Idylls of Isolation: NaPoWriMo 2020 - 3. April 15 - April 21

April 15

 

Pray tell where wild mergansers go

when the north wind rages

and creeks their verdant banks o’erflow

where ancient cottonwoods still grow

gnarled as bearded sages?

 

What sheltered nest, what warm retreat

from the tempest howling,

awaits a creature most discreet,

protection in the cold and sleet

from sleek hunters prowling?

 

Someplace above brown roiling foam

roaring in vexation,

a high arboreal catacomb

where woodpeckers once made a home,

wait they the duration.

 

And when the storms of life blow strong,

reckless in their madness,

not hid amongst the teeming throng,

but I within your arms belong

guarded with your gladness.

 

 

April 16

 

I woke up

heavy with such desire

as the taut bow draws from the cello,

variations in yearning, resonant and rich,

a chaconne descending from the soul

pouring out my inmost

melody.

 

 

 

April 17

 

What manner of beast do you find in me

that lives behind these aged and too-frail walls,

a creature that leaps or frolics or crawls,

the forest son, or dweller of the lea?

Your shining eyes, I wonder what they see:

appearance or visage that swift appalls

a resident of peaceful barns and stalls,

or carnival act one can view for free?

Perhaps my languid eye might draw you close,

inspection more minute to undertake;

come ascertain that I’m not comatose,

your presence primal instinct must awake,

and all attention swiftly will engross,

for such a perfect couple would we make.

 

 

April 18

 

Who says I’m afraid to fly?

Tell me and his words I shall refute.

Mesmerizing is the sky,

bringing earthbound life to disrepute.

Everybody knows I view

gravity with paramount respect;

parting just to say adieu

leaves my parents open to neglect;

maybe staying home is best,

here atop this soaring maple tree

safe within this cozy nest:

wait, don’t push! I think I’d rather – whee!

 

 

 

April 19

Daffodils

Bow low before the snow,

obsequious and deferential,

giving due honor to Winter’s cold retinue;

yet when morning’s light admits Spring,

then, like children, they play

with the sun.

 

 

April 20

 

I have books

about meditation,

a dozen explicated titles

each promising connection to my mystic core;

some teach ancient desert fathers’ ways,

hermits harmonized with

scorpion

and the sand;

or lamas liable

to lose themselves, enthralled, exalted

by a close communion with whirling alpine snows;

others reveal disguised disciplines

from tonsured medievals

wreathed in smoke;

yet each one

leaves me feeling washed out,

unworthy, far too simple to soar

amidst the untold galaxies of unknowing

and too complex for simplicity.

 

 

April 21

 

Down joy and sorrow daily fall

like snow and rain upon the wall

and trickle streaming to the ground

in spreading puddles large and small.

 

It’s true these two are often found

to coexist, together bound

and none can say which lands on whom

or how one’s day or life is crowned.

 

Is laughter stored within the womb,

the babe marked with predestined gloom,

as though each in its class resides,

its seeds to grow in blight or bloom?

 

Perhaps there are no grim divides,

but with a smile the sigh collides

by chance, and tangled twain they sprawl

as ever certain as the tides.