2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 8

[Glory]

I'm Nobody, Who Are You?"
(Day 8)

I am the wind that softens the air
ruffles the leaves on trees,
scatters those that lie afoot
or piled high waiting for my breeze

I am the rain that refreshes the earth
softly falling on faces upturned,
on brightly coloured umbrellas
on the ground beneath your feet

I am the sun that rides high in the sky
spreads warmth on living things,
turns your dreary day into one
of brightness, summer’s delight.

I am all you want me to be, and more
for I am always with you, always part
of your days, your restless nights
I am all, I am everything

Who are you?

[bluerabbit47]

In one of my favorite poems ever, Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote "Margaret, why are you grieving/over golden woods unleaving?" He says, "It is Margaret you grieve for," and, were she a brilliant adult, that would be true, but she is, he says in the title, a young child, so it's a little over her head, and besides, she has, I suspect, a different kind of wisdom.
Here's an answer from an alternate counselor:

Mar-ga-ret, Gerard Has Just Forgotten

Mar-ga-ret
the man has
been inside
too long
to remember
the joys
of running
barefoot in dewy
July grass
under the long
sun or swimming
in a mild pond
with laughing
friends who
don't want anything
but fun. He
sees you crying
as leaves
fall down
and tries to stop
your tears
with a flood
of verbal invention,
but he even
makes your name
fall a syllable
at a time
like leaf-meal
flutter. Go ahead
and grieve, child.
Then, stand
outside, open
your mouth
catch snowflakes
on your tongue.

[Karen31]

“APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land…” –T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

I Sit on the Shore with Eliot, and fish

April isn’t all that bad, Tom, I say.
December is the cruelest time of year
working through the dread haze of holiday
to make something someone wants to hear
out of November’s scribblings. To prune
I need some peace and quiet and a beer –
He stirs. “… fishmen lounge at noon –”
The work stinks so bad? It’s as I fear;
I thought the rhyme by far my strongest point.
The argument is weak, the conceit lame
and the time is sorely out of joint.
How then to bring this beast to Bethlehem?
I’ve no strength to leap across that border.
Shall I at least set my words in order?

[susan budig]

She’s Dead, By Golly, I Killed Her Myself

Most people know her by Trixie
She is my deliciously dead Muse
Mr. Brewer suggests that I talk to her!
Now why would I give her the pleasure
She hasn’t given me any lately

I argue with her daily
Most people know her by Trixie
I have other names for her
But I’m too refined to share them
Politely, I will call her Miss Fickle

Our most recent dilemma
Centers on a conversational poem
Most people know her by Trixie
But not a single word will she utter
The truth is irrefutable, I’m doing all the work!

She sits smugly, soaking in the compliments:
“Clearly your Muse possessed you!”
“What I wouldn’t give to have a Muse like yours!”
Most people know her by Trixie
But in deference to me, they simply say Muse

I write all the words you see
My muse congealed at the bottom of the page
Trixie had nothing to do with it!
Still, she mocks me and takes all the credit
Most people know her by Trixie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An anapeat

[posmic]

Promises

So your love is like a red, red rose.
Congratulations, Bobby.
Talk to me when your heart is
an ornamental cabbage, at best,
when it seems to be choked
by some ugly vine intent on
sapping the life out of everything—
yes, even love. Oh, I know.

Your love is like the melody
that’s sweetly played in tune.
Well, that’s great. Maybe
her melody jangles sometimes,
goes all cymbals and harmonicas,
accordions and tubas, all in a
different key, keeping different time.
Can she enjoy it anyway? Can you?

It is easy to make promises about
things that haven’t happened yet—
your drying seas and melting rocks.
And doesn’t it feel great to leave
with some high-flying pledge
to come again someday?
Bobby, what is she supposed
to do with that—

pine for you as she watches
vines grow over the cabbages
and the tubas come marching in?
Go back to her, Bobby. Let
your love be something else,
something really useful, like
a loaf of bread to sustain you both,
and a knife to cut it with.

[elishevasmom]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Who Could Know?

Who could know, in future times
Those woods would change, to different climes?
The snow that fell would seem the same,
but soiled with generations' crimes.

They conquered all, and thus laid claim
To any place that they could tame
The was no way to slake their greed
And never once to take the blame.

Those woods that once were densely treed
Were stripped with such rapacious speed;
If we couldn't change the status quo
There was no future guaranteed.

So now its up to us to show
Upon our children we can bestow
The precious gift of silent snow.
The precious gift of silent snow.

Ellen Knight

[tunesmiff]

Richard Brautigan wrote "30 Cents, 2 Transfers, Love"
I reply with:

INFLATION
(A Haiku for Richard Brautigan)
(c) G. Smith
----------------
Bus fares have risen
Twenty-fold, but the cost of
love remains unchanged.

[Rorybore]

What a fantastic prompt! Thanks for such a great topic Daniel!
And all the replies are just great. Enjoying this challenge so much thus far.

I thought my Pondering, weak and weary might be too long to post here, so I posted it on my blog:

http://amothersluv.blogspot.ca/2012/11/pad-challenge-2012-day-8-nevermore.html

Great work everyone!

[starvingpoet]

I'm really loving this prompt, have several more in mind! ~~ Mary Mansfield


A Message from the Owner
a response to Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

I know you know I own this wood,
And yes, the view is awfully good
When snowflakes fall on wintry nights
On land where birches long have stood.

If you had only looked, you'd find
A wooden “No Trespassing” sign,
Hung in plain sight upon the fence
That serves as my dividing line.

From this day forth I would prefer
To keep my privacy secure,
So find another road to take,
But first, clean up your horse manure!

[aviseuss]

“Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixt”
Shakespeare

What colour is your elusive history
As centuries pass, scholars squabble
To what are you privy

Have you offered hints in your furtive prose?
You remain a mystery
Of whom, nobody quite knows