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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

April Weather: NaPoWriMo2018 - 3. April 15 through April 21

Poetry to soothe me through the stressful week...

April 15

 

That grey box

contains a thousand feasts,

and dishes for acres of potluck;

those old recipe cards trace long decades of life,

bold cursive turned to spidery script,

gumbo and brownies mixed

together.


 

April 16

 

I kissed a boy, and liked it fine,

and afterwards did I design

by guile and machinations great

to win his heart and make him mine.

 

But in my state of mind elate

I counted not on unkind fate,

for I was blind and failed to see

the one for whom I fell was straight.

 

And thus played out the tragedy,

I wondered what was wrong with me,

so fatally did I conclude

I should from my own nature flee.

 

The mists of time those days occlude

yet on that kiss long have I stewed,

that ere I reach the finish line,

I'll see my soul again renewed.



 

April 17

 

I am

a complete fraud;

I have no business here,

naked and exposed, reading my

scribbles;

all ears

hear my uncertain voice stumble;

people stir restlessly,

for they want real

poets.


 

April 18

 

I heard a redwing singing in the snow

though all the world seemed by the winter made,

as spring was tumbled into retrograde,

just what he had for breakfast, I don't know.

How bright red epaulets appeared to glow

while from the spruce, the singer, unafraid,

performed without a hope of accolade,

and bitter northern breezes set to blow.

The blackbird serenaded, spiting cold,

reminding all who heard to hope for sun,

although cruel old man winter seemed so bold,

the seasons in their courses surely run;

so let us wait for rose and marigold,

when love will rise in meadows where there's none.


 

April 19

Behind

the black, blank wall

I know there is a world

where things called sun and stars and smiles

exist;

I shout

to laughing voices past the door

which seals me in darkness,

but none stop to

listen.


 

April 20

 

Cold misty mornings

and glassy blue-green water

shroud nervous swimmers;

skin raised by chill air,

tan hills and tall prairie grass,

tastes the lake’s waters;

instant immersion

transports young bodies between

winter and summer.


 

April 21

 

At four-forty-eight

the oncoming freight

awakes the greening woods and the meadow;

the twin diesel’s horn

disturbs early morn

to sing from its sorrowful libretto.

The birds in the trees

will stir with unease

at clamor, rumble, clacketing and roar;

while kids in their beds

turn sleep-tousled heads

while parents deep in slumberland will snore.

Too short is the night

in silver moon light,

your body snuggled close against my frame;

the horn sounds again,

my skin recalls when,

as rail cars coupled, you called out my name.

Leave a comment or a complaint, I will be happy either way.
Copyright © 2018 Parker Owens; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Headstall
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You are a real poet, and these prove it. Really great stuff here, Parker. I love the line... "so let us wait for rose and marigold"... I swear I could smell the meadow and feel the heated air. :) 

I loved the melancholy(for me) tribute to the recipe box... my mother treasured her mother's, and now my sister has it. 

 

I totally understood #19... the feeling of being isolated from a world marching past... crying out in futile hope... as depression keeps you tethered.

 

Oh, and April 16... I'll never forget that first kiss....

 

You brought to mind train whistles and swimming holes, and laying in fields far from my house... my mom, my grandmother, my insecurities...

                                                                                                          ... you are no fraud, sir... :hug: 

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Mikiesboy
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ah, 17 ... i understand only too well ... i want to grow up and be a real poet one day... some days i think we are frauds, but most of them Parker, we are not.  Funny, we both wrote about our mums this week.  you her recipe box, me her garden

 

all wonderful my dear friend ... this is my fav week so far... bravo xo

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Parker Owens
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31 minutes ago, Mikiesboy said:

ah, 17 ... i understand only too well ... i want to grow up and be a real poet one day... some days i think we are frauds, but most of them Parker, we are not.  Funny, we both wrote about our mums this week.  you her recipe box, me her garden

 

all wonderful my dear friend ... this is my fav week so far... bravo xo

 

We connect to many things similarly. You saw both my daydream - a GA poetry reading - and nightmare. I’m glad this week’s poems spoke to you! Thank you for reading! 

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Parker Owens
6 hours ago, Headstall said:

You are a real poet, and these prove it. Really great stuff here, Parker. I love the line... "so let us wait for rose and marigold"... I swear I could smell the meadow and feel the heated air. :) 

I loved the melancholy(for me) tribute to the recipe box... my mother treasured her mother's, and now my sister has it. 

 

I totally understood #19... the feeling of being isolated from a world marching past... crying out in futile hope... as depression keeps you tethered.

 

Oh, and April 16... I'll never forget that first kiss....

 

You brought to mind train whistles and swimming holes, and laying in fields far from my house... my mom, my grandmother, my insecurities...

                                                                                                          ... you are no fraud, sir... :hug: 

 

I am glad these appealed to you in different ways, and that they evoked so many images in your mind’s eye. April 19 welled up from some of the bleakness I’ve felt in this endless winter. Your kind words are a ray of warm sun. Thank you. 

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AC Benus
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Concerning April 15th, I know a lot of people, including myself, can relate to this poem. You handle it with perfect sensibility, which is not easy considering how mawkish is could become. Well done. 

 
The subject of April 16th is something I have seen you tackle in various manners and forms, but I think this poem might be a turning point. If you will allow me to say, this rendering of events is placing the emphasis on him for fault, where it has really always belonged (imo). :) 
 
April 17th is the fraud. You trust my opinion, right? The poem is false, while the poet who wrote it is true. But sometimes these ideas have to get out to become released. So let the doubt sink out of sight while the rest of you continues to fly. 
 
The redwing's breakfast: that's quite an image. I like it :) 
 
April 20th reminds me of Whitman. I feel certain he'd like the images here. 
 
The form of April 21st is original and engaging. It's a beautiful poem, and like most good ones, it intensifies in mystery until the concluding lines. This is atmospheric and melancholic, but also reserved and dignified. 
 
Thanks for sharing these with us.  
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Parker Owens
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1 hour ago, AC Benus said:

Concerning April 15th, I know a lot of people, including myself, can relate to this poem. You handle it with perfect sensibility, which is not easy considering how mawkish is could become. Well done. 

 
The subject of April 16th is something I have seen you tackle in various manners and forms, but I think this poem might be a turning point. If you will allow me to say, this rendering of events is placing the emphasis on him for fault, where it has really always belonged (imo). :) 
 
April 17th is the fraud. You trust my opinion, right? The poem is false, while the poet who wrote it is true. But sometimes these ideas have to get out to become released. So let the doubt sink out of sight while the rest of you continues to fly. 
 
The redwing's breakfast: that's quite an image. I like it :) 
 
April 20th reminds me of Whitman. I feel certain he'd like the images here. 
 
The form of April 21st is original and engaging. It's a beautiful poem, and like most good ones, it intensifies in mystery until the concluding lines. This is atmospheric and melancholic, but also reserved and dignified. 
 
Thanks for sharing these with us.  

 

April 17 gave voice to fears that I sometimes make the mistake of listening to. Thank you for your voice, that silences the other. 

 

The redwing in the snow is an arresting contrast in both sight and sound. Whatever can they find to eat? And you accurately spotted what I felt in April 16 as I wrote it. 

 

You are so very kind in your reflections on this week’s offerings. Thank you for reading these and for your responses.

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Dolores Esteban

All poems are well done. I think 19 is very good. It conveys a multitude of feelings that are hard to express in words, like a deep sadness, through an intense image. I can definitely relate.

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Parker Owens
6 hours ago, Dolores Esteban said:

All poems are well done. I think 19 is very good. It conveys a multitude of feelings that are hard to express in words, like a deep sadness, through an intense image. I can definitely relate.

 

Thank  you. I am very grateful you took time to read these and respond to them. Number 19 is a recurring thought for me. I am glad you can relate. 

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FormerMember4

I’m sorry to be tardy to the party Parker. A wonderful collection of bare emotions.

April 15th almost made me cry. A recipe box is a tangible connection to the past. Full of love, memories, and what we’ve lost. A beautiful and thoughtful piece.

April 17th is honest and bares your fears naked. You are most definitely a poet. Certainly no fraud. I’m no stranger to self doubt. We must depend on others to show what we can not see.

Your poems are a joy to read. They say so much about the soul writing them... Thanks for sharing them. ❤️

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Parker Owens

Thank you so very much for your responses to these. Self doubt is indeed a familiar inhabitant of my soul. Your words of encouragement are precious, and I am grateful. And April 15 with its recipe box will stay with me always. 

 

 

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mollyhousemouse

15th-- on the window sill, above the kitchen sink live 2 picture frames.  in those picture frames are 2 recipes, one i gave my grandmother, written in childish handwriting.  the other, her recipe for "shake and bake" i can see the small blue portable typewriter she used to write them, it makes me glad that someone else has memories like this

the 16th-- makes me want to hug the pain away

the 17th-- i think that this is universal, Parker.  you feel this way as a writer, me as a reader.  "who am i to comment on this? why are my words important?"

the18th-- the image here is very strong i can feel the cold (and frankly i hate the cold lol)

the 19-- simply sending love

the 20th-- my mother made us take swimming lessons every summer, and they were always at like 8 in the morning, this poem are those morning!

the 21st-- recalls those moments when you wake, but not quite, because of something and find your lovers body warm and cozy next to you, and you fall off to sleep again

 

oh Parker

you are so good 

i say it often, but never want it to seem trite

thank you for sharing these with us

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Parker Owens
10 minutes ago, mollyhousemouse said:

15th-- on the window sill, above the kitchen sink live 2 picture frames.  in those picture frames are 2 recipes, one i gave my grandmother, written in childish handwriting.  the other, her recipe for "shake and bake" i can see the small blue portable typewriter she used to write them, it makes me glad that someone else has memories like this

the 16th-- makes me want to hug the pain away

the 17th-- i think that this is universal, Parker.  you feel this way as a writer, me as a reader.  "who am i to comment on this? why are my words important?"

the18th-- the image here is very strong i can feel the cold (and frankly i hate the cold lol)

the 19-- simply sending love

the 20th-- my mother made us take swimming lessons every summer, and they were always at like 8 in the morning, this poem are those morning!

the 21st-- recalls those moments when you wake, but not quite, because of something and find your lovers body warm and cozy next to you, and you fall off to sleep again

 

oh Parker

you are so good 

i say it often, but never want it to seem trite

thank you for sharing these with us

 

I am deeply grateful you took the time to read these. I am doubly happy you found some of them resonant in memory. Your kind words are a balm, a blue sky, a melody of birdsong. Thank you. 

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