April is National Poetry Month. NaPoWriMo is the invitation to write a poem a day. Thirty days, thirty poems. The prompt for today is as follows:
Our prompt for today (again — totally optional!) is a little odd, but here goes. Recently, I read an article about the Scottish science fiction writer Iain M. Banks. His books often have spaceships in them. And those spaceships have extremely odd, poetic names. Like:
Unfortunate Conflict of Interest
Very Little Gravitas Indeed
A Series of Unlikely Explanations
Just Another Victim of the Ambient Morality
Frank Exchange of Views
Milky Way over Cascades Wilderness by Dave Morrow–Facebook
Tea Time: Saucers Over Scotland
A Frank Exchange of Views
First light reminds her to find bed,
to let the electric cauldron simmer while the calico cat
curls around her head
but this April dawn comes with birds’ warning.
She gazes down to scry.
A roaring mist spirals. She sees
beyond the Milky Way,
the image pounding in and out of focus.
A waft of heather and she wonders who wanders now
in the meadow below,
still caught in the glamour of the spinning orb
above the spicy brew.
The calico cat bats her skirts and leaps to the sill
mewling that she follow. She turns.
Uncanny light, not sun driven, fills her pale eyes.
She pushes herself to the window ledge,
teeters, then balances and peers beyond the heath.
The blare of a bagpipe— ol’ McMillan at it again—
but the glow pulls her like a bee, fragile on a flower’s promise.
She follows the shadow of calico cat,
the scent of herb.
The mothercraft spins, verbain and comfrey flying
like Brighit’s confetti.
As the great ship settles to earth, the tiny cauldron cloud abandoned
flutters into another dimension.
Spinning fractals grab her breath, pierce her heart.
Still she moves in trance, barefeet on slick grass,
feet knowing the path, heart only hoping the source.
A figure of light, tall, broad of shoulder and familiar of stance.
Whatever drumbeat is her heart, she must follow.
Dim memories move like ghosts about the meadow.
He materializes, sharp of feature and youthful as her lips recall.
Her own, withered now, still lust for the scent of him.
I’ve changed my point of view, he says.
Of course, you have. That’s what seventy seven years will do, Frank,
her crone mouth speaks.
Still, I return to you. As he had promised, she thinks.
I am not as you remember but welcome home.
The dawn flares to midday as they embrace.
The calico cat twines their ankles.
He leaves by starlight.