Hard to figure out how to finish something that has taken me on such a wild ride: days when poems poured from my pen, days as bleak as midnight in an ice storm that covered over all the words.
But here I am. And yes, I am posting the completion a day early. It is my Aries nature to end quickly so that the next beginning has room to present itself and it turns out this long-term goal is no different. 100 days ago I committed to 30 days of a poem a day for April along with other writers of NaPoWriMo2018. I had never done it before. I have never committed to any long term writing before, always having thought of writing as something I do to support my art. Apparently not. Apparently I *am* a *writer* as well as an artist.
I decided to write because of this last year: Husband getting hit on his motorcycle and bedridden for 3 months, crutches for 3 more, then the diagnosis, 4 days after completing physical therapy for his now metal-plated knee/leg bone, of throat cancer. One month after the accident a move from our house of 24 years to a new house – nothing planned finished because of the requirements of care from the accident. Downsizing. Getting rid of my clay studio…writing takes up little space (except for books required for inspiration and new ways of writing, like the prose poem which I discovered through on-line classes). Writing has kept my sanity this past 100 days, and I am very grateful I made the space for it.
So without further adieu, here is poem 100 in 99 days, actually. I don’t know if it is a poem. And that doesn’t matter.
Is This a Poem? 100 of 100 poems in 100 days
The Chardonnay is named Butternut and smells like vanilla, tastes like caramel or something very similar. My secret is that I would instead drink only champagne but wine lasts and I am frugal except for buying books and crayons, notebooks and paint brushes. Once I preferred the reds, a Maryland claret my introduction to wine tastings and discounts on a dozen bottles that would last for twelve months. But tastes (and timing) change, and Mercury Rising is a story I would write, not my favorite wine.
Honey butterscotch
liquid In a tall stemmed glass.
A toast to myself.
Time to bring out my celebratory companions if I can find them – there have been so few recent calls for jubilation. They have no special place in the new house we call home so I will have to seek them out, put them together in their party mode, light a candle in praise of persistence, pat myself on the back, “spin some platters” on the IPOD, take a few twirls around the living room, contemplate completion and plot a future purpose at which to aim.
The path twists, corners
are blind, dark clouds threaten rain.
Still the sun returns.
And then there they are, my comrades in creative attempts, on the bottom shelf of the glassed cupboard in the dining room, not lost at all, and I find that neither am I.
1 Comment
What an uplifting, celebratory ending to your 100 days. In reading along I felt a darkness lift…a hopelessness and frustration shift. Maybe writing helps you meet you demons as it does for me? Keeping them at bay is the best we can do a lot of the time. 😉
Congratulations!!! 🙂