A bird spoke to me, I heard it so clearly
last Tuesday. I knew that the message was meant
for my ears alone. Not the tweet or the chirp
or the screech of bird call, but words -- words
in English -  proper English yet - directing me
to come quickly into the woods, there to meet
bird's friend, Mr. Bear. "It's a secret," he said.
"Don't tell anyone, just bring yourself and try
to dress up for once. You look a bit sloppy."
 Don't tell anyone? A secret meeting 
with a bear in the forest? Who would believe
me anyway? I dithered for hours, then 
decided to go, in my new dirndl skirt and
appliquéd vest, proper clothes for a funeral,
if I met my demise. I entered the woods
slowly, wondering if/when I should turn back.
But suddenly he was there, and to my surprise,
Mr. Bear was not a bear at all, but a perfect
red-haired specimen of a gentleman, and
he had been searching for me. Once I was found,
we decided to wed on a fine spring day -
April 14, to be exact. And how I wanted
to find that bird in order to say thank you,
but, you know, birds don't understand English, 
and, of course, I do not speak bird.

This oddball offering was inspired by the Miz Quickly prompt for today, which is too complicated to summarize here. The title "Clandestine" is from a Taylor Swift song, as suggested by the NaPoWriMo prompt.

Following the road map of the state I'm in, 
my cards already on the table, empty coffee cup
holding the dregs of my dreams, dreams where I'm
born in the wrong place and time. I should be
savoring café au lait on a boulevard in the 6th,
Francoise Hardy in the ears of my youth, the little
sparrow now when there are regrets that I also
seek to deny. Excess caffeine and my daily rituals
sustain me, bitterness mingled with the heart-
pumping dawn of each new day. I only regret
that I have never lived in Paris where my dreams
tell me I belong. A life of "if only." Time spent
mapping out everyday reality rather than
following a dream.

This very preliminary draft was inspired by prompts from Miz Quickly to write about a favorite vice (coffee addiction, I'm looking at you) and from NaPoWriMo to write an American sonnet. Once again, I plan to return to these prompts later to give them the time they deserve.

Rose is a rose, and I arose too early,
recalling remnants of REM-deprived sleep.

I drowse, but never surrender. I rise
to confront another humdrum day, knowing

sleep is the trick that lets me remain
the hero in my own life, night after night.

Is it time to admit that I’ll be happy when May 1 rolls around? I love working with prompts, but the pressure to create a “product” every day is the real challenge. I’m look forward to working with both these prompts again, but here we are for April 26. Miz Quickly asked for a poem wearing rose-colored glasses, while NaPoWriMo suggested play with alliteration, consonance and assonance.

Anxiety as a color, perhaps fire-engine red?
No, too bright for its smoldering undercurrent.
It could be blue, but of course, sadness has
already staked out her claim to that.
Anxiety - it's like a fog that thickens, then
lifts, not the full-on gray of depression
or, heaven forbid, the black beyond. 
Anxiety, a mist, the light purple haze of
amethyst, a mist that never dissipates, 
even in the warmth of a lemon-colored sun.

This draft poem was written in response to the April 25 prompt from Miz Quickly which helped us to generate pairs of unrelated words to use as poem starters. The words I paired here were “anxiety” and “amethyst.”

Who hurt you so far beyond repair?
Who shattered your life into useless shards,
reflecting the broken dreams, the 
champagne promises left in limbo now?

Who left it for someone else
to clean up, a mess of pieces, their
tiny crystals sharp to the touch
drawing blood on careless fingers?

Who left behind memories of sweet
celebrations, naive virtue shading into
something worldly but in the most
childish sense of the word.

Who broke you into a thousand pieces?
You, the monogrammed wine flute
from my first marriage, now lost
in a moment of thoughtless rage.

It's gone; it's beyond repair.

This draft poem was written in response to the April 24 challenges from Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo, in which the combined prompts were to write a poem beginning with a line from another poem taken from a specific book. I selected a line from the fictional poet, Ruth Zardo, featured in the Louise Penny book, Still Life, the first in her series featuring Inspector Gamache. *Ruth Zardo’s poem was actually written by Canadian poet, Marilyn Plessner.

And for the record, I am still happily married to my first husband of 51 years.

I am weary of all the fighting.
I am weary of all the frightening.
I am weary of feeling guilty.
I am weary of believing - deep inside -
that I am responsible for (all of) it.

My reliance on meal-ready foods,
hermetically sealed in shiny sheets, the
plastic utensils, plastic take-out containers,
plastic bags to hold the garbage, garbage
that adds fuel to the slow-burning fire.
And what is of sustenance to me is 
slowly leading to my own demise. I am 
planting the seeds of a new planetary
order. Yes, I am guilty of that.

Today we cut down the tree in our front yard.
Despite green leaves it was dead at the heart. 

This draft poem was written in response to prompts on Earth Day from Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo.

On Friday's walk -- the vivid yellow 
of dandelions enhanced by the purple
of spring violets, one neighbor's lawn 
a riot of preemptive weeds.

We passed any number of lawns that day,
their soft green velvet a tribute
to hard work, abundant rain, and Round-Up.

Yet the only lawn that moved me 
was the weedy one, the effortless beauty 
of a complementary color wheel.

This draft poem was loosely inspired by the NaPoWriMo prompt for April 21. 

Come one, come all. It's happening again.
Some say that history repeats itself, or,
with certainty, it rhymes, and sometimes
rhymes come with music attached.

April 19, midnight, then 2 AM, we fail to
see it clearly, all the time distracted.
Falling missiles, starving children, 
bleached out corals. Enough, enough.

Midnight, April 19: history happens.
Never will it be repeated. Until 
the next time, our shrunken lives 
a Mobius strip of worthless dreams.

Maybe I could see it as pathetic, if  
pathos fed the narrative. I remember
all too well. History is always
written by the victorious.

This draft poem contains the gem of an idea suggested by prompts from Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo for April 20. I hoped to reflect on how we define history in an age of instant gratification fueled by the internet and social media. Perhaps the release of The Tortured Poets Department is a historical event for our times. The first line is from a song on the album, How Did It End?

“You know, I do not care
for it when they call me
‘Holy Ghost,’ like some sort
of spook, dressed all in white,
come to haunt your conscience
and your everyday dreams.

Perhaps they liked the reference
to a dead and risen Jesus,
my place in the Trinity usurped
by one who is no more than
my equal, as if his humanity
means more than my light.

I prefer to be known as ‘spirit,’
the ‘holy’ part implied, unspoken.
I am the butterfly landing softly on
your shoulder, the baby’s laugh
as he looks into his mother’s eyes,
the warmth on your cheek
as the sun breaks through 
dense clouds. All the clichéd
yet beautiful things are 
seen for what they are when
I breathe myself into you, 
awakening what has always been —

the breath of recognition, the 
breath of inspiration. I am the
indwelling of ideas, the source
of flow, water from a well you 
sealed up long ago when you
convinced yourself it was dry.”

This draft poem was created on April 19 for the daily prompts from Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo.

At the museum my friend,
the blind man, said, "Show me your favorite,"
so we made our way to the room with 
the Degas Dancers in Blue.

As we stood before it, my friend said,
"I know dancers, the sound of their 
toe shoes as the move into place on stage, 
the smell of the hair pomade taming their buns,
the rough feel of tulle tutus, the tinkling piano
and the vibrations of the floor as they dance."

"I know the dancers but not the blue. What is blue?"

I consider the question and finally reply.
"Blue is the sound of the fountain in the park
and it's the taste of peppermint tea on your lips,
the smell of the sea air at sunrise, the feel
of ice cubes on your fingertips, the calm 
of an early spring morning.

The blind man said, "Oh, I understand why
blue is your favorite. Let's go see the Picassos now."

This preliminary draft poem was inspired by the April 18 prompts at Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo, more the former than the latter.