My house

My house is big and beautiful and green.

Because green is my favorite color.

I helped paint it.

I held the paintbrushes

while Daddy stood on the ladder.

Mommy has lots of gardens,

but there are never flowers.

Except for the yellow ones near the house

and the pink one in the forest

that I'm not supposed to pick.

She says it's because of the trees.

I don't understand. I like the shade.

There's a snake in the woodpile.

Daddy caught it and showed me.

It's skin was slippery and cool,

like the hose when Mommy waters the flowers.

He wouldn't let me hold it.

He didn't want me to get bit.

I asked Daddy if it was a boy or a girl.

He didn't know.

I think it's a boy.

Daddy caught me a frog, too.

I kissed it, but it didn't turn into a prince.

I kissed it again, to make sure.

The carpet in my room is orange.

Mommy wants to change it.

She says it's ugly.

But I like my orange carpet.

Mommy promised me green carpet, though.

I guess new carpet would be okay.

There's lots of planes.

Mommy says they land near our house.

She wears things in her ears at night

because they're too loud.

My brother and I always check

to make sure they're not UFOs.

They're so loud and so bright.

They can't be normal planes.

I have a swing-set, with monkey bars.

I like to do the monkey bars.

I'm good because I practice a lot.

The swings on my swing-set are green.

Mommy and Daddy gave it to me for Christmas.

We have a big hill in the backyard.

During the winter, Daddy piles up snow

until we can sled from the deck.

It's fun, but there's lots of trees at the bottom.

My brother bought a snowboard

at a yard sale with his allowance.

It's pink.

He's really bad at it and he always falls.

I like sledding, especially on the green sleds.

They're round and they spin really fast.

Sometimes Daddy sleds with me.

Behind the hill there's a swamp.

During the summer it smells funny

and there's lots of bugs.

I don't like bugs.

During the winter, it freezes.

My brother and I walk on the ice

until we can't see the house anymore.

There's a tree on its side.

It's roots stick up like fingers,

reaching to grab me

and bring me to another world.

----

Notes: Since I didn't get to write a poem yesterday, I wrote two today to make up for it. This is the fourth prompt on The Journal. The prompt was: "Write a poem that describes a walk through a house from the perspective of a child." I liked this prompt.

NaPoWriMo #28 - Intuition

I wonder

I wonder what it's like

to watch the world

speed away without you,

to be left alone

while the wind blows away

pieces of what you once were,

to be conscious of your own fading

into the unremembered, into oblivion,

to become faceless, nameless,

some benevolent giver of life.

I wonder what it's like

to have a future written in stone

and a past of vanishing sand.

Free write:

When I remember my “a-ha moment” from my past, I understand the place I am meant to go with my words and poetry today is somewhere. There's no wrong place for poetry to take you, no wrong place for poetry to go. I'll go wherever the wind blows me, whether it be an enchanted forest or a volcano perched on the edge of eruption.

I realized on a day that there was nothing particularly special about that I am going to die. That's right: I'm not immortal and I won't be young forever. Everything around me is temporary. My world is even more temporary than I am. By the time my grandchildren are born (assuming I have grandchildren), everything will be different. None of them will know what a DVD is, and they'll probably never have been to a movie that isn't 3D. I wonder if I'll get lost in the confusion. If I'll slowly slip away into the sands of time until there's no one left who knows that I existed.

It's a sad thing, being left behind. Possibly even sadder than dying. I don't remember even the names of my great-great grandparents, let along further back. It makes me feel guilty. I wonder if I'll be remembered. If someday someone will be proud to have me as an ancestor, or if I'll be a faceless giver of life.

I'm much more likely to be faceless.

----

Notes: Well, my free write was focused upon my intuition (especially the last line of it), but somehow that didn't quite come across in the poem. Though I did focus on the same subject that my a-ha moment surrounded.

NaPoWriMo #16 - What's that smell?

Okay, for today’s prompt we had to write a 5 minute free write on a smell and then write a poem based upon that free write. I’m going to post the poem first, and then the free-write below it, so that you can read my inspiration.

Mittens

He was a storm cloud with wide yellow eyes

and a kink for having his tail pulled.

I remember him being beautiful,

but in the eyes of a child all things are.

He was too skinny, but I never realized.

He was sick, but he still took care of me.

He curled around my head like a lion:

Glaring. Watchful. Arrogant, despite his size.

Even then he smelled sick.

Like urine and sickness and death.

I was too young to know,

I’d never smelt it before.

Sometimes I think he really was a lion,

forced into a much smaller body.

That’s why he died,

because his body couldn’t handle it.

Scent: cat urine

I remember how weak he was. He couldn’t always make it to the litter pan. How long was he sick before we realized it? How long did he take care of me while I was sick before I realized it?

I remember his fur smelled like urine. I didn’t clean the litter pan, so I didn’t know it at the time, but years later, when I got a cat of my own, I finally realized what it was.

I remember he lay on my pillow, next to my head, watching over me, glaring at anyone who dared to come near me. Protecting me. His eyes were like an owl’s, and even then he was too skinny for it to be healthy. I can’t believe I never realized it, how sick he was, I mean. And he still had the time and the patience to take care of me. Animals are amazing.

I remember my pillow smelled like his fur for months after he died. Cat urine is a hard thing to get out. I remember holding him in my arms when he was a ball of fluff. He was so cute, like a storm cloud with big yellow eyes. I remember how he actually liked having his tail pulled. What a strange cat.

I remember how weak he was. I remember being unable to turn my back when he was put to sleep, even though I didn’t want to watch. It was raining. The mums were in bloom. We brought home three red mums to plant on his grave. Mums don’t usually survive the winter, but those did, and I was glad.

I remember my mom wrapped him in a towel. We didn’t unwrap him before we buried him. I think we didn’t want to see the body. So we buried him, towel and all. He has a headstone, too, but since there are so many rocks in the area, it’s hard to find unless you know where to look.

I remember going to visit him, a couple of times. I need to go more often. I don’t live there all the time any more, but he was precious, so I should visit him. I wish I could visit him. I’ll never forget him.

NaPoWriMo #13 - Smoke a Dubie

Kisses

A kiss is like a dress falling off a tall building.

Sometimes it flutters, slowly, softly, to the ground

delicate, intricate white lace pooling at his feet.

Other times a bead sewed to your breast drags it down

bringing it crashing to the floor, and in the confusion,

you're not quite sure what has happened, or why,

or even who you are any more.

One time, it slipped off your shoulders like it was velvet,

leaving tingles and rays of introverted sun in its wake,

and you weren't even sure when the dress hit the ground

because your sun was shining too brightly

for you to see anything else.

NaPoWriMo #8 - Unusual Love Connections

The five metaphors I ended up coming up with were indian summer, day lily, crocus, first frost and ice cream. I ended up writing about a crocus.


The First Flower

A crocus
pushed its way through the ice
accumulated over months of bitter cold.

He appeared overnight,
a spot of vibrance in the endless white.
Maybe he always existed
under the snow,
and I failed to notice him
before he bloomed.

He was the first flower.
Unexpected. Beautiful.
Short lived.

By the time the insects began to chirp
he was gone.
Leaving behind only a clump of crinkled brown
to prove that he had existed.

NaPoWriMo #6 - Converse with Images

Today's prompt was to write a poem based off of an image and the memories associated with it...

Back then

I still remember

standing with you in front of the camera

with our chubby cheeks and jack-o-lantern smiles

giving each other bunny ears like it was an Olympic sport.

Me, in my garish fuschia leggings

that only a child could wear and not be embarrassed.

You, in a hand-me-down shirt from our older neighbor.

I still remember

what it felt like when the world was small.

Back then, my favorite animal was the t-rex,

and you played the trombone.

Back then, we collected Pokémon cards,

even though we didn't know what to do with them.

Back then, I still understood you.

NaPoWriMo #5 - Make Your Poetry Personal

So today's prompt was to personify our poetry and give it a name.... It actually wasn't as hard as I thought it would be after I came up with a name.

Poetry

You are Ash,

short for Ashley,

the name I was almost given.

A part of me,

and yet completely separate.

You are Ash,

like what remains

after hurt and anger

burn through my body

and are extinguished by tears.

You are Ash,

the black chalky substance

I smear into words on the page:

imperfect, smudged,

yet beautiful in your honesty.

NaPoWriMo #3 - Scared Yet?

The prompt for the 3rd poem was to write about something that scared or unnerved us.

Time

I'm caught in a riptide:

I cannot swim against it.

It cannot be fought.

It drags me

further from child-like certainty,

further from the shore,

going ever faster,

blurring into the future.

I can only tumble,

uncertain,

into the unknown.