National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 30 / THE END!

The BIG hoorah!  Today is the last day of the National Poetry Month Challenge.  Whether you've followed all along, or are stopping by for the first time for a glimpse into my month of writing a poem-a-day for Writer's Digest and Words Dance Publishing, hope you'll grab a cup of tea (or Sangria, if it's evening when you read this), and walk back with me on a trip down memory lane from my days at the University of Ottawa, Canada.

Today's prompt was to write a closing time / Miller Time / calling it a day poem.  Here is my offering.  Happy Day 30 and Happy National Poetry Month!  See you again next year ...

Thursdays at Café Rosie Lee

(for old friends)

The sound of books closing, pens retracting

and backpacks zippering

signals the close of another academic day –

the beginning of Thursdays at Café Rosie Lee.

Taking three steps down into a cavern of warm, garlic heat

and the taste of creamed mushroom soup,

brings me effortlessly to my once-a-week world

of food, friendship and Sangria.

We play cards and talk about Shakespeare

with equal amounts of passion,

seated around our usual table in the corner.

Without fail, the staff at Rosie Lee’s

knows we are coming.

They prepare extra plates

of rosemary chicken and wild rice.

Laughter springs in bursts from Samantha.

With smiling eyes,

she knows the strength and bend of my heart.

Pauline has languid, bawdy stories to weave –

I could sit and listen to her rich, round voice all night.

Sheila brings life and light everywhere she goes –

making me believe that we could jump right through this roof,

if we wanted to.

We share a love of books –

the weight, texture and scent of them.

We console each other over exam-time stress

and demanding professors.

Living inside the words,

the laughter,

and one too many pitchers of fruity wine,

exists the struggle to know ourselves fully.

Holding hands,

and our breath,

we take a great leap into the unknown

with a mighty yawp!

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 29

Today's prompt was to write either a realism poem or a magical poem.  You can probably guess before reading, which would be my choice.

photography by Cristina M. R. Norcross / stream near Rydal Water, U.K.

A Wink and a Blink

Walking over the bridge from solid ground

to hallowed earth –

the stream speaks of stories.

The hidden cave at Rydal Water

welcomes our mortal feet.

With each step

an ageless time unfolds.

Colors seem brighter –

more defined.

Each branch becomes

an ink stain across parchment.

An artist with the most delicate brush

makes these lines jump into my vision.

Eyes squinting at brightness,

I can only catch but a glimpse

of the worlds beneath my footing –

mushrooms blooming

with fairies sunning themselves,

and water sprites diving like dolphins –

waving their small hands in the wind.

I hesitate before unlatching the gate

that leads back to the gravel road –

look behind me –

taking a snapshot

with a single blink.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 28

Two more days to go!  I think I can ... I think I can.  Today's prompt was to write a "settled" poem, allowing for multiple interpretations of the the word ~ settle.  This is what danced in my jet-lagged brain today.  I hope it inspires something dream-like and true.

photography by Cristina M. R. Norcross, 2014 / Rydal Mount path, UK

We Hold the Golden Bowl

Alignment of bones,

muscles, thoughts –

meridians of energy connect

like blue lines for rivers on a map.

Life force flows –

it settles

but never dies.

White threads beam

from fingertips.

I am you

and you are me –

a synchronicity

of time and geography.

We drink the same drink.

We lift fork to mouth

with equal movements –

hand and elbow

bring luxury to lips.

Experience spins on an axis,

making merry-go-round stops.

Ride the horse.

Hold the reins.

Catch the brass ring –

then give it away

to the next rider –

the next dreamer.

I knock on your door –

hands holding a golden bowl

of rich, ripe fruit.

Here –

take one.

New fruit will appear

at the bottom.

Pick the choicest one.

Do not settle.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 27

Today's prompt was to write a monster poem.  This is normally not my genre of choice, so I opted to approach the poem with a bit of humor and human observation.  We'll see if it works.  There are no werewolves in my poem, but you may just recognize a few common traits.

The Ballad of Mr. Dissatisfied

It’s hopeless –

hopeless, I say.

The grass is not green enough.

My car is not flashy enough.

These eggs are not cheesy enough.

My house is not grand enough.

My shoes are not shiny enough.

The sun is not bright enough.

It’s hopeless –

just hopeless.

Time is too short.

My belly is not flat.

My nose is too long.

The list goes on and on.

If only.

If only.

I live in your ear,

whispering sweet nothings of

“you’re not good enough,”

and “you might as well quit.”

I am the monster

of dissatisfaction

living within.

But there is hope, you see.

The walls are melting,

along with my resolve.

A burden shared

is a burden broken in half.

Share my woes,

and you will see me slowly disappear.

A monster is only a monster,

if you feed it.

And just like that –

with this poem –

I am gone.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 26

The prompt for today was to write a water-themed poem.

photography by Cristina Norcross (Lake Geneva, WI)

Bathed in You

Your gaze cascades

over my skin like water.

I live inside the tide –

the give and sway –

the push and pull –

your full moon gravity.

As weightless as water bugs,

we float –

suspended in time –

eyes turned upward

to an aquamarine sky.

Hand in hand –

fish glide beneath us –

drawn to this island of you and me.

I come up for air,

letting the rush of sound

awaken ears –

skin bathed in sudden oxygen.

I look to you.

“Cover me again in water,”

I say.

“Envelop me

in the deepest, darkest blue.”

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 25

Today's poetry prompt was to write some form of a "this is the last straw" poem.  I don't know if I have fully achieved the essence of this poem in my life, but I am trying!


The Power of No

I am so used to saying,
Yes.
Sure.
I can do that.
I'd be happy to.

A few years ago,
I was faced with the typical scenario
of having ten things
already on my plate,
and someone asked me
to pile on number eleven.

Before I realized what was happening,
the word, no, just fell out of my mouth.
Such a foreign,
yet absolutely delicious word,
for these lips.

I've been getting better
at this one syllable reply.
No, that doesn't fit my schedule.
No, I'm sorry, but I already have too many
commitments this month.

Go on.
Say it with me.
You can do it.
Just say, no.

If saying, yes,
causes your eyes to flutter,
your heart to race,
and your fingers to feel fidgety -
the body is desperately trying
to say it for you.
No.

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 24

Today's prompt was to write a poem based on a fill in the blank title.

"Tell it to the ________"

We hiked for 4 hours on our first day in The Lake District. Today, we rambled around the countryside for 2 hours and explored a hidden cave. This poem is an ode to my tired feet.

Tell It to My Feet

Tell it to the soft spot

just under the arch -

that tender cave wall

that never touches the ground. 

Tell it to the scuffed, padded bottom

that takes the full force of gravity

with each step.

Tell it to the contours that 

hum and vibrate,

after a long day of walking -

each foot having its own heart beat -

a swelling pulse 

from pounding pavement 

and treading on beaten grass paths. 

Tell it to my feet. 

They say,

"I'll take you there

and back again."

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 23

Today's prompt was to write a location poem.  My location this week is the mountains.

Here we go ...


A Rock is Meant for Sitting

I follow your footsteps
up small, side-of-the-mountain stones
meant for climbing.

Wet tracks glisten
from three sets of boots -
mine will make the fourth.

Halfway up the mountain
we sit -
ducks in a row -
pointing to Lake Windermere
in the distance.

I ask if we can stop climbing
long enough to take it all in -
not yet wanting to wander down,
but not wanting to go
any higher.

My eyes rest on water
and the jagged rocks all around.
A single, black slug
makes it’s slow, wet path
across a piece of slate.
It is as if he is not moving
at all -
his body's breath
is movement enough. 

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 22

Today's prompt was to write either an optimistic poem or a pessimistic poem (or a mixture of both). I'm surprised that I haven't resorted to reciting the phone book, now that I've been writing and posting a poem a day for 22 days!

You're in luck.  I'm still coherent and persistent enough to keep writing.  If nothing else - I always have hope.


If Hope Were a Beetle

We are all born with hope.
It sits in the palm of the hand -
a spinning black beetle -
tiny legs turning like wheels. 

Our hope scurries -
it flees enclosure -
it hides from cloying fingers. 

Hope spins in circles,
seeking shelter,
memorizing every line of the palm -
your map of self talk. 

I am not worthy. 
I don't think I can finish this. 
I've never done this before,
but I hope I will. 

I hope. 
I hope.
I hope. 

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 21

Today's prompt was to write a "back-to-basics" poem. This vacation has been about shedding our electronics for long, rambling walks in the Lake District. I traveled a path this afternoon which Wordsworth would have walked. The first line of this poem was genuinely whispered to me. I hope you enjoy this one.


Bare Necessities

It is here that I lay myself bare. 

No purse needed - 
there are no shops here. 
No fancy coat -
just a light jumper will do.
No lipstick -
you need not impress the sheep. 

We ramble on the Lake District trails -
our thoughts rest on stones -
daydreaming our way
through moss covered branches
and bird songs carried by lake air. 

It is in this light
that everything becomes crisp and clear,
as if my eyes have vision for the first time. 

It is here that I lay myself bare. 

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 20

Today's prompt was to write a poem about family.  Despite jet lag and being on vacation, I am dutifully trying to keep up with my National Poetry Month challenge.  Here is my offering for today, gentle readers.


What This Mother Knows

It is because I know
my youngest will get hungry 
exactly two hours 
after having breakfast. 

It is because I know to put
a box of tissues between them
on the back seat,
to avoid the question,
"Mom, do you have any ... ?"

It is because I know
he likes a bottle of red wine
waiting on the counter
with garlic hummus on a Friday night -
pretzel sticks, not pretzel twists. 

It is because I know 
that he puts Tabasco sauce
on everything.
I keep it stocked in the fridge. 

It is because I know 
my youngest son's favorite t-shirt
is neon yellow with a blue stripe,
that I wash this one first.

It is because I know to wait in the hallway
after prayers,
so my oldest can say, "good night!"
three times before finally closing the door.

This is family. 

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 19

Today's writing prompt was to choose a color, use it as the title, and create a poem based on that color.  For this poem, I return to Cristina, circa 1991 (living in Ottawa, Canada).


OXBLOOD RED

Red shoes,
ruby mind -
you were here.

My Oxblood Doc Martens
were always on my feet in college.
I'm surprised I didn't sleep in them.

Those bouncing soles took me
everywhere.
I would walk through Byward Market,
collecting delicacies of landjäger wurst 
and German chocolate. 

A flash of red could be seen,
as I escaped down the stairs
of the used bookstore.
I remember picking up a copy 
of Mary McCarthy's, The Group,
and losing myself in fiction.

I was red-infused -
wearing a pair of teardrop, Carnelian earrings
and a deep burgundy scarf.

With Oxblood feet,
my root chakra energy
walked with me -
rooted me to the ground,
centered my many facets,
leaving a trail of invisible footprints. 

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 18

Today's prompt was to write a weather poem.


It's Raining Color Today

Yellow buttercups wink at me,
gathering strength from the sun.

Your sea blue words carry with them
clarity and calm.
Bathed in your need for direction,
I follow the itinerary
and hold your hand -
my clouds of rose quartz comfort
trailing behind
in secret.

Our children run and splash about
with the red fire of purpose and play.

The other travelers obey the black lines
and close cabin compartments
with rhythmic clicks.

I admire their efficiency,
as I linger over a book
before take off -
remaining deliciously, knowingly
suspended
in the fog of a British morning.

Cristina M. R. Norcross
Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 17 / SHAZAM!

The writing prompt for today was to write a pop culture poem.  Abracadabra ... I'm back in the 80's with just a touch on my iPhone.

SHAZAM!

Shazam tells me I would like

Mumford and Sons,

So I ask Siri to bring up iTunes.

Greasy spoon?

Yes, the nearest greasy spoon

is on Main Street.

Is there anything else I can help you with?

When too lazy to put on my own music,

or find out which album has virtually

“Dropped,”

Sirius XM New Wave

brings back,

Every Day is Like Sunday,

or the refrain,

It’s the End of the World as We Know it.

I’m left with the bubble

of thinking that I’m still in the late 80’s –

a virtual music world –

when we still had vinyl,

and you could rewind a cassette tape

with the turn of a pencil.

Shazam!

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 16

Today's challenge was to write an elegy - a poem about someone who has passed.  Here is my offering.  One hour before midnight ... I made it just in time!  Vera would be proud.

Golden Threads

Show me how to do those leg lifts, Cristina.

I need to learn.

You know –

Tissue only likes the white cushion

to sit on.

Nothing but the best

for my Tissue.

Vera loved her cats.

We have that in common.

She also loved her kids.

Her girls, by marriage,

and the many foster children

she raised from her soft hips.

A voice like honey –

hands made for cooking chili –

Vera held the world close.

She sewed until her hands

were broken from arthritis.

She mended minds.

She mended hearts.

Vera was the mother to all.

On the day I found out she died,

there was a rainbow in the sky.

I rushed home,

thinking my own mother had taken ill.

We sat at the table,

after the phone call came through.

Mother to many –

Vera was gone.

We remembered her –

the golden needle –

the silver thread.

Somewhere close

she is mending fabric –

making clothes out of bread.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 15

Today's prompt was to write either a love poem, an anti-love poem or some combination of the two.  In honor of one of our oldest friends from college getting married this summer, I wrote a poem about one of our first trips to Paris, when Scott met us for the day to tour around.  It is a snapshot in time of our early marriage, our love of Paris, our love for each other, and the joy of knowing that we were meeting up with an old friend.  It all kind of melds together into a somewhat humorous, narrative poem involving a baguette.  Hmm ... let's see what happens.

Au Lapin Agile, ca 1880-90

We Were in the Tub

Now You Know

(For Scott G., in celebration of his engagement.  Psst, take her to Paris.)

Paris is all about romance –

romance and art –

romance, art and food –

romance, art, food

and long, luxurious mornings of love.

We had all of these things

on our first trip to Paris.

Me, on a bed, with a baguette.

You would think that bread was my lover.

Does it live?

Asked Ali, when she saw the photograph.

After walking past Le Lapin Agile,

realizing it was closed,

but longing to sit in the same corner

where Picasso or Modigliani once sat,

we gave up staring at the hours of operation sign

and walked up a very long flight of sand-colored steps.

Arriving at the smallest hotel room in Paris,

I fell onto the bed,

baguette in hand.

We’ll eat some of this later –

with wine.

I’ll just close my eyes here for a while.

Click –

husband took the now infamous,

unattractive photo of me,

asleep on the bed –

comatose and hugging my French bread.

I will never let go of good bread –

that would be a waste.

I dream walk into the tub,

look at the bidet in the room

with raised eyebrow,

and sleep a bit more

in the lukewarm water.

My love joins me.

We rest together

arm in arm –

leg resting on leg.

I awaken to the sound of the phone ringing.

Splashes fall,

I do not move.

It’s Scott.

He’s here.

Quick, get dressed.

We’ll meet him at Le Jardin du Luxembourg.

I bet Scott never knew

what we were up to

when he picked up that phone.

Now he does.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 14

Today's prompt was to finish the sentence:

"If I Were _______"

and use that as your title.  Here is my offering for today.

If I Were That Blade of Grass

Honey touched dew would

glide down my shoulder,

offering succor for the season’s

dry, parched earth.

If I were that blade of grass,

young squirrels would

launch themselves onto branches,

using my strong, frond-like length

as a trampoline.

If I were that blade of grass,

I would be in danger of suffering nibbles

from deer and small rabbits,

but I would let them.

My capacity for growth

is endless.

If I were that blade of grass,

I would sing in the wind,

like the sound a wine glass makes

when touched on the rim –

liquid circles of high notes

and low tones.

If I were that blade of grass,

I would welcome both the new green

and the fading brown –

accept my short comings

and keep growing.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 13

Today's prompt was to write an animal poem.  I'm giving a poetry reading today, so my time is limited.  Here's what came through for me, when I let the animal totem of the cat speak.

(photo from the National Geographic story, "The Search for Cleopatra")

Cleopatra’s Cat

Cleopatra’s cat feels guilty.

He could have loved more,

given more,

scratched at the door more –

sounding the alarm to intruders.

In the end

no sleek, feline skills

would have been enough.

Her escape was a final one.

All black lines

and silent stealth,

Cleopatra’s loyal pet

stayed close,

as poison touched

ruby lips.

He glided next to her,

soundlessly,

holding vigil,

when porcelain skin grew cold.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 12

Today's prompt was to write a city poem.  I have lived in many cities.  My favorite big city to live in is London, UK.  Here is a narrative poem about our last trip to London with our two boys.  It was quite momentous for several reasons.  Our youngest has a special memory about Camden Town.

I Lost My Tooth

on a Double Decker Bus

He will always have this story.

On our way to Camden Town,

small, crowded shops line the river.

Snaking footsteps

wind in and out of doors.

The steam from food vendors,

rises in fragrant clouds,

invoking hunger.

From behind me I hear

a joyous shout.

“I lost another tooth!”

says our youngest.

Without the school nurse’s

plastic treasure chest on hand,

I carefully save the tooth

in a plastic bag.

The bus stops

for a new adventure.

A new smile takes it all in.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 11

For Day 11 of the challenge, the prompt was to make a statement the title of your poem and then write something inspired by those words. 

I'm starting to want some images, on a regular basis, to liven things up.  So here is one of my photographs from our trip to The Domes in Milwaukee.  It was so majestic inside these beautiful rooms of exotic flowers and trees.  Hope you enjoy the scenery ... and today's poem.

You Are Closer Than You Think

The space outside of you –

that color spectrum cloud

of potential and spirit song –

contains the toolbox you need –

your want,

your trust,

your skill

your passion,

your philanthropy,

your purpose.

The scent of patchouli

hangs in the air.

You follow the yellow brick road

to the you of tomorrow –

the bungee jumper

you were meant to be.

Your threaded fingers

weave their magic.

Hands clasped in prayer –

a hoped for future.

You are closer than you think.

Reach out –

touch it.

Feel the juice

of the fresh peach,

the leather soft glide of the leaf,

the subtle give of earth

beneath your feet,

when you take that first step.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 10

Today's prompt was to write a "future" poem.  This is my offering - a vision of how our world could be.  We are one.

Future Breathing

Once upon a time,

we thought our bodies

had outlines.

We thought that one heart

was distinct from the next.

We thought that touch was

the only connection.

There is nothing between us now.

The distant past of disconnection

no longer contains the human spirit.

Thoughts,

words,

actions –

float just above the earth walkers.

Now we are truly one.

Blue-white chords –

strands that link generations –

there is an echo of shared consciousness

in every wave hello

and every kiss goodbye.

The cardinal knows your song.

The turtle feels your soul’s vibration

with his slow, steady feet.

The hawk knows you are

becoming more

each

day.

One step bleeds into

a string of days.

One year passes the baton

to many future years.

It is all happening right now.

Heaven is all around us –

where we stand –

where we breathe.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 9

Today's challenge was to write a shelter poem.  This is a poem about my first year of marriage, living in an abode of questionable construction.  All of it is true.

Our bungalow was just down the road from Marsden Rock (now two rocks)

South Shields Bungalow

Our bungalow-by-the-sea

was falling apart,

but it was all we had.

All of our wedding money

went to the move to England.

The bricks were slowly crumbling.

The backyard lawn consisted of long straw,

and we had no mower.

Everything was dark green –

the carpets,

the couch,

the curtains –

even the wallpaper.

I felt like I was living

in a bowl of pea soup.

When I wasn’t at my temp job

doing shift work,

I was writing.

There was no desk,

so we stacked some empty

milk crates and placed a piece of plywood on top.

It withstood my laptop,

my many hours of solitary typing,

and my heavy thinking.

One night, I flushed the plastic toilet freshener

by mistake.

Until the plumber came,

three days later,

we had to go to the pub

to use the bathroom.

The trick was to buy a pint,

so you looked like a customer,

but not drink so much of it,

that you would need to return to the pub

two hours later.

London was calling,

but for one year,

this bungalow-by-the-sea

gave two newlyweds shelter

from the storm.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014

National Poetry Month Challenge - Day 8

Today's poetry prompt was to write either a violence poem, a peace poem or both.  I'll be honest and say that I found this a bit troubling.  I write plenty of peace poems.  I tend to steer clear of violence.  This poem is my response to being asked to write the poem.  I suppose, I could have just written a straight forward peace poem.  Instead, I wrestled with my thoughts a bit.

Your Body Hears What You Are Thinking

There is no light in your cup.

You kick the stone down the road,

following its arc –

it’s jumping dance from pavement

to puddle.

Be careful.

Your body hears

what you are thinking,

and it hurts.

Be kind to your feet –

they walked you out of that house

where the boogie man groped you.

Be kind to your hands –

they comfort fevered brows

and make bowls of spicy chili.

Everyone loves your chili.

Be kind to your eyes –

they need not see the open wound

to know it needs to heal.

Be kind to your readers –

they are looking for something

to lift them up –

to lift them out of the violence of this world –

an invisible cloak

of good.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Copyright 2014