I will hit the goal of 100 poems in 100 days on July 8, 2018. And hope that my daily resistance to writing will abate once I am free of this self-imposed intention, undertaken to encourage myself to write, this last leg having the opposite effect. Why is that? Why is doing something we really think is a positive good thing so often an invitation to the lizard brain to raise its head, flick its tongue and run down the corridors of the mind taking everything creative with it? If you know the answer, please share!
I have been writing daily because I promised myself I would. Haiku, as always so like the sketch that makes do for art when I’m doing that 30 day marathon of art every day in November, has been my savior. Whatever it takes to get to July 8, 100 poems written and posted.
My plan is to go back and print poems out and paste them in my creativity book so that I can browse what I managed, rewrite or no, and look back on this year as having accomplished something pretty grand in the scheme of things. I have never attempted anything for 100 days. So I can say: Go, Me!
Haiku Poem (91)
I.
The key to belong
is a place to call one’s own.
My plot of flowers.
II.
Sunflower towers
Ivy climbs, hollyhocks sway.
Sun, soil, love, care, life.
Haiku Poem (92)
Getting to the goal
imperfection rules my pen.
The lark’s song still charms.
Haiku Poem (93)
Sunrise, wet air, heat.
I hide in conditioned air.
The garden grows green.
The Meaning of Dreams (Poem 94)
In my dream the walls are melting under the onslaught of rain. I tell the tenant that this happened before, years ago, and that we thought we had fixed it. I look in the next room and there the wallpaper is sliding down in ripples like a bunched cover. I do not disagree with this night time movie scape. In waking, nothing holds, the deluge of surprise after unwelcome surprise presents itself to me, wiping clean years of planning, all vestiges of hope as one thing after another floats off in a green sea silhouetted against the morning’s red sky. All the interpreters say it means a large problem has been solved. In the dream I look for a raft, think of what it will cost to fix, wonder if it can be fixed. Seems to me, all the symbolists are wrong.
(Poem 95)
In front of me a blank page waits
for the strokes of my purple pen listing
things that need to be completed. Even
the list would be an accomplishment, my
attention drawn to movement outside the window
where I sit, musing about baby steps leading
up the mountain that bars my way from finding
the path I once could see clearly – a year’s
detritus manifesting as blockage, barrier,
drawback. Perhaps the color purple is too royal
for the mundane, a soft plum more apropos. But
there is only violet, the red undertone too violent
for the things that might pull me into action. Besides
watching kittens play in the deep shade of the protective
maple, Momma watching carefully, is much more fun.
1 Comment
I think how you feel in the dream is what the meaning is for you. Those books interpreting what dreams mean don’t amount to much. A tree can mean as many things to as many people because of each person’s personal memories. You are your best interpreter…just dig into the dream yourself. 😉
I had to chuckle. In a writing class once I wrote an entire paper on why I couldn’t focus to write the paper…and got an A!
LOL! We seem to think alike–haha! 🙂
Congrats on getting this far. I have never done anything for 100 days.