Erato's Olio: Poems for NaPoWriMo 2022 - 1. April 1 - April 8, 2022

April 1

 

Late March glooms

with penitential snow,

neither unseasonal nor unknown,

as if the earth could cover itself in sackcloth

and shiver in its contemplation

of trusting its future

to mankind.

 

 

Stray snowflakes

wander without purpose

separate from the central flurry,

and float across the field on the wind’s unseen breath

with no inclination to hasten

their desultory descent

to my tongue.

 

 

New fire glows

east of the morning star

where china blue fades to pink and gold

and maples raise their branches in supplication

to the horizon’s enkindled light

for the gift of green warmth

and birdsong.

 

 

 

 

April 2

 

 

 

If I have eyes to count the endless stars

then how to measure space between

those finite scintillating dots of light

which mark the void with shimmering?

for blackness has no demarcated depth

nor can our science overcome

its silent span across infinity

where angel songs will never hum.

 

If vastness dwarfs whatever I may know

then I must look down to the earth

to understand each stone and blade of grass

or where the beetle finds its berth.

yet wedged between these wonders so revealed

interstices yet more profound

appear where bold electrons whirl and dance

to joyous subatomic sound.

 

 

 

 

April 3

 

 

 

I saw stars

overhead in the sky

where lately clouds overshadowed night

and masked the silver moon beneath their layered quilts

revealing nothing of their patterns

till daylight groaned again

to show them.

 

 

I saw sky

through threadbare torn stratus,

and to the west, the cold front’s frayed hem

revealed the constellations in all their glory,

the ravishing naked flesh of night

exposed to mortal eyes

in wonder.

 

 

I saw light

faint upon the east ridge

where barren oak trees anticipate

a full spectrum of color in bud and blossom,

far more brilliant than autumn’s attire,

enough to extinguish

loneliness.

 

 

 

 

April 4

 

 

 

‘Neath the foaming waves so high,

No leviathan am I

sporting with a blow and sigh

object of the hue and cry;

 

 

Flotsam weedy rather more,

drifting past the man-‘o-war

of no use to carnivore,

destined to wash up on shore.

 

 

I’ll not rock nor island be;

just a sandspeck by the sea,

listening to its timpani,

pondering infinity.

 

 

 

 

April 5

 

 

 

Hope is made

from pale yellow-blue dawn,

and dew left in the night like diamonds

to glint from every bud and branch in the garden;

it’s formed from green crocus shoots rising

through last year’s leaves, and of

birds singing.

 

 

Hope tastes sweet

after February’s snows

smother the flavors of Christmastime,

and the bitter tang left behind by late March storms;

it’s subtle scent lingers in the mist

when the frogs start to call

for their mates.

 

 

Hope sounds like

swans flying overhead

calling down from the stars in the night;

it’s in the symphony of thundering rivers

accompanied by the roaring wind,

while the trees swoon and rave

like young teens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 6

 

 

 

When war slips from its chains to rage and burn

and prey upon the children’s peace,

its jaws run red with shattered innocents,

the world bewailing its release.

Its human quarry sprawls with mouth agape

amid bleak, burned out, ruined streets

where late the beast its boundless maw had fed

an appetite that none defeats.

 

 

This is no sweet domesticated pet

of generals and presidents;

no leash nor cage its fury can contain,

and no rule saves from its torments.

Yet vigilance this hound may circumscribe;

our courage might its instincts bind

to silence this dark animal for all

when wisdom comes to humankind.

 

 

 

 

April 7

 

 

 

Under a small blue tent

hands joined, hearts full,

we stand by the neat hole

in the green turf

while low grey clouds bow veiled heads

to the green hills

and weep sad tears with us

on a north wind

while the pines mutter prayers,

sighing those hymns

we have no strength to sing

till the sparrows

take up their old refrain

taught us in youth:

“Poor Sam Peabody, Peabody!”

and twelve heads rise,

realizing all at once

we said goodbye.

 

 

 

 

April 8

 

 

 

My bodhran

sits mute by the window

where it can hear the patter of rain

and watch the lightning flash and feel rumbling thunder

shaking and rattling the windowpanes,

while the whole house vibrates

with music.

 

 

On the shelf

sits my concertina,

its buttons cranky and reeds untuned;

a fine coating of dust covers its cracked varnish

and spots have discolored its bellows,

yet the keys still recall

how to dance.

 

 

I can’t play

the mountain dulcimer

my brother built for me as a gift,

despite all his earnest instruction and coaching;

only he could prompt its plaintive voice

to sing those songs we knew

as children.