GloPoWriMo: Day 30


Lost Dark Matter, Found

“The missing links
between galaxies
have finally been found.”

And with the loss
of lost dark matter
something stirred–

When it was lost
what was lost
within her didn’t matter–
we are without structure,

But if structure
wound through
the baryons,
then the part
of her particles
that were missing
were simply


The vast
was within
and there was
no room
for her.

Ah, well,
but Neptune
is in Pisces.

With one reason
gone, another steps
in to simply
take its place.

We become
when wholly

Daily Prompt:  “Write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact,” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

The fact (and the source for the opening quotation): Half the universe’s missing matter has finally been found, by Leah Crane

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GloPoWriMo: Day 29

Henrietta Davida Thoreau

For Sylvia

They say in nothing lies madness,
poets, mad women,

Sylvia, like an elm.
A willow rests in nothing.
Its roots stretch
through gaps
between soil
into spaces
where water flows.

In nothing lies peace,
not escape
but rescue
from crossed-wires
that flame into too
many words.

Claim your name–
Sylvia. Find the deep
woods, past where the elm
grows. Go deeper, to the
willow. Burrow through
the empty spaces,
follow water,
to find,
this silent


of solace.

Daily Prompt:  “Write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way,” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

I chose Plath’s Elm.

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GloPoWriMo: Day 28


Up Redwood Road
To my sister, the fairy queen

Look! Remember this boulder? It’s still here–of course it is. Where would it go, without ice flow to heave it off the mountain? It looks the same, only more dappled in sunlight. “Take out your braids! Take off your clothes! Perch on the rock, like a fairy girl!” I wouldn’t model for your Imogen Cunningham moment, though I yearned to be transformed into art. Mom would scold if my hair were a mess. I stood unhappy, in the shade between allegiance and duty. You got married. I escaped to college. Let’s meet again at the rock, all these lifetimes later. Let’s strip naked, cloak ourselves in our long white hair, and perch on the boulder, two fairy crones, dappled princess maidens, always.

Daily Prompt:  “Draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard,” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

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GloPoWriMo: Day 27


Ace of Wands

It starts with an itch.
The ember roars to burn.
Unless you scratch, you know you’ll twitch.

Not all ideas will make you rich.
There’s something else you want to earn.
It always starts with an itch.

Thread the needle for the first stitch,
Work quick, for ashes fill the urn.
You must scratch, or else you’ll twitch.

Of course, it’s magic, you witch.
To create means: stake your turn.
It always starts with an itch.

Act now. Avoid the hitch.
Coax them to unfurl, these fronds of fern.
If you don’t scratch, you’ll surely twitch.

You can hear it. Now sing, in pitch.
Don’t pretend it’s perfection, for which you yearn.
Creation starts with an itch.
If you don’t scratch, you know you’ll twitch.

Daily Prompt:  “Pick a card (any card) from…  the tarot [I used the Gilded Tarot from Llewellyn Worldwide], and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it,” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

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GloPoWriMo: Day 26


Pacific Sestina

Sometimes blows the Pacific wind
across three hundred miles of desert,
carrying memory
of seaweed, whales, seals, and wave,
a heartsong of echo,
a whisper of home.

In the garden behind home
I catch the wind
to smell the echo
of salt, strange in the desert.
It carries the wave
of kelp, a distant memory.

A gull cries in memory–
I wonder, am I home?
I strain after the crash of wave–
Can sound hitch a ride on wind?
But in the desert
the sea’s roar won’t echo.

Salt on my tongue, the echo
of a childhood memory
when the island was the only desert
near my home,
stripped by wind
washed by wave.

After a heatwave
we wait for thunder’s echo.
Rain stops, followed by wind.
My skin jumps at the memory
of a beach, far from home
which, during storm, picnickers desert.

I suppose, in a way, a desert
is like a sea, where grasses wave
beside the path toward home.
The canyons ring with echo–
if this were your childhood memory
Would you then face east for wind?

Turn east, turn west, toward yesterday’s wind.
It hauls the crates of memory.
A scent, a sound, a taste, a touch–it carries your childhood’s echo.

Daily Prompt:  “Write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses,” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

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GloPoWriMo: Day 25


Care and Feeding

Warning: Though independent
and resourceful,
this being requires
tender consideration.

Left to her own devices
she will be fine.

But expose her to
harsh environments,
large groups of people,
and rooms without

And she will wither.

It helps to
listen to her,
too, when she
has a need to share
thoughts, dreams,
wishes, inspirations.

This being requires
copious amounts
of time outdoors,
preferably in a garden
or other natural setting.
In a pinch,
a rooftop
will do.

Provide for her
these minimal
and you will be
with a friend
who can cook
sweet applesauce,
brew aromatic coffee,
and smile with
a grin that reaches
her eyes.

Daily Prompt:  “Write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself!” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

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GloPoWriMo: Day 24


Bulbs and Roots

He was a hard man,
at times,
hard to talk to,
hard to please.

It was only
after the stroke
he grew
and strong.

Then he called me
out of nowhere
to say the words
I’d waited a lifetime
to hear.

On his last visit
in the early spring
he dug out Bermuda grass
for me. I worried
over the roots
he missed, wiring
their ways between
stones of the pond.

But now, after summer
rains, when I dig out
stubborn green sprouts,
I smile,
remembering my dad.
Maybe he spared a few
on purpose.

We walked
the back path
under the stalk
of a century plant.
He pointed up.
“It blooms!”
And he smiled like a kid.

I miss him
when I have to
do the grown-up stuff–
take the car
for an oil change.
File taxes.
Fix the leaking

I miss him
when I see
a sudden dart
of a cardinal,
a branch of verbena
trailing over the path
that I want
to point to,
for him.

But those times,
I find him
wiring his way
through the
stones of habit,
blooms of grace.

On a cloudy afternoon
in his last summer,
my sister, my brother,
and I
dug the grass from
his lawn so
he could plant
bulbs he’d ordered,
hundreds of them–
tulips, daffodils, narcissus–
flowers he knew
he would never see.

He planted
them, anyway,

“What are you thinking,”
my mom asked,
“when you work in the

he said.
“That’s the point.”

Daily Prompt:  “Write an elegy that has a hopefulness to it,” from the Na/GloPoWriMo site.

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