NAPoWriMo #7 - Sea

The river finds a path to the sea
Regardless of the turn of clouds
or the distance of the shore.

NaPoWriMo #6 - When I grow up

I will grow my air into lilac buds
the sickness of lilies.

The milkman will leave empty bottles at my door
for me to curdle into vases.

I will sing psalms on Sundays to the age spots of my palms.

I will not drink pure white chardonnay like my mother
but swill lime juice between my teeth
and spit.

The crack of moths run floorboards
become hymn whispers.

God will crowd my thoughts with wolf like stalk

I will fish out the familiarity of his lies
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays.

Memories will crowd at the edges of an iron
I will have reached the age of permanent mists
lie grateful.

I will climb barefoot summit
watch where the red rivers run merge
sigh a 77 year migraine ache
knowing how I have made more moons rise than you saw.

I will watch on Friday
wring my wrist with lilies
die on a Saturday
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays

NaPoWriMo #5: In Search of the Cartographer

We attempt to locate the cartographer,
he holds the map to his own
co-ordinates, leave no trace
through the lake.

Bethan says she saw him at a call of crows,
community can not decide how to write this
and so he remains lost.

I heard the sound of him
running past a stream
that wasn't there when the maps were drawn,
and so he remains lost.

We arrange to meet him by the oldest house
but he cut her down to count he rings,
and so he remains lost.

The cartographer hold the map to his own co-ordinates
ripped from the beat of the sun on the pavement,
the horizon line folded into his satchel,
and so we remain lost.