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- Author
- 04/25/2021
- 504 Words
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- 8 Comments
Stumbling Into Spring: NaPoWriMo 2021 - 4. April 19th through April 24th
I apologize for my tardiness in posting this fourth sextet for April. All the errors are mine, of course.
April 19th
Blueberries
burnished bright and swollen,
ripened under the midsummer sun,
hang heavy and sweet in luxuriant clusters,
teasing with promises of harvest
only to be stolen
by blue jays.
April 20th
Eternal is the study hall
where minutes stumble, creep and crawl
and seconds only retrogress
across the clock upon the wall.
No stratagem can long address
the somnolence and heaviness
of ennui blanketing the mind
and motivation to suppress.
Thus, even while the moments grind
the inmates seek but cannot find
diversions which some time might kill
before the boredom drives them blind.
So students down the bitter pill:
their vocab words they start to drill,
with sighs dramatic while they sprawl
and homework notebooks slowly fill.
April 21st
Leftovers
made months ago and thawed,
take me back in time like some machine
to holidays which filled the house with scents of cooking,
and those favorite treats of the season
prepared for more plates
than were set.
April 22nd
In later life this kind of morning I’d admire,
chill mist upon the water made of glass,
which, frictionless, will skid and swirl from east to west
until a freshened zephyr sweeps it past;
while I, in baseball cap and light blue jacket clad
sip coffee, black and hot, as from a source
from chasms deep inside the red tumultuous earth
and made to flow, obliging, to my cup.
But when I was a little boy, the merest sprat,
my sainted mother thought it best for me
to attain the fundamental arts aquatic
each morning by the shores of this same lake
soon after sunrise, so it seemed to drowsy me,
instructed by enthusiastic teens.
In such a fashion as befits the meanest skill,
I learned to float, to stroke and paddle well enough,
but ever did the dark cold water put me off
with visions of an icy frozen grave
until my added padded adolescent days
let me those morning waters to assay;
the temperature I could endure, but even more,
I’d be a lot less visible from shore.
April 23rd
I’m too old
to bow down to new gods,
for I have worshipped many idols,
each less approachable, less faithful than the last;
instead will I give thanks for this hour,
the fading moon and the
rising sun.
April 24th
Old age is an unwelcome guest
demanding service of the best
to tend its many aches and pains
with which the body is distressed.
A visitor most oft refrains
from tapping on the windowpanes,
but age will follow through the house,
to know we hear while it complains.
It dribbles down its shirt and blouse
While finding cause to grump and grouse,
And hardly pauses breath to draw
While every joy it tries to douse.
This lodger’s wisdom urges awe
if recollection has no flaw,
yet in my clothes does it come dressed,
and that’s the very worst, last straw.
There's one more sextet to come for this April. If you have comments or thoughts about this one, please leave them here. I appreciate anything you might have to say.
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