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A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi. (In front of you, a precipice. Behind you, wolves.)

Monday, April 30, 2018

National Poetry Month--Day 30--Questad Poem plus spare

On this last day of April and the last day of the poetry challenge, I'm doing a Questad poem. And yes, I was just as confused as you are about it. I thought it had something to do with a quest...which it doesn't. Learn about them here.

It's been a pleasure writing poetry and stretching myself to do something creative. (Actually I'm probably going to go add bits of broken mirror to my broken glass chandelier so that ticks another creative box.) I hope you've enjoyed my often freakish sense of humor. Thanks for reading these and leaving the occasional comment. They make me feel like someone actually comes here and this isn't all a colossal wasteland where words go to die alone and unwanted.
I give you Windchimes:

by H. Linn Murphy

Chimes dance as the world's breath blows them
Singing lovelier notes than a hundred doves (not hard if you've ever heard doves, by the way, but it sounds good on paper)
Making magical, mystical morning music 
Ting. Ting. Tinginging away
A message from the wind
Like a rippling stream
Filling my life with traceries of lacy love from the One who set it all in motion.
You are loved, they say.

And while I'm on the subject of doves....

The world loves doves, 
Mascot of peace
Chosen to lift wedding wishes
To the heavens
In a cloud of feathers rising.

Not me.
In reality doves are
Idiot birds, denser
Than a bag of wet toilet paper
They lay nests 
In ridiculous places
(The ladder, a hanging planter, 
Palm trees, cupboards you use all the time, etc)
So their children fall
Paralyzed to the ground.

They freak out if you go near
Their nest, which they
Build next to your
Front door or on top of your car
And if you move that object
On which they park their butt
They abandon 
That nest and their eggs,
Choosing instead to sit somewhere close
And Who Who Who WHO WHO at you.

Plus they sing one monotonous note.
Just one.
Who. Who. Who. Who. Who. Who.
And over.
And over again
Sending me to beg
For fingernails on a chalkboard
To rid my ears of incessancy.
All of this is true. 
So why do I try to rescue 
Those poor ugly babies?

© 2018 by H. Linn Murphy

1 comment:

  1. Well, I LOVE the sound of wind chimes and your poem about it but I'll never be able to get that new vision of doves out of my head. Thanks a lot. LOL.