No Thief Is She, Though – NaPoWriMo 2015 – Day One

She is gone from sight,

thin as air, never been here.

Fluid as a thought, a dream,

momentary, distant.

She dances, but with whom,

and for how long?

She is stiff as glass.

sinuous, sensuous.

Difficult to read. She has

a story to tell;              lips

that utter no words. Nostrils

that sought no oxygen.

She is deaf, a daughter

of the wind; hears all. The

border to our land. Though

she is of the green and the blue,

wouldn’t be seen dead in pink,

and yet she is pink thru & thru.

She is a moulded figurine, tiny

and trusting, whom I trowelled

but inches into the graves of my

husband and our infant son.

Her glassy fingers

reaching out for theirs’.

She will steal your hearts.

She reminds you always

my heart is here.

Benita H. Kape © 2.4.2015

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The Kind of Farm I had in Mind

 

I guess it’s too late to live on a farm.

I guess I’d want to go south for a farm.

I guess, the land is much better down there.

I guess I could start with stock and move on to crops.

I guess I would have to purchase a bitch or two.

I guess I want dogs that are already trained.

I guess I could cope with delivering a litter, be it dogs, pigs, cows, or cats.

I guess a farm isn’t a farm without a stray cat or two.

I guess I’ll have to contend with rats or keep the cats hungry.

I guess a farmer needs a good breakfast.

I guess that means eggs for eggs over easy; so add in the hens.

And because we already have the porkers there’ll be bacon for breakfast,

Though top of a farmer’s dinner menu might well be spiced belly of pork.

There’ll be none of that watching TV Bake Of programmes when I’m down on the farm.

In the orchard we’ll have apples to go with the pork. And peaches or kiwifruit for desert.

And inspectors will advise the confines for the blackberries of the non-prickly sort.

And I guess for a time, Sylvia was a farmer but rather than rave about how’s y’ Father I shall rave for more care of our environment.

I don’t know too many poets in my neck of proposed woods who have the time to be farmers.

And I imagine, as Sylvia no doubt did, I’ll work hard at the farming and harder still at the poetry.

Good excuse, or poor for not farming, but it will do for me.

I guess though, my poor little cottage wouldn’t realise a fraction of the real I might need

for the kind of farm I had in mind.

Benita H. Kape © 1.4.2015