusted

The prophecy

Of each potential bloom,

Have had your faith rewarded.

Why weep

Or wonder

Or worry

About how long

I will stay?

Pink is

By nature

Impermanent.

But while it lasts,

It saves.

The Way

The path to the river

Is green again

The earth is firm

But tender

Beneath my feet

The grass lays itself

Down as I walk

The way

To the water

Is straight

And sure

And soft

Turning

It is not the way the robin with its bright yellow breast

Perches on my mailbox

Like an honored guest

It is not the way the worm with a luxurious stretch

Crawls out from a tuft

Of resurrected grass

It is not the beginnings of tulips

Or the softening of the ground

Or the greening of the path to the river

It is not the way the buds on the trees tease me

With their promise

Of the soon-ness of newness

Rather it is the wind

That blows between the gaps

Of the almost blooming branches

And asks if I will remember

The structure of emptiness,

The shelter of barrenness,

Once spring’s fecundity

Overtakes my senses

Alignment (NaPoWriMo Day 11)

I sense only the slightest

Trace of betrayal

As my car aligns itself

With the ruts

In the Interstate

And settles into

The loud grooves

Laid down by so many

Studded tires.

As the remaining tread

On my soft,

Siped principles

Wears down against

The corrugated pavement

I sigh and let go

Of the wheel.

I feel like I am posting pieces of poems just to keep up.  Maybe the Blue Fairy will visit me at the end of the month and turn some of them into real poems!

Image: Studded tire damage on I-90 in Idaho from pavementinteractive.org

Rage (NaPoWriMO Day 5)

My spring softening
froze over upon seeing
deer eat my tulips


www.sweetclipart.com

Arrival (NaPoWriMo Day 1)

The way the river swells and pushes

The way the meadow sits brown and heavy

The way I switch with distrust from wool socks to cotton

The way the trailhead parking lot overflows on Sundays

The way ice gives way to mud and makes the hikers giddy

The way my face craves affection,

And turns with gratitude

To the stingy, sometimes-blue sky.

March Grass

There is a terrible tenderness in March grass

In the bare and the grey

In the defeated way

It lays flat

After the weight

Of snow

I walk gingerly

Around it

Stay on the asphalt

But still

I feel its dryness in

The cracks in my hands

And the lines around my eyes

And I know

It’s a sign

That I should sit

On the fencepost

And stay

But instead I deny it—

Three times—

And walk away

Good Friday on the Little Spokane

The deer, their coats matted and brown,
will not stay.
They risk the road instead.
The turkey turns his back,
is deliberate,
spreads his feathers.
The river pushes past,
smug with forward motion.
Its grasses press down,
stay low,
feign indifference.
The meadow
is heavy
with still water,
winter’s unwanted remains.
She assents.
She contains.

An explanation

I will go again
because
to be
among the broken
who see
a fault as happy
a blemish as necessary
brings murky
clarity

When spring comes

Snow melts and each word

from sputtering angry lips

melts into tulips

This kind of follows one of this week's prompt's from Big Tent Poetry. I'm having to resort to Haiku to keep this thing going!

April

It's not true that April enrages me.

I reserve my violent emotions for March,

that drunken bastard who stays too long,

and spews sloppy snow all over my shoes,

and slushes himself all over my lawn.

No, by the time April arrives,

I am done.

I am spent.

I'm too tired to shake my fist at an April sky.

March has worn me down,

softened me up,

so that by the time April comes round,

All he has to do is show me some tulips,

And just like that--

I

puddle

up.

This was written in response to Big Tent Poetry's prompt that asked us to start a poem with "It's not true that..."

Hinge

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry asked us to come up with our own holiday. I didn't come up with a specific holiday, but I thought of something to celebrate...

I would raise my glass
to all that go
from impossible
to inevitable
with no state of being
in between:
snow and tulips
babies and freckles
democracy and wrinkles
you and me

On the Suspension Bridge

Last week's Big Tent Poetry prompt gave us the opportunity to cure ourselves of whatever ails us. Since I'm a bit tired of winter right now, I chose to imagine springtime at the suspension bridge over the Spokane River at the Bowl and Pitcher. I also am preparing to teach some of my students about blank verse, so I wound up trying my hand at it. I'm not sure of the results, but here you go...

On the suspension bridge my feet face south
Spring’s swollen current rushes past below
The river, through with February’s chore
Of churning sediment from melting ice,
Is free to rush in aquamarine haste
While I bend from my waist and launch my mind
Out on the river’s triumphant stampede
Inevitable motion! It is mine--
I give myself to its wet urgency
And overpower solid rocks and stones
We glory in the lack of should and will
And gush and rush and spray out do and now
But all this happens while my feet stand still
And calmly wait on the suspension bridge
Through wood and water’s kind duality
I know myself as anchor and as sail

New

January terrifies
stares me down
like a blank Word document
demanding my attention
and when I finally give in
I see my future filling up the page
and all my words are underlined
with red and green
mean squiggly lines

The way 2010 ends

This week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry suggested we write a list poem...

The way bare and brown branches gain a grand sense of purpose
The way the thinnest of twigs fill out with importance
The way the moose lays her babies in soft, frozen blankets
The way my poor feet slide while the deer remain fleet-footed
The way the pine trees bow down with silver concession
The way the Little Spokane sighs with knowing and welcome,
broadens her shoulders, and goes back to sleep.

Tangle

For only two weeks
my hair
matches
the leaves you shake
up there
so I want to join you,
tangle
in your sharp branches
and swing
until it all falls
inevitably down
Will you float? Will I thud?
I don’t care
what happens after
to your leaves
or my hair

Hello Blogland!

A big hello out there to anyone who might still be checking in with my blog. Life in Teacherland has been quite hectic lately, but all of my summer school prep is done and I am turning my attention to the blogosphere again. I'll be posting a new poem within the next day or two, and plan on keeping up regularly throughout the summer.

I'm also looking forward to visiting some of my favorite bloggers and enjoying their creativity and words of wisdom.

Happy summer, everyone!

~Erin

1040

I filed my tax return todayI

in verse

a far better way to determine

my worth

Instead of figures,

I wrote off
the figurative:

overwrought metaphors

clichéd similes

pretentious allusions

so many poetic losses
I incurred on a regular basis
All my failed efforts

1040-ed up

in black and white
Needless to say,
I expect
a big
refund

Sad

Winter massages spring’s shoulders
Is all over her like an octopus
Then jerks her around like a marionette
Stows away in her back seat and follows her home
Startles her on her own front porch
Takes her feet right out from under her
But before she can even begin to bruise
He breaks himself open like a rotten egg
It’s embarrassing, really
He’s lost his touch
His snow doesn’t even stick anymore

This is in response to readwritepoem's NaPoWriMo prompt #9.

Melt

A flake of unwanted April snow
Tossed about by unwanted winds
Finds its home on hostile ground
Rests briefly
Melts tenderly
Down

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt was "unusual love connections." I couldn't get into romance today, so I focused on sacrifical love.