The sun is changing now for night–
a pink delight.
I watch it fade
When darkened clouds turn dapple-gray,
I’ll turn away
with aching heart.
I’ll fall apart
’cause NaPoWriMo must erase
my happy face
the day we met.
This poem is in the Minute form and it’s the last of 30 poems for NaPoWriMo in the month of April. It’s been a busy time and I’ve had fun. Thanks to everyone who has viewed my poems and/or “liked” them or left a comment. It’s been a great adventure, good discipline, something to look forward to each day. Now, back to my short story. Never a dull moment for a writer and a poet!
warm as the sun on robin’s breast
soft as a yarn in blackbird’s nest
cool as the breezes when they blow
pristine as gentle flakes of snow
and tasty as sunflower seeds
or nasty as tough bitterweeds–
polecat babies in black and white,
who stir a stink in dark of night
tornado winds that scalp the hills
and crack the eggs of whippoorwills–
a “fraidy hole”–a cellar deep
where even greenish frogs can creep
a rain surprise in hasty splash
that brings forth thunder with a flash
newborn kittens in loft of hay
song of sparrow at end of day–
dogwood blossoms in Arkansas,
a welcome time chock-full of awe.
“The moon will glow in pink tonight,” they said.
Is that a false line from some writer’s book?
The thought of pink full moon fills me with dread.
But still I know that I will have to look.
This month of April seems to be the clue.
It happens every year but I’ve not seen
the moon parade in pink––it’s sometimes blue
like when it’s high above Kentucky’s green.
When it gets dark I go outside to see.
And sure enough the moon is glowing pink.
It’s full and bright and shining light on me.
I stand and stare and don’t know what to think.
Then I surmise that lines the writers weave
must show the reader–and he will believe.
FIND a word and write it down; HAPPINESS is a true rhyme. WHEN ever your muse acts a clown, YOU may write poems anytime. WRITE about lemon, also lime– A mountain or a pantomime. POEM should make you smile, not frown.
Spins When the Wind Blows
Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
An Adagem–a variation of the Acrostic. The first words of the
lines when read downwards convey a special message. They
are shown in bold letters.
Oh, little creek that once ran deep and free,
your water then was pure without debris,
but now your bed of rock has vastly changed–
your counterpane and pillows, rearranged.
The taste of your cool water is now banned–
my son asks why and cannot understand
why no one cared enough to really try
to keep our land the way it used to lie–
soft greens that made a big umbrella shade
along your banks while sun-perch swam and played;
where hart’s breath blended with the mountain mist
as gray fog fingers touched the amethyst.
Non-biodegradable refuse floats
on your waterways like runaway boats.
Oh, little creek, if I could have one plea,
I’d beg to set you free from all debris!
Blue flowers, tiny,
clinging to soft earth
as though your very existence
depends upon its dark soil;
your roots run at fragile angles
through red, brown, and black —
you are a symbol of many things;
among them, strength and beauty
that only the Creator can claim
as His Masterpiece.