Stumbling Into Spring: NaPoWriMo 2021 - 3. April 13th to April 18th
Here is the third sextet of poems for this month. As before,
If an error you suspect,
or a misprint you detect,
know I meant no disrespect:
I will hasten to correct.
are temples, as they say,
then mine must be an ancient ruin,
all its arcane rituals lost and forgotten;
the altars moss-covered and toppled,
no stone left upon stone
where they stood.
Like fire which races through a forest green
Consuming all that in its path may grow,
Or waters which the meadows overflow,
And all the fens and thickets in between
where nature stares defiance at machine,
still more as howling northwest winds that blow,
uprooting oak and ancient tupelo,
to leave nor branch nor bud in state serene,
comes raging through the blood a greater force
that draws anticipation into sense
delighting in your taste and touch which course
through every nerve, my joyous recompense
for hours of deprivation from that source
of pleasure that will drive all reason hence.
The heart is a wild horse
untamed by the head,
corralled but unbroken by intellect;
allowed to run free,
mane and tail streaming,
its muscles ripple with the pure joy
of speed, of wind, of self;
yet penned in and saddled,
the heart kicks, bites, then droops,
a shadow of its former freedom,
scenting on the wind
both herd and horizon.
The rain falls like a shroud.
Windshields gleam under the streetlights.
The only thing
the birdsong can do
is paint the darkness
with lurid desire.
I am without territory
to mark my melody.
The only thing
in my pocket
is a bundle of semiquavers
that rattle like spare change.
on an endless detour,
by stretching the imagination
might eventually arrive as a pretzel;
the doughnuts’ ways are more arduous,
for they hope to become
The surface of a solid is defined
by curvature equations might explain
in detail of the algorithmic kind
which mathematics often must ordain;
(though understanding vectors is a plus
if one is to endure the rationale
for why we write the unit tangent thus
as better for the student’s frail morale).
If surfaces are concepts to sink in,
then on a detour might we not embark?
For if I trace a journey on your skin,
perhaps we’ll glean the nature of its arc.
Isometries in flesh we’ll gently probe
to pacify my sweet arithmophobe.
The preposition comes before
a noun, so one can all the more
locate it best in time or space
as movement toward the roof or floor.
When writing of the deer to chase
or tears appearing on the face,
a preposition tells us what
relation to the world they grace.
It’s not enough for jaw to jut,
for fist to clench or door to shut;
in which direction, tell which speed,
above, below, or in the gut?
Now ride your preposition’d steed
o’er rocky road or through the mead,
in London Town, from Labrador,
so every road to me will lead.
If you have comments, questions, rants, or expostulations, you can leave them here. I love to read anything you might have to say.
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