Prelude to a Promise (National Poetry Month: Day 14)

Within the night a shadow crawls
across the face of wooded hills
and launches as a ship would do
from shore to bay, then out to sea.

No moonlight casts this silhouette
for stars alone look down tonight
upon the empty black expanse
from which no constellation shines.

The shadow sinks into the deep,
doubly drowned in dark'ning gloom,
for clouds grow thick and shroud the sky
extinguishing the feeble light.

Wet mist tossed up from jagged waves
is blasted skyward 'til it meets
a horde of droplets hurtling down,
shrieking in the ragged night.

Wind screams with rising fury as
the squall becomes a hurricane
that rages on the open sea
and beats its fists on all in reach.

Yet through the hail, the bludgeoning,
a presence mingles with the clouds
and forges on through wet and storm
unshaken by such violent hate.

Dark wings of leather taut as tents
stretch wide against the thund'ring rain,
beating back against the wind
and conq'ring even this dark foe.

Into slit nostrils comes a scent
borne by a straying, wayward breeze
who, bearing fragile thoughts of home,
was press-ganged to this awful war.

It smells of smoothly tailored silk,
of honeysuckle crowns, of smiles.
A tongue of flame licks at the night
and gleams in hungry, shrewd black eyes.

The dragon flies for leagues unseen
unfailing in its long pursuit
for in those scents it tastes again
sweet promises of princesses. . .

Dalinar (National Poetry Month: Day 13)

He is weak,
a man who thinks
the world relies on him.
To be saved
he obeys
these words and teachings,
following
a forgotten king.
This man may become
our only hope, though
it is
so difficult to see.
Remember this truth:
Strength before weakness!
Remember this truth,
so difficult to see.
It is
our only hope (though
this man may become
a forgotten king)--
following
these words and teachings
he obeys.
To be saved,
the world relies on him:
a man who thinks
he is weak.

~~~


This poetic form, an adaptation of the reverso, is particularly appropriate for its topic. The poem is a reference to Dalinar, a character from Brandon Sanderson's The Way of Kings. Dalinar lives in a world where palindromic repetitions are a fundamentally valued aesthetic.


For true reverso (in which the two halves are separate poems rather than concatenated as I've done here), read Mirror Mirror by Marilyn Singer, or check out this site.


The reverso is distinct from the palindrome poem, in which the words, not the lines, read the same in reverse. Some examples of palindrome poetry can be seen here or here.

Okra (National Poetry Month: Day 12)

Okra:
Green and gummy.
Not much flavor either.
Fried? Stir-fried? Curried? Succotashed?
I'll pass.

Harmony (National Poetry Month: Day 11)

The stars are shining brightly in the sky,
still winking at each other in the night.
As comfortable hours drift slowly by
they reach through darkness, inner fire alight.

Still winking at each other in the night
two lovers sit outside beneath the trees.
They reach through darkness, inner fire alight;
they smile and listen to each other breathe.

Two lovers sit outside beneath the trees.
As dawn seeps slow before the coming sun
they smile and listen to each other breathe
soft words of hope and joy and day begun.

As dawn seeps slow before the coming sun
new warmth awakens. Voice and light within
soft words of hope and joy and day begun
fill up the sky and echo on the wind.

New warmth awakens voice and light within
dark thunderheads that gather tight in crowds,
fill up the sky and echo on the wind.
The sun grows dim and hides within the clouds.

Dark thunderheads that gather tight in crowds
Shout thunder and glare lightning carelessly.
The sun grows dim and hides. Within the clouds
a mist of tears grows heavy but unseen.

Shout thunder and glare lightning! Carelessly
the light of sun and stars is lost and still
a mist of tears grows heavy. But, unseen
before, rain falls and all is cold and chill.

The light of sun and stars is lost. And still,
an inner fire remains by which to see:
before rain falls and all is cold and chill,
there is yet time to make apology.

An inner fire remains by which to see
there's hope in tear-washed eyes longing for growth.
There is yet time to make apology;
there's time to clear the clouds around them both.

There's hope in tear-washed eyes longing for growth,

so hand in hand they talk and smile because

there's time to clear the clouds around them both.

They laugh at silly things each says or does.

So hand in hand they talk and smile because
the stars are shining brightly in the sky.
They laugh at silly things each says or does
as comfortable hours drift slowly by.

~~~

This is a poetic form called the pantoum. I've encountered them before, but this is my first attempt at writing one myself. (A pantoum does not have to follow a rhyme scheme, even though I chose to here. It would have been easier to write without that added restriction.)

Courage (National Poetry Month: Day 10)

Spring gives me hope, for spring is courage.

Spring is not joy and warmth.
Spring is not beauty and color.
Spring is not tenderness and singing birds.
Spring is not weekend picnics and falling in love.
Spring is not blossoming flowers and lengthening sunlight.

What is spring?
Spring is new leaves.
Not a few leaves, or even hundreds,
but thousands upon thousands.
Leaves adorning every tip
of every twig of every stem of every branch.
Leaves growing beside twisted knots,
beside scarred wood, beside wrinkled bark, beside broken limbs.

These are wrinkled trees, older than memory,
than generations, than buildings, than nations.
Knotted trees that have seen enough years to know
that summer is short, that autumn will come,
that their leaves will always fall
dry and lifeless and brown.
Broken trees that know winter is cold,
is dark, is long, is inevitable.
Scarred trees that know their branches will be left bare,
left empty, left bereaved, left once again alone.
And yet in spring these trees sprout leaves,
sprout leaves, sprout leaves, sprout leaves.
And yet these trees sprout leaves!

Spring gives me hope, for spring is courage.

a time for gifts (National Poetry Month: Day 9)

Spring is a time for gifts, a time
when seeds lift high their tender sprouting leaves
in selfless offering to the wide sky
and say, this is my best, my all;
fed from the strength i stored
all winter long

The wind is laden thick with gifts of song
from birds that other times keep still
but now reveal a hidden purse of notes.
it is not much, they say,
but here. you need this more than i

Between your house and mine you've planted bulbs
and flagstones in the soil.
The stones, perhaps, are gifts for careful feet,
or else for flowers trying hard to grow.
Your home is full of laughter, friends,
and children who bring gifts they wrap
so carefully in ten small fingers.
There's little left to give.
And so I carry two small chairs outside
and hang a feeder for the hummingbirds.
thank you, I hear you say.
this place that you have made - 
it is good

~~~


This is a companion poem to a time for truth from November.

A Storm Breaks (National Poetry Month: Day 8)

Lightning pillars crack.
Thunder crumbles, skylines shudder,
trestles crumple. Sheets of wind
rip free of raindrop riveting,
and clouds come crashing down.