National Poetry Month 2016: April 8

RiverNotch

any pronouns
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Again, the rule is you've got to write something on the topic or form described, with yer poems being in different posts. And that month thing -- prompts'll stop by April 30.

TODAY'S TOPIC: Inspired by a place you have lived in or a place you want to live in.
FORM: Any
LINE REQUIREMENTS: 8 lines or more

Credit where it's due; the idea and the prompts come from this site:
Poetry Forum - - Post poetry, get feedback, give critique.
 
MEMORY RECLAIMED

a memory a film
viewed once, eventually excitement
loud action, hero
slaying dragon
or princess opening sex
drowned out, as always,
in favor of the little things

the children -- perhaps the sun
setting red in the horizon,
dramatic string section
hanging chords -- cut to night

red firelight
on the deep in contemplation face,
a young voice, his words in the quiet like
"should I heed? should I heed?"

and smells of sage on rafter, thickening
moss on wood, bed of furs
beginning to foul, sour wine --

my son my younger self, we heed now
sitting here, locked
in illusion
now let me enjoy my pipe
 
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Hyacinths

The world is perfumed largely with fragrant hyacinths,
Sincerely blue, sincerely blue are you, dear house guest.
Me? No, I'm no resident. I've been everywhere and
Nowhere - but, that is where I like to be left to rest.


Give me a fine corner and a cup of tea, sweet blue,
I will tell you everything and nothing, all at once.
Darling bloom of the god Zyphyr, western Anemoi,
Strike me - Apollion, in the head, have you conscience?


And he won't say another word to Hyakinthos,
Who was his everything, but then nothing all at once.
 
Sometimes you wish
Dreaming on a star
Young minds expanding.
Wanting to go.
Far off lands.
Filled with faeries
Galloping Unicorns
Lands full of Candy
Distant horizons
Pirate ships
Lost Treasures
Second Star to the Right
Sugar Plum Faeries
Rivers of Chocolate
You mind filled with the
ideas of things.
Hoping one day
when you close your eyes
you can simply forget
your every day worries
And go to your childhood
memories and dreams
 
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Tall cliffs surround me,
Comforting in their solidity.
The trees are a wall,
Hiding me from view.

The sound of the waterfall,
Splashing down from on high,
Makes me feel like you missed me,
My little abode in the mountain.

The stream dances joyfully,
And the scent of the pines,
Greets me happily.
How I wish that I could stay.

I look forward to every visit,
Every feast of the eyes,
To every time my feet,
Can grace your surfaces.

My darling amphitheater,
How I wish for the snow to go,
When I can once again bask,
In your comforting glory.
 
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Aside the bonny Loch called Fyne
Where lavender and heather bloom
A castle stands 'gainst the test of time
Turrets rising still spell an enemy's doom
The stones pure white stacked tall and strong
Upon the bluff surrounded by the waters Fyne
All sides but one, there the path winds long
And archers watch from slits in a line
Ending any advance that might attempt attack
Upon the Laird and Lady safety housed within
The defensive might nor castle walls ne'er lack
But twas the valor of stout hearted men
That kept safe the castle and the glory of the clan
That can claim to this day a Laird MacLachlan
 
I couldn't see money when I was a child,
only palm trees, and chasing, and temples,
so maybe that was why
I forget the rice farms,
the tin houses,
and lack of plumbing.

There were just chickens to chase,
and clothes to stain with crimson mud.
The dirt was the bane of my mother,
and for twenty years she ran,
hating its stain,
though I called it 'home.'

All of my memories are full of tin bowls,
carved in beautiful, sharp diamond patterns,
the type you buy at a thalat
for just a few baht
to get a drink of water
or of coconut.

Even cheap rings worth nothing
were a kind of magic to me
and I bought them
five baht,
two baht,
one baht,
cheaply carved.

I showed them to my grandmother
and she would 'oooh' and 'aaah'
and tell me she loved them
in the days before I lost my tongue
to a father's fear
a new country,
a home, but no homeland.

I did not see people stare
at the white skin I wore
when people would touch me just to know if I felt the same
as any other child would
anywhere in the village
who were baked longer than I.

My cousins were my world
and I bathed outdoors with no shame
playing with a palm frond fishing pole
my grandfather carved
with a knife,
some imagination,
and country learning.

I loved the food off the carts,
the icecream man and his radio blaring,
as me and my cousins raced outside
shouting for him,
waving money,
hoping he'd stop for us
and scoop coconute ice cream
into a hotdog bun with rice.

But as I grew older my eyes grew wider,
and the temples and Bangkok made me feel less small,
and the farms less small still
until their confines chafed,
their poverty itched,
and their worries bit
like fleas off my grandpa's dog.

I cannot tell if I grew wise or grew stupid,
but I saw what my mother saw,
and tried to understand why she ran,
yet still I consider
that red dirt
to be something of home.
 
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