#14 - The Sound of Silence / Restoration

This poem is a two-parter.  Up early this morning, I wrote my poem inspired by the power outage we are having (our fourth this weekend).  After breakfast, I decided that I would write an amendment to it.  So, basically, you get two poems for the price of one today!  A bargain as zero times two is still - free!  :)  

#14 A - The Sound of Silence

Silence Fills the air,

No hum of background,

Groaning in my ears,

Just the coos of a babe awake,

An absence of noise,

Recharging me.

Dim light, naturally

Through the window illuminates the morn,

And it is adequate.

The air is cool, but not cold.

Natural fibres warm,

Recharging me.

Chores can wait,

Unable to run appliances,

Books and toys to rediscover,

Unplugged family time,

A spring walk perchance?

Recharging me.

Random uncertainty,

When the air will come alive,

We wait, candles ready,

We entertain ourseves,

Eat foods raw and whole,

Recharging me.

An absence of noise,

An absence of responsibility,

In the early morning hours,

Of a crisp spring day,

The absence of power,

It recharges me.

  - Laura Freeman -

     April 14, 2013

#14 B - Restoration

The sudden hum,

A return of white noise,

Background fills my ears,

Children awake now, require care

The house, buzzing currents

Draining me.

Artificial light restored,

The house comes ablaze,

Excessive it seems.

The furnace hums, smells of heat

Layered clothing, heavy with warmth,

Draining me.

Suddenly,

The carpet needs vacuuming,

The laundry, utters its beckoning call,

Children need bathing.

The treadmill calls to me.

Draining me.

Less than two hours,

And the air comes alive,

The children, relieved

Electronics restored,

Cooking for them again,

Draining me.

The return of noise,

Means the return of responsibility.

Weekend oppression,

I'll tackle my to-do list,

The return of power,

It drains me.


- Laura Freeman -
     April 14, 2013

#13 - Supplication to Spring

(In the form of a Shakespearian sonnet)

Oh Spring, once here, have you forsaken us?
Shunning our corner of this northern world,
This morning, covered in a white canvas,
Serenely, our houses in snow, lie furled.
A robin, bright, calls from the covered tree,
Paradoxical and out of place here,
We hear, too, the trill of the chickadee,
Signs that once foretold of your being near.
The sun, now out, shines on the cold morning,
And warms; The land now sheds its winter coat,
The last trace of Winter, out with warning,
It turns to slush; Now Spring, do take a note,
Hope returns to this winter wonderland,
We ask of thee Spring, are you now at hand?

- Laura Freeman -

April 13, 2013

Our house this morning!  Yesterday the yard was bare, albeit brown and soggy.

#12 - A Poem in Twelve Frames

Okay, this morning's inspiration came from my Mom's Facebook status this morning.  And if my Dad was on Facebook, I'm pretty sure this would be the topic of his status, too!  Way to go, Dad!

The first ball thrown,

Warms the lane,

Sets the

Tone.

It hits its target,

With a crack,

The pins

Upset.

The screen flashes bright,

Displays its “X”

Team applause

Polite.

The pins want to,

Fall in sets,

The strikes

continue.

The team is pleased,

Now there've been

Nine. Flawlessly

Released.

The crowd falls silent.

The lanes quiet,

Attentively watching,

Expectant.

As the first ball,

Hits its mark,

Ten pins,

Fall

All eyes on him,

The alley silent,

Strike eleven,

Jubilation.

With coolness, he inhales.

Wipes his palms

And slowly

Exhales.

He checks his feet,

Eyes the lane,

Steps forward

Neat.

Release. His throw distinctive,

The ball navigates

It knows

Instinctive.

Loudly, the crash came,

announcing, he bowled

another perfect

game!

- Laura Freeman -
April 12, 2013

#11 - Midnight Exchange

Today's NaPoWrimo prompt was to write a Tanka.  I've never tried writing this type of poem, but it seemed to work out well for me.  I'm quite pleased with this little ditty.

"This, like the “American” cinquain, is a poem based on syllables, with the pattern
 being 5-7-5-7-7. They work best when those final two 7-syllable lines contain a sort
of turn or surprise that the first three lines might not wholly anticipate. You can
string a bunch of them together to make a multi-stanza poem, or just write one!"

Midnight Exchange

In the dark of night,

She slips in to my bedroom,
Promising pleasure,
She is satisfied and she
Leaves money, the Tooth Fairy.

- Laura Freeman -
April 11, 2013

#10 - Postpartum

Weathered

Stretched to limits

Ungodly and profound

Skin deflated, silver road map

Sagging

Navel

Once an innie,

Then became an outie

Never restored former glory

Taunting.

Skin clear,

Eyes less tired,

Movement easy, restored

Sleep comes quick now, it refreshes,

Pain-free

Hair loss

Alarmed at first,

Falls out in thick handfuls,

Clogs the shower drain and the brush,

Thinning

Nursing,

Now established,

Efficient, quick, wiggly,

She loses interest, the world calls

To her

Trophy,

Of sorts, scars tell

Stories of a decade.

Bringing forth life, seeing it grow, 

Family

- Laura Freeman -
April 10, 2013

#9 - To Play the Classics

this one's dedicated to my little brother over at http://www.deathofmonopoly.com/

I didn't like the challenge posted today at NaPoWriMo, so I googled poetry forms to come up with my own challenge.  Have to say, I had fun writing this.  It's a "Pantoum".  The format for the modern day Pantoum is that it is a poem consisting of four line stanzas in which the 2^nd and 4^th line of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanzas. The last line is often the same as the first.

(For another "Modern Pantoum", check out my friend's NaPoWriMo offering at http://aprilraines.digitalnovelists.com/poetry/napowrimo2013/poem3   )

#9 - To Play the Classics

An honourable opponent,

She chose the thimble, I the shoe
She lived for the moment.
She rolled the dice, her roll was true,

She chose the thimble, I the shoe,

Thimble moving in a blur,
She rolled the dice, her roll was true,
The dice, they favoured her,

Thimble moving in a blur,

Properties collected,
The dice, they favoured her,
It was as I suspected.

Properties collected,

She played the banker, too
It was just as I suspected,
As her hotels and houses grew,

She played the banker, too,

I watched from my spot in jail,
As her hotels and houses grew,
Roll doubles; epic fail.

I watched from my spot in jail,

Gleeful, she grabbed Park Place,
Roll doubles; epic fail,
Smug grin upon her face.

Gleeful, she grabbed Park Place,

My heart sinking lower every roll,
Smug grin upon her face,
Her stack of money flush and whole,

My heart sinking lower every roll,

I slowly approached the blue,
Her stack of money flush and whole,
What was one to do?

I slowly approached the blue,

So close was I to losing,
What was one to do?
A final act of poorest choosing.

So close was I to losing,

I stood and tipped the table,
A final act of poorest choosing,
The legs must have been unstable.

I stood and tipped the table,

She knew what it really meant,
The legs must have been unstable,
For, I'm an honourable opponent,

- Laura Freeman -
April 9, 2013

#8 - No Regrets

So, this morning, uninspired as of yet, I decided to give the NaPoWriMo daily prompt a try.  The prompt, being the eight day of April, is to write a poem in Ottava Rima, an eight line stanza that follows the ABABABCC rhyme scheme and is written in Iambic Pentameter (10 syllables per line with the accents stressed as such: da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum)

So with a form in mind, I still needed a topic.  I asked Kirstin.  She said, "Why don't you write a poem about us?"  Alrighty, what better topic could there be?  

I got the math right, the eight lines and the number of syllables, but the deliberate use of accent is definitely a stretch, so I don't think that the poem reads as well as it would if I had the luxury to vary the lines.

Regardless, it was fun to do.  Here's today's poem:

My four, my children are my legacy,

The worn jewel in my crown, that shines bright,

A mark of that which is the best of me,

No regrets have I; I have done this right,

I live for them, and they exist for me,

Dreams unachieved, my four children still might,

Accomplish all that they set out to do,

Pursue their talents, true happiness, too.

Alex, our first, nine before summer's close,

The bud of an artist runs in his veins,

Quick with numbers and a new love of prose,

Sensitive, carefully we hold the reins.

Connor, six now, his social circle grows,

Daring, he trusts, collects bruises and stains,

Creative, he sketches with clarity,

Gentleness beneath the fire that is he.

Kirstin, big sister, feminine, and sweet,

At four, a dancer, a singer, friendly,

Verbally blessed, Affectionate, and neat.

Baby Brooklynn, completes our family,

Bright and alert, gummy grins are our treat,

Skills undiscovered, my fourth prodigy.

To watch my heart beat on in another,

No regrets have I to be their mother.

- Laura Freeman -

April 8, 2013