Cold and windy

late spring in the neighborhood
Late Spring in the Neighborhood

the season shifts
to days of cold, and colder nights
stars shine more brightly

dry winds abscond with clouds and leave
faint wisps of smoky haze

Copyright © 2019-05-05, by Lizl Bennefeld.

Forecast for the week is for nighttime lows in the 30s and low 40s (although not below freezing), cold and gusty wind.

I decided not to post a couple of the poems that I wrote during April, so my count on this site comes up short.  I fell ill from an infected wound, and so I have been sleeping a lot and taking antibiotics every six hours. I will be so happy to have more than five hours of sleep in a stretch…you wouldn’t believe! Follow-up appointment later this week.

 

 

Day 26: An Everlasting Pause #NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo

Prompt for Day 26: Write 10 one- or two-line poems on one subject, however loosely related to the subject. Put them together, arranging and rearranging, and title them as one poem.

An Everlasting Pause

Only eternity lasts forever

              Be still and know

There are many mansions

              and the perfect one is set aside for you

Passage of time and distance of place…

              all is present in the Now

I cannot conceive of a moment of perfection

              that never ends or varies

One thing that puzzles me is whether eternity is

              a continuity, an instance of existence, or an object of art

Clarity persists in haunting the mind of the bemused

The eternal Here and Now overlooks the ebb and flow

              of distance and time, not counting minutes or the miles

Satisfaction is a state of mind independent

              of circumstances or the company we keep

Experiencing the tides of now, the gentle inflow and recession

              of being and not being

Hypnotized by sensation and waiting for the feeling

              to come again

Lost in the eternal pause between nothing more

              and everything

Copyright © 2019-04-26, by Lizl Bennefeld.

Day 8 – Use the kimo poetic form

the remnants of a snowdrift in the front yard, bereathing its last
Melting Snowdrift (2019-04-08)

Write a kimo, an Israeli form that tends to capture a moment (like a photograph in words), using three unrhymed lines with syllable count 10, 7, 6. (Cuyahoga County Public Library)

ice crystals scattered in a shrinking patch
glistening in the sunlight…
exhaling their last breaths

Copyright © 2019-04-08, by Lizl Bennefeld.

My first poem for this Monday was written for the Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Prompt Challenge, and can be found on my Quilted Poetry blog: River’s Crest.

Day 7 – Words Fail Me | #NaPoWriMo2019

Prompt: Write a nonet, a nine-line poem, with the first line containing nine syllables, the next eight, so on until the last line has one syllable. (Cuyahoga County Public Library)

Words Fail Me

Sometimes the shape of each letter is
more compelling than words’ meanings.
Playing tricks on sore eyes,
they duck and vanish
into the mist
of fatigue.
Fail to
speak.

Copyright © 2019-04-07, by Lizl Bennefeld.

 

Crying Children (orig. pub. Jan./Feb. 1980)

“Crying Children”

Crying children whisper through my dreams,
their voices faint and dying
from hunger and from fading hope.

I hold my heart untouched
behind a wall of patient waiting.
A few more months, my heart,
a few months only and they’ll die,
their crying cease.

Then only ghosts of crying children
will disturb your sleep.

Originally published as “Ghosts of Crying Children” in the January/February 1980 issue of OURS (as of 1994, the Adoptive Families Magazine), “Crying Children” has since been re-published in other venues). [Minor revisions.]

 

Story Poem, another Day 27 prompt | #NaPoWriMo2018

Brewer: For today’s prompt, write a story poem. Think of a story, could be a long, complicated, winding story, but for a poem, it may make more sense to make it a short, direct story.

Sort of a plot summary of a book that I wrote, many years ago, and then put aside. I have no suitable photos to go with it. Comes to mind, again, every once in a while, morphing over…nearly 4 decades.

“Blood to Blood”

Not who he thought, his father,
not he who was seated as chairman
in his grandfather’s boardroom.

His true father, not by name, but blood,
one who labored in his mother’s gardens,
holding his hand as he took his first steps,

sharing carrots with him from those gardens.
Eating green peas nested in their pods,
they watched koi fish swim among the lilies.

As he grew, listening to rain and
painting the colors of the wind,
he came into his heritage and ran.

Not a heritage of wealth,
but fear, fleeing to the one
who taught him how to run.

Copyright © 2018-04-28, by Elizabeth Bennefeld.