NPM 2025 (I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud)

I was cleaning house (so to speak) and look what I found in the drafts folder.

Dadgummit! You did again old woman!

Oh well, I will not be deterred. Late— but not deterred.

Thank goodness there’s not a late fee for such oversights.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a *jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Jocund was a new word for me —or possibly one that was stored deep, deep, deep somewhere in the cobwebs of my memory.

Of course, I had to look it up. I’m a good student like that. 

I’m also one that likes to share information so in case you don’t wanna look it up here you go. Complements of Merriam-Webster dictionary.

Jocund

jo·cund  also  ˈjō-(ˌ)kəndmarked by or suggestive of high spirits and lively mirthfulness.

“a poet could not but be gay, in such a jocund company” —William Wordsworth

NPM 2025 (The End of the Priest)

Well &#¥+ !

Between the garden and the grandkids I have completely neglected NPM. tsk tsk tsk

I must somehow set aside a bit of quality time for National Poetry Month in days remaining. I just must! Maybe I’ll set an alarm for that too. I only have fifty-gillion to five-gazillion alarms already.

So today I said to myself, “self you need to read one and post one.” Of course that won’t catch me up. So I read Too Much Pain by Donna Ashworth. And for a post I went willy-nilly and typed “22” into one of my files and this is what popped up.

Some people do the same thing when looking for a bible verse to inspire/guide/comfort and swear that fate will always give you an appropriate response.

I’m just over here going hmmm.

Taken from Getting Me Back (the voices within)
Getting Me Back

Happy reading & writing. Now y’all go read or write something poetic.

Write on!

NPM 2025 (Full Moon and Little Frieda)

It was NPM 2014 when I first shared Ted’s poem about his daughter. In that post the husband and I had another enjoyable conversation about the tragedies that surrounded the man.

You should give it a read.

But now I present to you….

Full Moon and Little Frieda

By Ted Hughes

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket –
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming – mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath –
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
‘Moon!’ you cry suddenly, ‘Moon! Moon!’

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed
.

Ole Teddy published a book of prose and poetry to his first wife [and first wife to die by suicide] in Birthday Letters not long before his demise.

Lord, help me not judge. I have lived a less than stellar life, my own poetry is evidence.

Write On!!

NPM 2025 (Edge)

I can hardly believe that I first shared Edge by Sylvia Plath in April 2013.

It seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.

I honestly enjoyed revisiting the discussion and dissection of Edge and poor Sylvia Plath. You should give it a read.

Meanwhile I present to you…

Edge by Sylvia Plath 1963

The woman is perfected.
Her dead 

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,

The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

Sylvia Plath Hughes with her second child, son Nicholas.

NPM 2025 (Why Poetry)

Welcome to April. Welcome to NPM (National Poetry Month) and welcome to my home.

Well, my blog home. Feel free to hang out, have a drink & peruse the smorgasbord.

Heck, feel free to shoot me a line and/or a link to your favorite poem or poet. Old or new- I love `em all.

I don’t know if I should feel bad that I’m a week behind in getting started with NPM.

Shoot I run behind on a lot of things in my old age.

And since being electrocuted a year and a half ago… well I ain’t been quite right.

I’m laughing at myself a little. Not because of electrocuting myself but because I use it as an excuse sometimes.

The truth is I have never been quite right. 🤣

Anywho, I digress.

As I was saying, it is National Poetry Month. To kick it off I’ll share a tiny poem and the cover reveal for Getting Me Back.

The new cover has only updated on the ebook. We’re running into delays on the print.

New cover reveal. Ta-da!

Why Poetry?

Because It hurts deeper, tastes sweeter, laughs louder, and lets me know I’m alive.

Hemingway’s Beloved (Friday’s Free for All)

Torn [first] from the pages of Horror Writer’s Association Poetry Volume 1

DID YOU SHAKE HIS HAND –?
the hand of a man’s man?


Did you see how his eyes searched the space around him as the world grew smaller?


Did you learn the secrets of Africa or discuss his tomes over drinks?


Of course not.


You could not for we were mere children –
our wedding day marking the twenty second anniversary of his exodus… his rise to immortality.


He won the Nobel Prize for Literature the year you were born – did you know that?


I was but two months in the womb when he placed the beloved twelve-gauge inside his mouth and obliterated the ciphering pheasants once and for all.


Did you see how he caressed her?


How her cold, soft metal against his finger was as pacifying as the perfect daiquiri… how she (his beloved) alas cured him of the demons.


In a flash she rooted them loose one by one
from their hiding place – a place liquor nor currents could mole; a cavern so deep no joule or watt could grasp.


Ahh, but she did.


She exorcized them, set them to flight riding on soft grey tissue laden with hemochromatosis and fragments of bone.


Christ might have offered the fiends a swine but not her or better yet not him…


A sacrifice for the Bay of Pigs?


It was all such folly—such unholy madness for a simple man and a literary saint.


*Hemingway’s Beloved was republished in Getting Me Back ( The Voices Within)

It’s April 1st & Time to Kickstart National Poetry Month

Why Poetry (from Getting Me Back)

Because it hurts deeper

Tastes sweeter 

Laughs louder

And lets me know I’m alive.

♥️💙💜

Don’t forget to read a poem, write a poem, share a poem, heck Be a poem.

Write on!

Women’s Liberation

Well we are in the final hours of Women’s History Month or Herstory as it’s been announced daily for the last 31 days.

Every year, March is designated Women’s History Month by presidential proclamation. The month is set aside to honor women’s contributions in American history.

I guess that’s a good thing. Either way, here’s my annual contribution in all her glory.

The poem below was inspired by the sage advice I received years ago from an elderly lady who truly fought to make a difference in the role (and treatment) of women in society. I feel she made a historical impact by influencing the small groups around her. She certainly left an impression with me.

I won’t name her because her M.O was to act subtly and not bring attention to herself. Surprisingly she got a lot accomplished with her (ur-um) antics. RIP A

Women’s Liberation

We did not burn our bras but wore them proudly; Holding–supporting–glorifying the mammary glands that would feed the next generation;

For the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. 

We did not give animated voices to our vaginas for the world to hear but let them speak in secret whispers that moved mountains. 

We did not make a spectacle in the streets to prove our equality For we knew in our hearts [already] that we were superior. 

The above poem is from Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)

Happy Friday y’all & remember tomorrow starts National Poetry Month.

Little Man (In Memoriam)

Sending love and gratitude on this Memorial Day. I pray you feel it in the wind.


It’s time to go to bed little man

Cover up your head little man

I’ll see you when the sun breaks in the morn.

Say your prayers and close your eyes,

I’ve locked the monsters all outside,

She’d sang those words to him since he was born.

He grew to be a brave young lad

And followed after his ole dad

Beneath a flag of pride his oath was sworn.

They brought him home in silk lined wood,

And all around him soldiers stood,

While Butterfield’s Lullaby played on the horn.

It’s time to go ahead little man,

I know that you weren’t scared little man,

My heart breaks I can’t see you and I mourn.

I’ve said my prayers for your closed eyes, 

I’ve tucked my feelings deep inside… She sang into a folded flag of thorns.

Little Man was taken from Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)

The tears of mother’s could create a flood if they all cried at once.

In the Storm (April is National Poetry Month)

The Storm

(#NPM )

In the Storm

I reach for you…

With every crack of thunder 

I hear you laugh…

Your smile is every bolt of lightning.

The drops of rain, you touching me,

with unsalted tears…

No more pain; no more regret.

I raise my arms, 

as a child beckoning to be held

and it pours.

My grief is washed away by

stinging pellets of a spring rain

Leaving behind a clean slate

with only memories of the most mundane,

most cherished moments of my life.

Available at your favorite retailer.

Credits:

I created the cover from a photograph I had taken.

The heading image (The Storm) was created from a compilation of images I found at Pixabay. (Thank you Pixabay contributors).

The poem, In the Storm was taken from this twisted book of poems. And… guess what?

For a limited time my partnering experiment with Smashwords lets the reader decide what they will pay. Yep! You decide. Check it out.

And don’t forget to follow my podcast

Just keeping it real. 😘