Lily's NAPO '17
Posted: Mon Apr 10, 2017 3:41 am
Ok, so. A bit behind, but here's what I've got so far.
Second-hand box
[4/4/2017]
My paint-box was made to store bullets,
Camo-green, sturdy, and smelling of gunpowder ghosts.
It gleams with an art student’s copper phoenix sigil
And remembers the shapes of brass shells.
Its contents have laid low duck and deer and
Gallon jugs, painted rings;
Shed blood and broke bone and
Tattered cardboard boxes, shattered shining glass.
I’m taking it hunting through fairytale forests.
I’m setting my sights down the length of a brush,
And hoping to take down a piece of my soul.
Friends on a screen
[4/4/2017]
I can be caught up in faceless affection;
feel a surge of love at a glimpse
of just that shade and color you use
to mask your face, as if it were
your eyes catching the light,
the corners of your smile curving up at me.
I don’t know if my parents have ever learned
what this is, this touch of tenderness and wonder,
a hand on my heart from a hundred
or a thousand miles away.
White fur and red robe changed to daffodil yellow
shares a love of worlds in books,
sends me favorite music, reminds me I am more
than what I can make or do.
A blur of tan and forest green in a flowering archway
co-authored five years of adventure story.
Wide black cross on cyan shared his poetry,
complimented mine, and prayed for
my frightened teenage heart.
What are we?
[4/5/2017]
We were talking of friendship tonight,
I don’t know why;
Of kinds of love, trust, who feels right,
Or who might lie.
---
You guessed I might not call you close at all.
I’ve always known you’d catch me if I fall.
These days we may meet seldom—in my mind
It’s a rare chance we exist. You’re my kind.
You are kin of my kin, muse of my muse.
It warms me to know that you’re living near.
When we first tangled our dreams and stories—
Supermen, travelers, alien glories—
The fireworks felt worth living for,
My dear.
Bright moments
[4/5/2017]
There’s something like a song in the color of the light,
And light in the tenor of a song.
Somehow when the shadows play
With dawn-pale white or evening gold,
Or sparks bloom from a few plucked strings,
Pool with the ripple of a line of keys,
The world can’t be entirely wrong.
This body’s not a womb.
[4/6/2017]
Some say this body was made for children.
I say they’d speak a lie.
Are my mind and heart not body, too?
---
My friends move on with life,
Post miles of photos to Facebook,
Make records of first words,
Introduce small hands to first pets,
Share picture books with little ears and eyes,
Hang lights and hide gifts and share stories of wonder
To shape those first few Christmases
Which will never come again.
I’m happy for their families,
Do not begrudge their choice,
But do not envy.
---
I’ve never longed to see this belly swell
To hold a life, sex and eye-color unknown;
Never wanted to feel first kicks,
Hear tiny heartbeats;
Push out a body in blood and pain,
Wake late nights for their cries,
Change their diapers;
Carry the frightening weight of their world,
Be their first trust, first teacher, heart of their home.
When my sisters or ex-boyfriend asked for names
I chose for the love of words and language,
And not for hopeful anticipation.
---
In childhood games with dolls,
Mine weren’t my children.
They always sprang full grown,
(Or half-grown) from my mind—
Old enough to be playmates,
Not my offspring—
To dance with me, sing with me,
Go to balls and teas with me;
Or join in adventures, ride horses,
Dodge evil witches’ spells to reach their quest.
---
I am not built to child-bear.
Do not ask when I will change my mind,
Contradict my nature;
Do not ask if my spouse
Will change it for me.
But I’ll love your children with you,
Bring gifts, read stories.
Call me sister, playmate, aunt, or friend,
Not mother;
God never planned for me to take that name.
There’s no such this as a…
[4/8/2017]
I’m a moth circling passion,
A match waiting for a spark—
All the clichés are true
When I see it’s you
Shining in the dark.
I’m drawn in by a heart on fire,
An earnest face,
A truthful voice—
A hope of a new world comin’ in,
Anger at what shouldn’t be.
God tell me who’s this
Young string-plucking prophet?
I’ve heard sermons say less
Than a three-minute address
Made half of chorus,
Half seeing the broken.
Late night
[4/9/2017]
In my shadows, there’s no need for talking.
Just cooking prep smells and painted colors,
Library books and half-finished stories,
New discoveries of old music.
---
I’m alone in a full house.
My hour is when they are sleeping.
My secrets their dreams are keeping.
In the world’s wall I’m the mouse.
---
Until I hear a creak of footsteps walking,
Broken rhythm, quiet’s cullers,
Reminder these aren’t my own territories.
Second-hand box
[4/4/2017]
My paint-box was made to store bullets,
Camo-green, sturdy, and smelling of gunpowder ghosts.
It gleams with an art student’s copper phoenix sigil
And remembers the shapes of brass shells.
Its contents have laid low duck and deer and
Gallon jugs, painted rings;
Shed blood and broke bone and
Tattered cardboard boxes, shattered shining glass.
I’m taking it hunting through fairytale forests.
I’m setting my sights down the length of a brush,
And hoping to take down a piece of my soul.
Friends on a screen
[4/4/2017]
I can be caught up in faceless affection;
feel a surge of love at a glimpse
of just that shade and color you use
to mask your face, as if it were
your eyes catching the light,
the corners of your smile curving up at me.
I don’t know if my parents have ever learned
what this is, this touch of tenderness and wonder,
a hand on my heart from a hundred
or a thousand miles away.
White fur and red robe changed to daffodil yellow
shares a love of worlds in books,
sends me favorite music, reminds me I am more
than what I can make or do.
A blur of tan and forest green in a flowering archway
co-authored five years of adventure story.
Wide black cross on cyan shared his poetry,
complimented mine, and prayed for
my frightened teenage heart.
What are we?
[4/5/2017]
We were talking of friendship tonight,
I don’t know why;
Of kinds of love, trust, who feels right,
Or who might lie.
---
You guessed I might not call you close at all.
I’ve always known you’d catch me if I fall.
These days we may meet seldom—in my mind
It’s a rare chance we exist. You’re my kind.
You are kin of my kin, muse of my muse.
It warms me to know that you’re living near.
When we first tangled our dreams and stories—
Supermen, travelers, alien glories—
The fireworks felt worth living for,
My dear.
Bright moments
[4/5/2017]
There’s something like a song in the color of the light,
And light in the tenor of a song.
Somehow when the shadows play
With dawn-pale white or evening gold,
Or sparks bloom from a few plucked strings,
Pool with the ripple of a line of keys,
The world can’t be entirely wrong.
This body’s not a womb.
[4/6/2017]
Some say this body was made for children.
I say they’d speak a lie.
Are my mind and heart not body, too?
---
My friends move on with life,
Post miles of photos to Facebook,
Make records of first words,
Introduce small hands to first pets,
Share picture books with little ears and eyes,
Hang lights and hide gifts and share stories of wonder
To shape those first few Christmases
Which will never come again.
I’m happy for their families,
Do not begrudge their choice,
But do not envy.
---
I’ve never longed to see this belly swell
To hold a life, sex and eye-color unknown;
Never wanted to feel first kicks,
Hear tiny heartbeats;
Push out a body in blood and pain,
Wake late nights for their cries,
Change their diapers;
Carry the frightening weight of their world,
Be their first trust, first teacher, heart of their home.
When my sisters or ex-boyfriend asked for names
I chose for the love of words and language,
And not for hopeful anticipation.
---
In childhood games with dolls,
Mine weren’t my children.
They always sprang full grown,
(Or half-grown) from my mind—
Old enough to be playmates,
Not my offspring—
To dance with me, sing with me,
Go to balls and teas with me;
Or join in adventures, ride horses,
Dodge evil witches’ spells to reach their quest.
---
I am not built to child-bear.
Do not ask when I will change my mind,
Contradict my nature;
Do not ask if my spouse
Will change it for me.
But I’ll love your children with you,
Bring gifts, read stories.
Call me sister, playmate, aunt, or friend,
Not mother;
God never planned for me to take that name.
There’s no such this as a…
[4/8/2017]
I’m a moth circling passion,
A match waiting for a spark—
All the clichés are true
When I see it’s you
Shining in the dark.
I’m drawn in by a heart on fire,
An earnest face,
A truthful voice—
A hope of a new world comin’ in,
Anger at what shouldn’t be.
God tell me who’s this
Young string-plucking prophet?
I’ve heard sermons say less
Than a three-minute address
Made half of chorus,
Half seeing the broken.
Late night
[4/9/2017]
In my shadows, there’s no need for talking.
Just cooking prep smells and painted colors,
Library books and half-finished stories,
New discoveries of old music.
---
I’m alone in a full house.
My hour is when they are sleeping.
My secrets their dreams are keeping.
In the world’s wall I’m the mouse.
---
Until I hear a creak of footsteps walking,
Broken rhythm, quiet’s cullers,
Reminder these aren’t my own territories.