NaPoWriMo 19 – a creation myth

The Orchard

I see her standing
in her orchard,
one small pip,
shiny brown, resting
in her right hand.

All around, the trees stretch out
as far as far, and there is birdsong
and the drowsy drone of sleepy wasps.

Apple trees don’t grow true from seed.
She knows this. And the fact
that you must plant 10,000 pips
to win the prize: a tree worth keeping –
an apple worth the eating.

So, she’s half laughing at herself,
but plants it anyway,
pressing it gently
into the nurturing soil.
Then waiting. She has time.

Warming it with the wild sunshine
of her joy. Watering it
with the soft raindrops of her love.

Dreaming that this could be the one
the tree that grows the perfect orb –
green flecked, and russet,
maybe clouded, wet with dew,
smelling of wholesomeness.

An apple to be held gently
and with respect – the flesh
of apples bruises easily –
an apple to be shared,
sweet as laughter,
with a tang of something longed for.
An apple to be loved.

I see her sitting, waiting,
in her orchard, patient
as eternity. Trees stretch out
all around. Blossom glints white
here, see, and there, shining
in the great darkness of infinity.

NaPoWriMo has reached day 19, and is asking for a creation myth. I hope this works as one. 

NaPoWriMo 18 – neologisms

Monday morning

I. The son.

Fizzticulation!
Faraddagulate –
Badom, badom,
Garradaggle, gaggarate,
Bombarraficate,
Badom, badom, badom.

Fiffle. Faffle. Foffle.
Badadom, badadom,
Kerdunk.
Grawk.
Fiffle. Saffulate.
Ah.
Kerdunk.

II. The mother

Ung.
Tarratta, tarratta.
Schloop.
Ah.
Tarratta, tarratta.
Snarkle, garkle –
Schoop.
Ah.
Tarratta, tarratta.
Kerdunk.

II. The father

Ungungle, urgle,
Umgaroogle.
Scharple, schnumpf,
Schloop.

Schloop.

Schloop, schloop,
Schloop.

Badadadadadadadadada.

Kerdunk.

IV. The daughter

Sumgumgle, gurgulation,
Gumrumble, gumgungulation.
Nurgle.
Nung.
Fleekle. Ah.
Fleekickle. Grawk.
Smumble, smoogle,
Smoogle, fleekle.
Ah.

Tappatappatappa.

Kerdunk.

 

NaPoWriMo asks for neologisms. I am aware that this is more of an avalanche of onomatopoeia, but this is pretty much the noise we make in the mornings…my son is a morning person, as you might have gathered. 

NaPoWriMo 17 – Nocturne

We have lost the very last of the light
Seeped from the edge of the sky at last
But, see, the stars are so very bright

We’re not quite ready to say goodnight
And the wine has grown darker in my glass –
We have lost the very last of the light.

The moths are foolish, they feel no fright,
As the candle lures them in at last,
When, see, the stars are so very bright.

There are rustlings happening out of sight,
Perhaps a fox, swift stalking past,
We have lost the very last of the light

Now the moon is rising, a sliver of white,
A lantern hung on a midnight mast,
And see, the stars are so very bright.

We sat and talked, and laughed all night –
Hard to believe how quickly it passed –
We have lost the very last of the light,
But, see, the stars are so very bright.

NaPoWriMo 16 – letter writing

Dear householder
The bee bumbles
Is your water supply safe?
From flower to flower
Do you know you could be liable?
Delivering packages of pollen
You have been chosen
Love letters and sweet honey.
Like..like like…like
Two greenfinch
Dear Mrs Connor
Dance an angry
Your friend has posted
Correspondence
Your friend has shared
Round the plum tree
Hi. Need milk.
The crab apple
You have 37 followers
Scrawls her lines
Win win win win win
Across the sky
Your appointment has been changed
Air mail letters home.

NaPoWriMo 15 – the middle one

As far as we’ll go.

It’s the middle of spring
and my mother is turning
into a bird. I’m a little afraid
that the wind up here
will send her sailing away
like a kite, but she’s smiling.
This is as far as we’ll go:
there’s a bench, where
my parents can sit
and soak in the sun.
The kids are roaming,
a little bit aimless,
crushing the spring grass
that’s studded with stitchwort
and bluebells. We walked here
through cloud after cloud
of blackthorn, but this
is as far as we’ll go.
We’re so high, and
down in the bay
the water is bluer
than blue, and sparkling,
catching the sunlight –
sunshine in April –
always a blessing –
and a smooth shape
breaks through the waves,
a porpoise is playing.
But this is as far as we’ll go.

NaPoWriMo 13 – Ghazal

The Earth

We are the children who worship the face of our mother the earth
And under our nails is the mark of the love of the earth.

In the warmth of the sun in the spring we plant seeds,
Seeds that will grow in the love and the heart of the earth.

Our fingers push into the deepest and darkest of spaces,
The moist, the warm secret gaps in the heart of the earth.

We sing to the rain, as a gift that will come and will quicken
The life in the heart and the flesh of our mother the earth

The worm and the ant are her children too, we remember,
And the blade of the spade is a prayer that we make to the earth

The dandelion flaunts herself, gold in the grass, in the
Crown that is twisted and weaved for the brow of the earth

And we bend and we bow as we worship her beauty,
Our sister, our maker, our mother, our lover, the earth.

NaPoWriMo 12 – alliteration

Dancing Dragons

On this misty morning,
all moist and melancholy,
full of murmured mysticism
and make-shift moonshine

I dream of dragons
dancing in the desert,
darting and dropping
through the diamond-dazzling air,
driving the dust-dry desert sands
before them. I dream
of the terrible tearing of
tortured tissues by
talon and tooth, slip over
the sun-sparkled silk-strong,
steel-smooth scales,
their slithering sheen
soaked in shimmering
sunshine.

Here the dismal daylight
drizzles drearily
through the damp dull window,

there the sky is a sapphire scream,
and dragons roost and rustle,
roaming the rust-reddened,
rose-roasted rocks,
drifting and drowsing,
and dreaming

of me.

NaPoWriMo 11 – A Bop

If you don’t want to dance,
Don’t come to my party,
Don’t come to my party
If you want to stand and talk,
Or struggle with a paper plate,
A wine glass and a fork.

Don’t come to my party if you don’t want to dance –

If you’re looking for conversing,
There’s a tea-room on the High Street,
If you’re after dinner,
A restaurant is slick,
But here the music’s playing
And I want to see you swaying,
Fingers rapping, toes a-tapping,
And a wiggle in your hips:

Don’t come to my party if you don’t want to dance –

You can do a square dance,
A circle dance, a line,
Some hip hop, some be-bop,
A slut drop would be fine,
You can shuffle in a corner,
Or strut it centre stage, but

Don’t come to my party if you don’t want to dance.

NaPoWriMo 10 – a portrait.

Goddesses? Always. But change full

In our manifesting. Maidens first,

When you flickered like a willow,

All legs and movement, a green flame,

And we were glorious, furious, demanding

Worship. Joyful. Then you led the way

Into the fruitful pools of Motherhood,

The fiercer joys of holding smaller hands,

Wiping small faces, ripening apples.

I watched you write yourself, carving

Your goddess. Show the strength

Of blood, of womb, of breast,

And still the flame, the moon,

The midnight dancing.

Last night we laughed, and talked

Of being Crones. I think

You’ll find a power there, the flame

Will burn as white as ice. I think you’ll still

Move through the world in strength, 

Green as a willow.

For we are always goddesses,

Changing only in our manifesting.