Archive for April, 2013


NaPoWriMo 29

Dactyls are Dharma, too

Here in the midst of the ten thousand thingummies
Hearing the voices of ten million throats,
Feeling compassion for those who have aching knees,
Those who build bridges and those who dig moats.

Sitting in zazen and counting the in-and-out
One and a one and a one and a one,
Mind somehow caught in this insistent rhythm, I
Tick like a clock sitting here in the sun.

Dharma is silent but Dharma is noises and
Dharma is stillness but Dharma is speed,
Why should I think that the circling second-hand
Isn’t precisely the sound that we need?


(More dactlys)


NaPoWriMo 28 (only one day late…)

Triolet in three that she wrote while waiting for rescue

Oxygen is low,
Power running out.
Turning down the flow,
Oxygen is low.
They’re coming, sure but slow,
I have no breath for doubt;
Oxygen is low,
Power running out.


NaPoWriMo 27 (the latest yet!)

The Shah’s High Wizard
is a small dark-haired girl,
curled sleeping on his shoulder,
lithe in harem silks,
breathing softly.
But when her soft eyelids open,
behind them is Hell.


(I wrote a fragment of a short story about these two sometime recently, maybe as part of that “750 words” thing that I appear to have completely given up in favor of NaPoWriMo; so here they are in a poem!)


NaPoWriMo 26 (late again!)

However long
The days have been,
We fit together
Like puzzle pieces.

Like a song
Skin on skin,
Cotton and leather.
The clock ticks.

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NaPoWriMo 25


The yonderboy
coming stob afetch the wain
tonnies a corith of sleag,
and follerein sloy,
cafitches in the tully-sain.
Borringen pleag.


Thursday update

So I was out late with an atomic friend last night (when was the last time THAT happened? I am so anti-social), and that combined with some technical difficulties kept me from posting a poem yesterday, so I have put up a belated NaPoWriMo 24. I hope April will forgive me!

(Also it’s an ultra-short one that I had saved up for emergencies, but there I forgive myself.)

Long-time digital friend the Bicycle-Pedaling (not peddling, that’s someone else) Frog has sent in the first correct solution of the riddle from the 23rd, and as a reward gets a picture in the weblog!

bicycle pedaling frog

Also remember: The Bicycle Pedaling Frog entitles the player to spin again without answering a question!


NaPoWriMo 24

Sometimes just three lines
would be too many.


NaPoWriMo 23


My first is the ocean,
My second’s a train,
My third is in paean,
My fourth is in pain,
My last is the ending
of both near and far,
My whole is the air,
between us and that star.


NaPoWriMo 22


The sunlight
coming in the window
makes a perfect edge
on the tiles


NaPoWriMo 21

Lisa Marie Drops 50 Pounds!

Lisa Marie drops 50 pounds!
Right on her toe!
“Owch,” says Lisa Marie!

Do you think that hurt?
I bet it did!

Have you ever dropped anything on your toe?
Did it hurt?

Did someone do something to help you feel better?
What could you do, to help Lisa Marie feel better?

What do you think Lisa Marie should do now?

What do you think you should do now?


NaPoWriMo 20

One is an apple,
Two is a bone,
Three is a riddle
When nobody’s home.

Four is the center,
Five is the edge,
Six is for beetles,
Under the hedge.

Seven is supple,
Eight is a light,
Nine is for daybreak,
But ten is for night.


NaPoWriMo 19

The rain is heavier now
but it’s only rain
and there is time to breathe


NaPoWriMo 18

This hatchet has seen honest labor, I think,
but not this century.

I wonder about the last person to use it,
as the tool that it was.

When he put it down, in the corner of the shed,
did he know it was the last time?

That its work was over,
with that last quiet clink
of metal coming to rest
on stone.



We interrupt this poetry for an Amusing Sign; captured in Lexington, Massachusetts.


That is all!


NaPoWriMo 17

Walking Cross-Country

He says he’s writing a computer program
to simulate
walking cross-country
in an unknown place.

Where you might follow a brook upstream
and be surprised by
a forest lake
sparkling in the sun,

And follow a path around it
to a ramshackle house
at the end of a dirt road
where a woman with dark hair and soft eyes
opens the door
and smiles a welcome.

And I say that that sounds cool,
and I also say,
that the real world has surprises like that, too,
and even soft-eyed women,
and he should maybe go for real walks sometimes.

He turns to me,
like he’s about to say something,
but then he just shakes his head
and goes back to the keyboard.


NaPoWriMo 16

White rice,
some chicken breast,
a pile of vegetables,
and pineapple with curry sauce;
these gifts.


Rather different flavor of cinquain than back on the seventh. Using that always-reliable source of inspiration: lunch!

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NaPoWriMo 15

Long Winter

A scarred hand
throws another log
onto the fire

Flame booms
and rises

Orange light on a boar’s tusk
mud-chinked walls
human hillocks breathing
under piled furs and skins.

the old winds howl.

Where are we now?

Where are we now?


Written mostly before the events today in Boston (and we are all safe, and were nowhere near), but seems not inappropriate. Love and energy to all impacted by that, or any other hardships, always.


NaPoWriMo 14


The High Gods dance on perfect crystal boats
To melodies ornate and songs sublime.
They drink the wine of bliss, and judge the world,
All drifting on the endless sea of time.

There are Gods of Night and Gods of Mirth and Hope,
Gods of Desire and War, of Wind and Stone,
But the scowling God that they call More-Than-This
Turns his boat away and sails alone.

Youths in their millions send up prayers to Love,
And marching armies sing their hymns to War,
The farmers pile the altars high with tribute,
The city’s throngs they kneel and adore.

But when you sit at evening discontented,
Surrounded by the empty things you’ve won,
And suddenly you’re filled with lonely longing,
It’s More-Than-This that hears your hungry groan.

There are Gods of Night and Gods of Mirth and Hope,
Gods of Desire and War, of Wind and Stone,
But the scowling God that they call More-Than-This
Turns his boat away and sails alone.

(Been reading ol’ Dunsany again.)


NaPoWriMo 13


My love is like a monster truck,
With giant muddy tires.
My love is like a flamethrower,
Lighting hungry fires.

My love is like a hurricane,
The wildest that ever blew.
My love, you see, is all about me;
I barely notice you.


NaPoWriMo 12

Nothing said with words is true.
But they can point
beyond themselves.