Brief Life Span

For Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – Flower
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Brief Life Span

Stood by watching you bloom
delicate petals slowly unfolding
from tightly curled bud
of your fragile in-most being.

Sunlight loved blue of your eyes
when laughter fell like soft rain
rounding edges of thorns grown
through need for defenses.

All too soon, had to stand by
watch darkness descend, gather
you back into its withering
embrace.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/24/2017

Note: Image is pen and ink line weave drawing, titled Night Bloom, enhanced with a digital background.

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Zugzwang

For Poets United: Mid-week Motif – tricycles, bicycles, unicycles
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Zugzwang

Supposed to write about bicycles.
All that comes to mind is you.
One of the first poems
you’d ever written. Brought it
to me so uncertain. All about
first bike, the one with training
wheels. How one of them broke.
Instead of fixing it, father threw
it away, and you were left alone
to find own kind of balance
and precarious alignment.

Your truth wrapped in metaphor.
And I? Just a door you chose
to walk through, now forgotten
for the most part. A frame
you leaned on for ten years,
until you found your balance,
and another, far more precarious
alignment.

Elizabeth Crawford 5/17/2017

Notes: Title is a word from chess meaning: a situation in which a player is limited to moves that cost pieces or have a damaging positional effect.

Image is from the internet.

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Giving Birth

For Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – Giving Birth
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Giving Birth

Have given birth
to four children.
Two of them
like me,
two of them
don’t.

Have given birth
to hundreds of poems.
Some of them
I like,
others
I don’t.

Are children
like poems?
Some of them
might be,
others
won’t.

Giving birth
is all about
learning how
to let go.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/11/2017

Note: Image is a pen and ink line weave drawing.

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Milkweed Ancestors

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #298 
https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

born, radiates rings, snapped, rain, cave,
limb, spirits, thin, origins, stories, ash

For Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #110
http://sundayswhirligig.blogspot.com/

tiny, old, flare, gaze, month, clover,
thick, milkweed, drifts, melt, parch, perishes

For Poets United: Poetry Pantry #352
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Milkweed Ancestors

Tiny milkweed seeds flare
thin limbs snapped up by wind
to drift in ever widening rings,
like spirits born in ancient cave
parched, seeking to hear again
oldest stories of their origins.

After the rain, he walks through
field thick with clover radiating
freshness, his gaze inward, thinking
how swiftly it all melts away, perishes
like milkweed he saw just months ago.
Like his ancestors, now no more

than ash, black soot on walls of
ancient cave.

Elizabeth Crawford 5/7/2017

Notes: I was very unsure when I first saw the two lists. Slept on it. The first stanza came easily and reminded me of a place I used to go called Natural Bridge State Park, located in Southwestern Wisconsin. The image is one of many that can be found on the Park’s site. There’s a hike through an open meadow, then a curving wooded path up to the sandstone bridge. Just under the natural structure is a cave marked with black soot, believed to be left by Paleolithic Indians, thousands of years ago. For me, it was always sacred ground, most often overflown by bald eagles that I thought of as Guardians of the Gate.

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Thoughts

Thoughts

Sometimes words leave bruises,
cut delicate skin with bright red
blossoms that only slowly turn
to dark blue and purple, eventually
fade, but are never truly forgotten.

Other times they are softest feathers
brushed across face, startling pause,
capturing breath at back of throat
for swiftest of moments, causing
a tear when gone too soon.

Are we allotted certain number
of each in season, to teach us
how best to let go, and reason
for hoarding the little bit of gold
we’ve been given?

Elizabeth Crawford  5/2/2017

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April PAD Challenge: Final Day

For Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #109
http://sundayswhirligig.blogspot.com/

mingle, woven, rope, daughter, splash, burning,
daffodils, calendar, jays, branch, yours, first

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #297
https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

spiral, saints, run, life, list, lace,
settle, sum, prayer, itch, sing, chip

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #351
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

That Conversation

Daffodils, like saints, seem to softly pray,
singing of splashed golden sunlight woven
through tree branches on daughter’s
calendar, where Jays spiral down to mingle,
then settle amidst this lacy display.

She wants to run through her list
of things to do that might make my
life a bit easier, while I have burning
itch to chip away at her summing up
of my preferred alone existence.

Point to her ‘all for my good’ suggestions,
and say clearly, “Your first item is simply
impossible.” Throwing her a bit of rope,
swiftly point to final one, and mutter,
“That might be a maybe.”

Elizabeth Crawford 4/30/2017

Notes: Pure fiction. But, with my curtailed physical abilities, I imagine the conversation will come some time in the future. Not with my daughter, but with my sister. Remember how carefully we approached my Mother when it came time to do the same. Sister would probably approach me as if I’m some sort of wild mother grizzly. Only hope, I can be as civil as this piece suggests, lol. And know I will feel blue for a few days, because the challenge has come to an end.

Image is a photograph of sunlight, sand beach, and moving water, put through the kaleidoscope app. It was as close as I could get to that first stanza. I did use all of the words.

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April PAD Challenge: Day 29

dragonimages.net

Lost Poem

Wrote it down several days
ago. It had been blooming,
in what I call ‘the back forty’
of my mind, for a long time.

Thirteen ways to look at
Marananthaheth, my dragon.
Most often call her Heth. Says
that final breath of a syllable
is attached to every dragon’s name.
It means Home, all things Dragon.

She’s imaginary, of course,
but she’s been here for so long
that I sometimes forget that part
of our reality. This digital life
makes that so easy. Virtual
friends from around the globe,
no less friends for not having
been physically met.

Typed it up rather quickly, copying
Wallace Stevens’ form, then left it
in dashboard tray, thinking I’d saved it.
Spent several hours searching through
files yesterday, only to find poem
is forever lost. Gone, as though
it never existed. Just another accident
of human frailty and imperfection.

But, Heth is here, lolling on upper
shelf of desk. Peering down with one
bright eye, asking softly, “ Little one,
perhapss it was meant to be for szome
other time, might you trusst that it will
come back, when it iz ready?”

Elizabeth Crawford  4/29/2017

Notes: The PAD Challenge never seems to be complete without at least one poem about dragons. If you type in the word dragon, in the search engine of this site, you will find several of them. I thought to save some time by writing it up early. My bad. Heth is my imagination, come to teach, to protect and defend that arena. She does a super job.

Image is from the internet.

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