I could tell you more tales of the city, how I once
had Roman fever and other stories. I wish I were
an animal that was unaware of its powers, or
its presence in the Old Farmer’s Almanac 2015
as a predictor of weather, now long past, though
word seek puzzles from March 2015 still persist,
riding their two different banana-seat bikes
heedlessly, headlong into the tempest.

Prompts: NaPoWriMo (a book spine poem using titles from your shelf), Poetic Asides (an emotion as the title of your poem), and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (incorporate titles from three of your past poems).

Every morning, I wake up filled with dread,
secure in the knowledge that my teeth
are going to fall out, my jawbones eroding,
dementia sliding into my head, my heart,
because I hide from needles, from expense,
from the shame of If only you came to see me
six months ago, a year, or five, or even ten.
I wish I were an animal that was unaware
of death and decay, decline and its prevention
or, at least, delay. There are no dentists for
river otters, say — I would tuck my head,
paddle in the shale, and no one would say
I should have known better; if only I had.

Prompts: NaPoWriMo (a line that you’re afraid to write — or in my poem’s case, those first four lines), Poetic Asides (hiding out), and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (the natural world).

While I was busy with other things
for 18 years or 21 or 36,
my mother was steadily bending

like the stem of a tulip

toward whatever source of light
she could find
and still remain in her vase.

Prompts: NaPoWriMo (a flower), Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (women, women’s rights, women’s freedom), and Poetic Asides (a doodle — if you’re curious, ask me in the comments and I’ll tell you how I think this qualifies).

I wish I could tell you a thing about cities,
how red taillights are like beads on a string
or each square in the sidewalk is like a charm
or a link binding neighbor to neighbor.
I wish I could give you the excitement of cities,
a defense against green lawns and isolation,
a song of new urbanism and vibrant community.
But I’m tired, and the bracelet is tarnished.
Maybe just for today — but I can’t wish it away.

Prompts: Poetic Asides (Urban _____) and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (a bracelet).

The talebearer in the wasteland
pays attention to cake, its undercurrent,
the moonbeam sidewalk of batter.
The waterline (batterline) rises in the pan,
a storebought aluminum throwaway.
Cake before sunup: That’s the imperative;
even the coffeemaker understands.

Prompts: Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (compound words) and NaPoWriMo (food).

Spanish Brocade, that old favorite of bees,
landing pad for monarch butterflies, who gather
their energy for the long flight to Mexico–
it’s hard work, becoming the souls of lost children.
Experienced gardeners still believe that marigolds
are tomatoes’ friends, protection from pestilence–
even if there was that book last year that called this
a myth. Tell me about a garden that grows without
them, those gold edges of myth like a bright thread
that makes the fabric of botany stronger. Tell me–
but I reserve the right not to pay any attention.

Prompts from NaPoWriMo (use the name of an heirloom seed variety) and Poetic Asides (experienced/inexperienced).

April is the cruelest month for moths
that, having spent all winter in a cocoon,
eclose too soon and find themselves
crawling, cold, on a busy sidewalk,
an impossible distance yet to go
before a real spring with no snow.
The dark-eyed moth that my son saw
this morning and that burrowed its
buff-colored bison head into my hand
is now named Napoleon, my son tells me.
Napoleon, who unfurled his proboscis,
tasted my palm for nectar, salt. Napoleon,
now in our dining room, in an enclosure
that was folded up, awaiting monarchs.

Prompts from NaPoWriMo (Which month is the cruelest?), Poetic Asides (distance), and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (nature).

1) I hear squawking when our back door is open.

2) They belong to one neighbor but live in another neighbor’s yard;
the run is in a whole other sub-yard, separate from the coop.

3) Roaming cats know where and what they are.

Prompts from Poetic Asides (Three ___) and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (55 words).

He said a thing once
about horses.
She can never remember
just what it was,
but she said
it looked like it might rain
and that she’d better
wash those dishes
that were on the back porch.

Prompts from Poetic Asides (a “he said/she said” conversation) and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (horses).

I was a fool to think it would come today,
the thing that sometimes does come
and lift me up into relevance, a sense of
purpose other than scrounging Easter candy
and walking my headache from one room
to another. On days when it is damp and cold,
it’s hard to rub those sticks together, spark
anything. A million divided attentions
subdivide my attention today. What will I
show, when it’s time to open our hands,
count the grains, seeds, coins, and sands?

Prompt from Poetic Asides and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (both suggested fools or foolishness).