National Poetry Month- 30 Poems/30 days

Yay for April!  National Poetry Month, and Day 2 of NaPoWriMo’s 30 poems in 30 days challenge.  So I have 2 poems for today. And a wee macro.

I love that Spring is the kick-off for National Poetry Month; and that our hosts continue to kindly host; and that the poetry community is growing.  I like how NaPoWriMo formalizes a daily commitment to write, & for me, to take those daily scribbles into an actual post ^..^  .  I love discovering other poets work from all over the world.

Similar to last year, for the month, my poems may be buried in a post, or disguised as lyrics and verse. Other times, they are what I call “poetry pebbles”: small bits written fast, without rules, form, or destination…

Poem #1: inspired by Jaya King’s watercolor, “Cheep”.

Tiny bird
tangerine teal
I see that worm shimmy
glitter up your hat as if
Spring
is here     or your birthday
or a song you can’t stop
singing… “I’m No. 1, I’m No.1, I’m No. 1″

in Joy major.

Poem #2: Last week’s Wordle #49

Junk Yard Romance

Was it witchcraft or high art-

some quantum physical proof of
attraction in action, unbidden joy brewing
tender under a desert night sky?

Mechanical you, the alchemist under my
64-Chevy, roll out to say, how you miss
the South~ pecan pie and pralines~  just having
tightened the axle, replaced a hose~ cracked for supple~
tapped a gauge, and sprinkled white powder
over oiled juices.  The clean sweep         we both

needed, busy work behind a score of softly said
words…change, destruction, loss.       Desertion
is like the Pecos wind, we both agree;     covers dreams
with a fine, constant dust.             Endless.

“Remove those acids?” your deep blue eyes move
from chalk white battery to my new dress… No need,
I’ve some acumen, we joke. You set up appointments,
one next week, “to make sure” you say quietly.
I nod yes, seeing the store on the way home
with the best pecans, vanilla, brown sugar.

© 2012 Tara Linda. VS6

from artist Michael C. McMillen.

Michael C. McMillen’s Art & “Swamp Shrine”- a Poem

 Michael C. McMillen‘s exhibit (just left Oakland’s Museum of California) spans 30 years of drawings, paintings, sculpture, giant moving mechanical games, collaged film shorts, and exhilarating room-sized installations.  Many of his detailed scenes were miniatures made for film backdrops. I loved how the museum placed his exhibits variously throughout the entire wing- creating the feeling of discovery every time we happened upon his pieces or film corners.  Both the artistry and presentation were genius.  (Kudos curator- this is the best exhibit ever!)

It was extra fun & inviting with the giant room installations; luxurious enough to enter, walk porch planks, part drapes, peek through doors, wend and touch your way through.

It was visceral, raw and real or completely surreal. It was new at the same time reminiscent of small town USA on a past roadtrip, or something from your grandparent’s life.

It was sometimes foreboding

with death hovering, but often humorously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could write poems for each piece.

One giant installation, “The Pavilion of Rain” could be felt with all senses, and a couple of emotions- from the humidity on your skin, to the feeling of aloneness in a one room house shed, all while suspended over a swamp.  It was easy to judge the exterior.

But then I went back to sit inside on the bench with eyes closed, to hear the frogs & crickets, and feel everything McMillen gave us to feel.

Swamp Shrine

Who knew that rain

falling on corrugated tin

could soothe like this?

My roof-made tympani

whispers stories from afar

sweet rhythms hold me close

in a long embrace.

Even the frogs are silent now

as water dances shadows down

these torn lace drapes.

How can I repay this kindness?

I will stay awake, be

here to welcome inside

the moon, or a drop

of water

-whoever enters first.

 

© Tara Linda

“If There was Something I Forgot to Say…” Poem

Artist Michael C. McMillen,  installation- Oakland Art Museum

If there was something I forgot to say, I’m sure this place will say it for me.

And maybe you’ll hear it when I pull away
onto the frontage, parallel Interstate 5
your silver Jetstream shrinking small in my rearview mirror,
windows aglow in soft blue light, maybe then.
Or channel surfing, your mind wide opened like the wires
of the ham antennae I split and hung for you
from the top of that skeleton of a rusty derrick.  Or soon,
when you lie back, close your eyes to cricket song
amplified from empty steel barrels near Grandpa’s Chevy, louder
than nature intended, but comforting still. Or just before you fall asleep
in that whir of a highway lullaby, between backfired fills
and down-shifting gears as drivers time their exit
to Mirabel’s Truckstop.

Or last hope- maybe you’ll hear from the dream frontier-
that spitting image of our junkyard home
(sans mortgage) bathed in scarlet sky, with a perfect soundtrack
of shortwave radio arias scoring the filmed crescendo, just before
the starlet you-so-love, stuffed into her beaded dress, sashays out and stops.
Turns (just right for affect), and having all
your attentions (no interference now)
in a soft voice
whispered slow
low and gentle
says-

       all those

words

       I couldn’t find.