Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo

Day 30: Fighting in Vapors

To burn everything that touches you
char all that nestles inside of you
again and again, pretend in silence
until they walk away, until they walk
– is one way to fight.

Measure they all say. So I awaken to confront
thermometer in hand, resolve to find your
heat, see just how much you throw in battle,
discover how to approach with 6-decades
old defiance, some uber-heated wisdom.

Measure they all said. But as soon as
your porcelain door shuts tight, silent-
you bite, glass fragments thick and old
scatter across the midnight black
speckled floor, scatter to all invisible spaces
somewhere beyond US steel door
– patent pending c. 1952.

I search, look hard for quicksilver beads,
scavenge shards, the spoils of loss
like missing teeth after one deciding right hook,
but find only space, a pungent metal smell
inescapable, everywhere
saturating senses, now racing

To fight with vapor, fill all spaces
blind to the eye, deceive with combustion, drive
your heat to recombine with that (O2) which can
never (air) dilute (destabilize) your toxin
– is one way to fight.

I close my mouth, too late
feel you move from nose to lungs to brain,
mercury fumes slamming me hard
against all the walls inside my brain

You win.

So this is the very last poem for National Poetry Month. I’ve enjoyed the challenge of writing daily- but posting daily was the toughest part.  I think I did better than last year, but there were times, days – when i just couldn’t fit it in before or after a gig or traveling.  Anyone else have a tough time with their monthly commitment to write?  Thanks to the sponsors! I look forward to next year ;)

Day 25: Mine Shaft

Mine Shaft

Hopeful
we run back
rewind to find
the spaces our bodies
once fit             easy
discoveries                   clandestine
treasures undug and waiting 
for bare hands-

but sunset pools in
carmine                             sepia  shadows       
on foothills of cast-off ore
too tall to climb
blocking                 our way
while crossing boards decry
in faded red

keep out
gold is gone

© 2012 Tara Linda. V3

Day 18: Becoming Poetry

Someone said to me yesterday “poetry becomes you.”  I wondered what that meant as he walked away.  If I were to think that about another poet, here is what it might mean.

Poetry becomes you
when spaces inside find daylight
mixed with motion, a faint swirl
like when dressing, how your shirt
falls in a slow ripple cascade
as if a window just opened, moves
grace in folds, sheer and delicate
down your back.

Poetry becomes you
when nuance wells up between
thoughts, like leaves in wind most
won’t see, but one catches your eye
as it twirls over and over to the earth,
cat calling and whistling at you
all the way to your feet.

Poetry becomes you
when words hidden from air
in books, lost in time archaic
float back languid past pen over paper
liquid in language from a dream
triggered by a lyric, how she signed her name
swirls of L and J- all captured in your net
for later, held close behind your back
as he walks toward you, smiling.

Poetry becomes you
when the hairy ogre in the pink hat
red shoes too small for his feet, the one
no one will admit, but is sitting right there
confessing, or lying and smelly, says
something about his pain, starts to scream
or is that you actually screaming
mute button on, pen dipping the well
hand who’s muscles have forgotten
hieroglyphics but who find the words
just a few, for the one thing
everyone is thinking but
won’t say.

© 2012 Tara Linda  V.3

Day 15: Child Poet

He is standing in my path
when I round the corner
10 years in his sweet brown eyes
shifting from one foot then the other.

His medusa long hair, tendrils
matted and wriggling at the waist
might snag me if I fail to stop
so I stop.

Hi-my-name-is-Myles-and-
I’m-raising-money-for-my-school-and
I write poetry… would you like to see one?
Confident, he places the page
in my open hand, 8 stanzas long,
and Xeroxed. Did you write this?
Yes & my brother types them
for me. His words about hope and

a pain he knows…and games, and how
words help him “see through” … he is
looking past me now, maybe counting
minutes until he can join his brother.

Did you know it’s national poetry month?
I ask fishing in my pockets, no he says.
Sell your poetry, $1.00/poem.
He looks up intent. And the next person you meet
tell them that you are a Poet
with a capital “P” and that your words
will change the world.

Day 14: One Staggering Memory

Dusk arrives in the marrow       the way

sun rises in the blood                   heart

beats a story in grooves on a disc    

blowing drapes            photos of Lola          

faded lace       Majorca pearls.     

Paint peels its history in songs             a sin, or many

(tell the story)                   she sways to forget-

 some vintage regret             this                our unspoken    

(tell the story)    un(buried)             lineage.

“So Addiction walks into a bar                meets

Lonely…”            scattered sorrows         

cracked watch glass            spills sand back   

to its black sand beach      pearl folds into its un(broken) shell-

Do you believe in destiny?

 One staggering memory.

 

Day 12: Endless Rain

“It is impossible to live
without poetry and color and love.”
Antoine St. Exupery

I miss the South for its dramatic storms. When the sky opens up with a deluge of pelting drops or giant hail, and it’s “hellfire & brimstone” in the skies.  And then it’s over.  We’re having a storm now, with a long slow rain.  And true to west coast ways, the lightning & thunder are slow rolling and taking their sweet time.  Two hours later and still a gentle storm.  ;)       More lyrics…

You wake me up at 4 o’clock
saying, why stay asleep when we could talk
seems your head is full of dreams, it seems.

Open your eyes & the sky turns gray 
begin to speak down my window pain
first a mist and then a steady pour.

Rain rain, are you here to stay?
Seems you got a lot to say
so I’ll listen to you, all night/
all day…

Day 11: Song From the Ruins

“The creative life has a thousand lives, and it comes back from every death.” 

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, The Creative Fire.


You can pull her roof

from Saguaro ribs, test her will

in the crumbling clay-

but as long as stars reflect her eyes

she’ll dance, she’ll sing and sway

Again, she’ll find her way.

 

You can tie her hands, still her steps

bind shadows all around her-

but La Chispa will spark a raging fire

El Duende will untie her,

El Duende will unbind her.

© 2012 Tara Linda

Day 10: Now Leaving…

He’s driven this far

to see the same sky

reflecting  carmine                     cumulus.

 

Each mile marker

moves him in valleys

erasing epochs,

keeps posting the same           sign

Now leaving:  

           Space                   and        

                                                                        Time

c. 2012 TaraLinda

 

M. Ward (or “Mathew Freakin’ Ward” as a jealous reviewer called him)  has just today released his newest album, “A Wasteland Companion,”– and it IS an awesome album. But I confess, this artist can never go wrong musically. I hope he evolves in a thousand directions, & I will follow his music with every one. Ward is one of the few musicians that seems to channel music like air.  Beyond having a natural voice and enviable songwriting skills, his lyrics reflect a sensitivity to all around him, compassion; humanity. Even when he writes about death, you feel ethereal release and love (hear Requiem, & watch the video).  How does he do all this?! I listen hard for answers; yet, it’s like trying to distinguish light from air.  I confess, I like his solo work most, and the Americana sounds more than the pop.

With this artist, it makes sense to speak of Muses with a capital “M”.    He channels Muses, or probably Muses channel M. Ward.   His music will always inspire me.  I enjoy most his earliest recordings because they sound raw, recorded in attics with lo-fi production. You feel like you’re there- in the room with he & his band.  And this “aliveness” is what I strive for in my music. Don’t we all.

In his new release, there are the usual M. Ward qualities;  vintage inspired, unpretentious, joy filled, soul-soothing songs- with just a bit more wonder and innocent magic.

His new video animates these same childlike qualities.

Day 8: Waiting Fuse

Nothing kills Muses like taxes.

But there were so many great things about this week. Like making it 8 days into the poetry challenge, unscathed;). The Europe tour is coming together nicely; we’re working on videos. My garden is growing; and the hunter moon is lighting the skies.

This time last year when I was challenged to finish a song, and a poem for the same 30 poems/30 days challenge, Muses gave me this:

“Jealous Muse                                                    

Time for a million
& none for me- gives zero
to the bossa waiting patiently.
We could sip wine & light a fuse
taxes & death are no excuse.”

 

 

I can’t stop playing this song. Infectious joy.  It’s like Humboldt all over again…. ;)