Poem Meta: Changing the Dates! – Day 28

GloPoWriMo 2019


Day 28: Prompt to write a Meta Poem which is a poem which talks about itself.


Poem Meta: Changing the Dates!


A charcoal etched date on the walls of a house.

The sad bones of an adult and two children

lying on the floor nearby: the search goes on.


The poem is the excavation of

a destroyed city. The poem is

a frightening year, 79AD.

The poem has a struggle as to

which month exactly. And that’s

the reason the poem is interrogating itself.


The poem is beauty and rediscovered art

on the walls of the grand houses

of Pompeii.


The poem is a ‘maybe’, nothing more

than a scrawl; charcoals’ life use

is limited. Maybe it was a date

set aside for some other reason.

Someone’s relatives coming to stay?

The time some crop or other must be picked?

The poem is not changing her mind.

She has more questions than answers

but she has no mandate to solve this riddle.


The poem is the remaining mystery:

Vesuvius and that all important date.


Benita H. Kape © 29.4.2019





High Maintenance – Day 27

GloPoWriMo 2019

Day 27: Prompt to write a sonnet. I took Shakespeare’s Sonnet 4, line 8 as my starting point.


High Maintenance    


So great a sum of sums yet canst not live.

So early in the piece and you are broke.

A girl like her with many charms should thrive.

New this, new that, that which stands bespoke.


The smartest clothes, hats, shoes, newest trends;

I struggle to keep up, to keep this girl in style.

She began as she meant to go on, high flying at the week-ends

And when not partying hard, checking out the mercantile.


She has never in her life made do; high maintenance.

She tries her best but she cannot do a millionaires’ mile.

While I, it’s true, am trying to introduce some measure of prudence.

I am working very hard at setting up an easy come, easy go profile.


So it had to end; it’s been going too hard, too long to overcome.

I can no longer pay her bills; she is too great a sum of sums.


Benita H. Kape © 27.4.2019


Rink On

Rock and rink

Nuptial Photoshoot


roller rink at the beach …

rock & roll, hand in hand,

wave after wave they get the balance.


the high shot

looking down on them,


and that high sweep


don’t turn to look

artfully netted rocks, beachside:


(a city setting itself against future storms.)


later, upon opening up the photograph,

choose “Paint;” and having chosen text,

font, size and colour, in a blue wave

write on that big sweep of the rink



ignore them

rink on

or swim for your life


Benita H. Kape © 26.3.2019





New Zealand National Poetry Day, 23rd August, 2019. The ageing tree: the ageing self.



One Third & All & Near 84

As roots trickle away into soil: mystery in each branching link.

Some run upward from here; here where we see what branches

out and down. Some go slowly up; all angles be gentle, the trickle

of weaving continue. The largest branch with no more to tell

than the smallest twig. Sheddings:  fall away, yet part of the whole.

Lovely and gentle, twisting slight: the non influence of wind or

weather, of knowing always this was in continued relationship

so that below soil confides. Such as below is above.


I could say I want to range further, higher; away from fibre

to green leaf or blue sky, but here at the fracture of what is

before me, the below and above of power and beauty: this is

the assurance of time and age. That I feel it; knowing its privilege

the one third of the tree and me.


Benita H. Kape (c) 22.8.2019

Benita - Brisbane - outdoor exihibition

I sit with others at the foot of trees

Thank you to Susan Budig for suggestions re the penultimate sentence of the first stanza.


Cento: Just a Little Nearer, Moon


Moon over Wellington, New Zealand 2014

A Cento is a poem made up of lines from other poets.


Cento: Just a Little Nearer, Moon


In tense starlessness,

Tangled in the mast’s corded height,

Just a little nearer, moon.

The fossil virgin of the skies,


And ever changing, like a joyless eye.

When over the houses, a golden illusion.

All love to be out by the light of the moon.

The witches have a fire again.

Owls have cried.


Full moon rising on the waters of my heart;

Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,

The moon’s slow wonder with her hand.

After a thousand years.

Preventing shadow until the moon reveal

The song would be joyous, and cheerful the moon.

Moon! keep wide thy golden ears.


Softly, softly melted into the eve, the moon;

Sea and Sun; and I hear mystic carols in space.

From the raging moon I write.

Wish that I might fly out past the moon.


Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us.

Be dragged toward the word exotic with the force of a giant moon?


Benita Kape (c) 20.7.2019


Cento lines from the following poets: e.e. Cummings, T.E. Hulme, Amy Lowell, Mina Loy,

Percy Shelly, Wallace Stevens, Robert Louis Stevenson, Sara Teasdale, Edward Thomas,

Jean Toomer, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Leonie Adams, Robert Frost, Thomas Hardy,

John Keats,Yone Noguchi, Li Po, Dylan Thomas, Walt Whitman, Tusiata Avia.

Blood Moon - More space for poetry



Schmettern (forget loud, but with a certain force, yes.)

Dean Martin has the tone I was working for.


Blue Moon: Singing is good for you


There are reasons singing is good for you.

I sing because it makes me feel good.


This is a strange story. I was in hospital.

An ultra-sound had been ordered.

(That’s all you need to know about that.)


I went into the ultra-sound singing Blue Moon.

Don’t ask me why.


Halfway thru the ultra-sound

I thought why am I doing this

so I ceased singing at such

a strange time.


And then a voice; from where

I couldn’t say; not above, so

it wasn’t God. (And I wasn’t

that far gone though I sure

could have been – long story.)


The voice said “Don’t stop;

we were enjoying that.” (Truth

being; so was I, both the effort and sound.)


So I went back to the hospital ward singing.


Now I read that singing

is good for the heart.


I’ll keep singing,

not the cure but a tool.


Benita H. Kape (c) 12.6.2019




to Ray

You are quick to my bedside

you sit here

not speaking

your hands clasping mine.

You have worked hard

mostly your skill with wood.


Your hands are beautiful.

They are holding mine.

Benita H. Kape (c) 10.6.2019


Obviously these are not our hands. But hold the message my brother. I had a near death experience recently. My brother was quick to come to my bedside. He is my brother.

Hands pexels