[Day 13: Write a "persona" poem]
Pocket Rainbow
All the way from the sun
through the atmosphere,
a concentrated riot of photons,
I've traveled whole, warm and energetic,
down to earth and into a neighborhood,
only to be broken apart as I stream
through a beveled window in someone's front door.
I split into many wavelengths
and bang up against a
gray-upholstered couch
in the living room as a multicolored stripe,
seven colors projected onto fabric.
I delight two little girls, who try to catch me
in their hands and stuff me in their pockets,
but in vain. I want to say, It's just refraction, kids,
it's really no big
deal. But they're still too little
to understand the science of it,
and besides, their grandmother says,
You can still pretend,
and sometime later today,
reach into your
pockets, and pull out a rainbow
to help you smile, so
that red, orange, yellow, green,
blue, indigo and
violet will color your day,
like a paint box of
light.
[Day 14: Write a "myth" poem.]
Why is a Marathon
26.2 Miles?
Legend has it that an ancient Greek messenger,
whose name is lost to the ages,
ran from Marathon to Athens
with news of military victory.
He jogged an astounding 40 kilometers,
or about 25 miles, only to collapse and die
after breathlessly delivering the news.
True or not, it's a hell of a story.
In honor of that sacrifice, the Modern Olympics
established a race in the 1890's,
the same length as his fateful route.
But a few years later at the London Olympics,
on the whim of the British Royal Family,
it was extended another mile and two-tenths,
the distance from Windsor Castle to the stadium,
and that distance has been observed ever since.
Which only goes to show that
a myth is as good as a mile.
[Day 15: Write a "middle poem".]
Sunset on Route 38
In the middle of rush hour,
staring at the bumper three feet in front of me
on this clogged-artery highway,
I glance up and notice the change overhead.
The sun is setting the clouds on fire,
not a forest-eating wildfire,
but more like a winter lodge log fire,
calming me with an ember glow.
I want to grab my phone camera,
get out, abandon my car,
and stand in the middle of the highway
taking shot after shot. But I won't.
In the middle of the noise and fumes
of this flash-mob parking lot,
we are witness to a November sunset,
the best of any time of year.
Why are November sunsets spectacular?
Maybe it's the type of clouds we get
this time of year, or the angle of the sun,
or the colors, echoing the hues of the leaves,
or maybe it's just the timing,
that they happen just as we all
are finishing our day, and we look in awe
at the wash of colors wrapping twilight
like a present, as if the clouds are saying,
Relax, don't worry
about the crush of things.
Go home to your loved
ones and dinner
while we put on a
Technicolor show.
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