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Sam's NaPoWrimo "Don't Say I Didn't Warn You" (1 Viewer)

samster

Member
Greetings! This is my first poem on this site. Hope you all are doing well.

#1: Monsoon

Rain arrives with the urgency of a debt

collector, pounds on walls of tar, concrete
and hair, grabbing dried leaves and
bottle cap coins as currency.


Rain, silver reed, touch of a Christmas
angel upon parched soil, finds its
mirror-twin in a limpid pool of glass,
content as a sleeping child.


Rain, splinter upon skin, grows from ant
to army, slicing through air like arrows.
It drums on our roof and needles our
windows until night falls like a mother's


blanket, softening it to a whisper.
You let its scent fill your breath
with soaked mud, awakened leaf
and a hint of new hope.
 

Firemajic

Poetry Mentor
Staff member
Senior Mentor
Hello, and welcome ;)... The strong imagery makes this a poem of many moods... a storm that comes on strong, then languishes away, soft and gentle, slipping away, across the horizon.... lovely....
 

samster

Member
2. Summers in India

Early April and the air is now a still dune
of lava-breath. We hose water down our
stomachs and lumber in cotton shorts
covered with splotches of sweat and languor.
Large crucibles of mango pickle line the kitchen
floor, their walls glistening with oil. Of course the
fan chokes to a lazy halt just before our second
siesta of the day--we take turns soothing our bodies
in spurts of frost-air from the fridge. Our private
sanctuary. The air starts to be suffused with the
nectar-scent of ripe mangoes, their skins cold
and slack. We split a mango each, the pulp
coating our dry tongues like liquid ambrosia.
Another afternoon simmers us to the bone
as we sprawl our legs over the couch
in sweet content.












 
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samster

Member
Did you know that 80% of the lycopene
in your diet comes from tomatoes? Me neither--I looked it up.
I've never had the appetite for fact collection--
an assortment of bites that mildly tickle your palate
while veering you away from the main course.
And where would I house these facts?
After wading through a day fed by a riot of
mental notes, advice disguised as banter
and a background score of howls and whistles,
my tongue is tired from defense, refusing to roll itself
to another syllable of information. By night, my mind has
its own veneer of inner dialogue-- I have not yet mastered
the art of reverse osmosis. At best, I manage to plant
a single vein of empathy for all the bruised souls
crawling through the day,
egos waning, minds grabbing
at the last strip of real estate,
pricier than the metro
where I live.
And that's a fact.
 

-xXx-

Financial Supporter
Did you know that 80% of the lycopene
in your diet comes from tomatoes? Me neither--I looked it up.
I've never had the appetite for fact collection--
an assortment of bites that mildly tickle your palate
while veering you away from the main course.
And where would I house these facts?
After wading through a day fed by a riot of
mental notes, advice disguised as banter
and a background score of howls and whistles,
my tongue is tired from defense, refusing to roll itself
to another syllable of information. By night, my mind has
its own veneer of inner dialogue-- I have not yet mastered the art of reverse osmosis. At best, I manage to plant
a single vein of empathy for all the bruised souls
crawling through the day,
egos waning, minds grabbing
at the last strip of real estate,
pricier than the metro
where I live.
And that's a fact.
hey!
i know you!
i live there too!
;)
*keep writing*
*as life permits*
*super-sizes-for-two-cents-more*
 

samster

Member
In the dark room at Grandma's house
there is a box of letters she would never
let us open. My sister and I would joke that
she'd swallowed the key. Grandma passed
a week ago, the key stitched to the gown
she died in--of course we had to steal it
before she was buried. The lock opened
easier than we thought, to a box of letters
powdered in dust. How cliche, we thought
except the letters were all diary entries---
with awful penmanship. Pages and pages
of letters describing Grandpa and his liaisons
with another woman--picnics by the lake,
long walks, how she would spy on them
every weekend. And here we were told
they had a flourishing marriage. Folded into
a teensy square in the middle of these letters
was another letter, a confession stranger than
any of our guilty pleasure mystery novels--
Grandpa hadn't died in his sleep, and suddenly,
we knew what all the dust in the box was.
 

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