Friday, April 07, 2017

National Poetry Month - A Poem a Day

I have been writing a poem a day for the National Poetry Month of April. So here are my efforts.

Poems of the Day

April 1 Write Like a Poet

If I could write like a poet, I would.
If I could sing like a diva, I would.
If I could fly like a bird, I would.
If birds could write like divas,
that would be weird.
If birds could fly like poets,
that would be nice.
If divas could swim like fish -
wait that didn't work.

April 2 - Worms

I step around worms on the sidewalk after a rain.
Let them enjoy themselves I think
like some god looking down,
avoiding stepping on me after a rain.
Oh no, sunshine.
Worms make their worm mad-dash back to the grass.
Some make it; others don't.
I, though, enjoy the moment.

April 3 - We Murder to Dissect

The poem ate its own tale in ouroboros fashion.
A poem can mean everything but itself.
Or it can mean nothing but itself.
Figure that out I thought as I gazed into my
reflected image in the bathroom mirror
deciding whether to shave the stubble on my cheeks
or just have some coffee and go
to work.

April 4 A Poem a Day

A poem a day is
like an apple a day
only it's not an apple.
It's a poem.
A pome a day is
like an apple a day,
or a pair of pomes,
only it's not a poem.
It's a pome.
Some say an apple day
keeps the doctor away.
Not sure what a poem a day
keeps away........ennui perhaps.
So on we go.
Chew on or eschew that
for a day--
if you so choose.

April 5 The Walk to the Post Office

I was getting ready to walk across
the street to mail a letter at the post office
the other day.
"I'd better take my wallet," I thought,
"in case I get hit by a car."
I really did think that.
It seems a strange
thing to think for a short walk
to the post office.
Somehow it was troubling
that no one would know who I was
injured or perhaps dead in the street
and the least I could do was
have my ID in my pocket.
It's not like I would blindly walk
without looking, letting random chance
determine my fate,
but it was comforting
that my wallet would reveal who I was.
A driver's license, pictures of my son
and other family,
a couple credit cards, and a few other things
I haven't cleared out yet
like receipts I saved
for no apparent reason
and a business card from someone
I don't remember.
I made it safely across the street,
returned home,
picked up where I left off,
a bit amused at my brush with death.

Poem #6 All in a Day
I took my mother to the outpatient clinic
today to get shot. Ha ha.
Not shot -- but a shot -- in her hip
to relieve the pain caused by 91
years of walking. And then she wanted to go
shopping for groceries.
We wandered the aisles
of the Hy-Vee on Center Street at about 52nd.
The aisles are a bit wider than the Baker's
where I usually shop, and the floors perhaps
a bit cleaner. And it's arranged differently.
Light bulbs were where breakfast cereal
usually is. The tomatoes were where I
usually find the ice cream, and they
didn't have broccoli salad
or pina colada strawberry yogurt like Baker's does.
I saw a friend from church there.
We had to make a separate trip to two drug stores
to find the iron supplement
my mother wants, and for these stops
she waited in the car.
When I took her home,
I helped her write an email
to a professor at the UNO Gerontology program
asking when their next senior poetry contest
would be. And then I came home to watch
the Masters' and take a nap,
and she got her hair done by a woman
who comes to the retirement apartments each week
to do the ladies' silver hair.

Poem #7 Shoreline Golf

I golfed today with my friend Jerry.
We've golfed together for 35 years now give or take.
He won $1.75 from me today.
Other days I win from him. Most times Bob
joins us, but not today.
We talked about our work.
We talked about fishing, and hawks, and found
a large feather on the first fairway.
Other days we've found leftover
bones from a hawk's meal, or perhaps an owl's,
seen coyotes and foxes.
One time I found a large carp carcass snatched
from Carter Lake on a fairway,
partly eaten and partly decomposed.
That must have been a tasty meal.
We noticed the eagle's nest on hole #9
has fallen into disrepair since its
last residents, three little white headed
eaglets we could see above the branched rim of
the aerie several years ago.
But they are long gone and may have started
their own aeries by now.
We talked about various great shots we had made
once upon a time hoping that we might recreate
some of those moments today.
We talked about our kids and his girlfriend's dog,
politics and religion, war and peace.
I made a long birdie putt on the first hole,
and went on to miss about a dozen really good putts
in the round.
Golf is like that sometimes. Well, more like most
of the time.
Contrails criss-crossed
overhead and they became long, narrow puffed clouds
joining the others
gradually moving across the sky,
carried on the wind high above.
It's nice walking out there on the green grass,
among the grey trees, under the blue
and white skies.


Blogger marilyncoffey said...

I liked best those poems that told stories. Storytelling is, I think, your forte.

5:25 PM  
Blogger Greg Kosmicki said...

Hey Bud--Good stuff. I agree that the poems that work the best are the ones with a story line.Geez! You coulda been a contenda!

5:50 PM  

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