Archive for the ‘NaPoWriMo’ Category

morning poem

bright early morning sun taking turns with lumbering clouds overhead.
this morning wasn’t meant to be a poem but here’s what it is.

I slept in my bed again, rather than just where I happened to be.
there’s a difference between which floor you choose to sleep upon.

then again it matters
what you bring inside
into your dreaming self.

I listened to a native man on TV the night before.  His words well observed, sharp like a knife, bright like an arrow point found in the dirt.  But under the sharp was the dull ache of being hurt, a shaft broken that won’t come out.  He was a good heart, suffering.  He had no god.  Not ours, no matter that, nor of his people from whom he stood alone, but neither any plural he could feel of his own inside.  So he just had his beautiful words to live within, kind of lonely that way.

a scentless bloom.  truth don’t like sleeping alone.
neil reid © april 2013

Written for the We Write Poems prompt #151,  morning poem.
And maybe it’s my NaPoWriMo poem too (if one will count?)

But really, written for me. How long long since the last I wrote. Neither was I even trying and mostly this is from a conversation I was having, then thought, well it all counts, all the words, and shouldn’t it all be poems anyway. So here, a ball of mud tossed onto the wall.

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I want chocolate cake.

nested within near eggshell thin bakery
pink cardboard woven into confusing flaps

testing youth’s eager appetite.

two halves of existence.  one side cake,
one side me.  that is to say cake and

everything not-cake.  including me.

even learned the rightmost recipe for
being marooned alone at home with cake.

half-glass grapes & velveta cheese
gives a convincing ill performance,

mom, I really should stay home today.

earnestly, just to nibble right from the box!
oh, but that’s forgetting mother’s hindsight

from my forks reluctant retreat.  thus
were neat slices invented to confound

one truth.  more than this boy’s motto,

what isn’t chocolate might just kill you.
it’s possible!


neil reid © april 2012

For We Write Poems, prompt #101, although cake not pie.

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what leaping is

what leaping is


every thing if you have a patient eye is
beneath the clothes, an arc

an arching leap

the finger of cloud drawn over overhead,
indeed, within the sheeted blue itself, as
all describe this glove this earth, which
in turn negotiates another arc

as Galileo as Copernicus were ripening
their eyes in circling sight

maybe as well, space itself where primal
essence lays bordering invisible

maybe a spiritual reflecting pool as we
might dare ask, and that too you see,
question and response engraving yet
another arc

and where then shall we describe an arc?

tempered from another breath

an arc like you, an arc like me


neil reid © april 2012


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poems and squirrels


I’d rather be mapping the behavior of squirrels
than write a poem.

I’d rather eat breakfast out than write a poem.

ok, some oatmeal at home is about the same,
a poem equality.

I’d rather watch the waves, counting sevens,
than write a poem.  easy choice.

I’d rather ride the ferry boat wherever it wants
to go than write a poem.

I’d rather go out for dawn coffee, although yea,
writing makes something to do with my hands.

I’d rather have a bushy tail than write a poem.

I’d rather hide my shadow in the rocks, only
be brave if I see something in a hand to eat.

squirrels see poems between your fingertips,
but I think we call that a noon sandwich.

watching squirrels clamber in shoreline rocks
is far more amusing than watching a poem.

try it.  you’ll see.  so then what’s my excuse,
making this pen run dry?  none to confess.

maybe this is all pouring soup into a poem
bowl.  maybe, maybe not.  hungry yet?

nothing more to confess that idyl fingers
won’t betray.  just another poem bum.

a squirrel told me so!


neil reid © april 2012


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life on the farm is a practical life.

I mean you’re practically bare, just you
and the dirt, and yea, the blessings of
sky, the curses of blights.  or maybe no.
maybe you just grow dirt.

some of us clean and straighten olding
rusting nails.  any waste is food missing
from your plate.

but mostly, practically, you just work,
work and wait.  blossoms come brief.

mostly, practically, you just start
things out, leaning in with a shove.
then wait and watch for the wheel
to turn.  it’s hard work.  even doing
nothing is labor’s slow rhyme.

yea, sometimes it’s amusing like
when cows chase an old worn tire
down the hillside slope.  or when
uncle slips, falls into the pond and
comes dripping back into the house.
although we try not to laugh, not
too much.  we each take a share
that way.

and when things go bad or ill or
broke, like when the cat gets sick,
you make a bed from an old blanket,
hope for the best, take what you get.
tell the children, don’t get attached.
you don’t spend on what don’t grow
the crops.  practical bones.
maybe us too.

and maybe that’s some part why
we gave up the farm, chasing tires
down the hill.


neil reid © april 2012


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