We invite you to write and share your poems with us during April in honor of National Poetry Month. You don’t have to be a poet, you don’t have to rhyme, just have fun!
Jot down a few lines about what you’re noticing during this time of emergence, what you found on a walk, what came up in your backyard, what you’re thinking. Feel free to include a photo to accompany your poem too if you’d like.
All types of poems are welcome. All ages are encouraged to participate. Email to galwaygettogether@gmail.com or send as a guest post on the library’s Facebook page.
We’ll post your contributions on our website and share them on our Facebook page throughout April.
Need a little guidance or inspiration? You can look back at our 2020 April Poems, or try writing from a Prompt.
The Brown Thrasher, according to the National Audubon Society, has a repertoire of 2000 songs/sounds, the most remarkable of any other mimic. Photo of Brown Thrasher: from Cornell Laboratory, All About Birds
The Curator is Really a Thief
If you ask, he’ll swear
he came by it all legitimately.
The song of the thrush and towhee
the sparrows, owls and hawks.
A playlist longer, he claims,
than the Mockingbird’s.
And more, he cackles, more
in my traveling museum of song:
the mare yodeling to her wandering foal,
the yelp of a wounded fox,
the gurgle of fear in a hen’s throat,
the slam of a door, an engine’s cough,
the cry of a child too long alone.
And, he hisses from the underbrush,
items not to be found in any store:
the unreachable songs of the warblers
and the echo of songs
long lost.
Then he ushers you closer:
And every promise you’ve ever broken.
For a song, he hoots,
for a song.
— by Mary Cuffe Perez
A blessing of red –
surprise tulip in my yard,
gift from a chipmunk.
— by Evelyn Frank Hanna
Goat cheese pungent on my tongue,
hard bed and harsher grandfather,
mountain meadow alpine flowers
and the roar of wind through the pines.
I know these things. I remember them.
They are in me as surely as Shirley
Temple was Heidi.
— by Evelyn Frank Hanna
April 24, 2021
Yellow everywhere,
soul deep yellow,
more yellow than any year I can remember.
Forsythia an explosion of yellow,
Marsh Marigolds bonfires of yellow,
Little suns of Coltsfoot blasting yellow
along roadsides.
What does it mean
this inflorescence of yellow?
Torches of remembrance
for all we’ve lost
since the last blooming.
— by Mary Cuffe Perez
Earth Day April 22
Sun
Snow
Shadblow
— by Mary Cuffe Perez
4/22
I refuse to say
the s-word so late in spring
but watch the white rain!
— by Jeanne Frank
Patty Kay’s Haiku from NM
Javelinas chomp
on prickly pears, rip them up.
Yet, Spring brings regrowth.
Desert plants protect
themselves with thorns, stickers and
near alliances.
People don’t care. Wind
blows trash everywhere. Mesquite
spikes catch most of it.
Readers
They tell me of books they’ve discovered,
authors they admire, subjects
they’re learning to love. Once
word got out that I read, they needed
to share their favorites, to quiz
my list of future reads – does it match
their own, have I read this yet,
what do I think of that?
They gush, they push, they prod.
With great enthusiasm they give
me books they’ve just finished
or barely begun.
They bring me bagsful of books
they just know I’ll enjoy.
They’ve told me the library
subscribes to magazines
chock full of reviews
and they’ve put pencil marks –
very faintly, don’t worry –
by the ones they must recommend.
And so my list grows and it grows,
and my shelves overflow,
books pile each table, edge
me from bed, spill out the doors.
Please readers leave me alone!
I just want to go curl up with a good book.
— by Evelyn Frank Hanna
More haiku sent from Patty Kay
in Las Cruces NM
4/8/21
Surprise! Scorpion
and snake season has arrived.
Not sure what to do.
Twelve bright Caret Cup
cactus blossoms opened in
one day. Ahh! Lovely.
4/11/21
Extreme drought. No hat
or water. Dehydration,
a deadly danger.
4/13/21
Green hues speckle the
desert. How does that happen
without needed rain?
Leaning Barn
A slap of wind.
Done in passing, the way April does things.
Without intent.
As if the very idea of another season
was too great a load to carry.
Not her job.
Everything she does seems a whim.
Like that wind that came up out of the north
so quick it knocked us all off our feet,
and did in the leaning barn for good.
All three generations of it thrown off its foundation.
A heap of hand hewn timbers,
rusted tin and twisted stanchions.
Spewing moldy hay into the matted hair
of last year’s grasses.
A side swipe, that’s all.
The old barn had taken this and more,
winds trending northwest
slamming full force into the siding,
shivering the ribs.
And still it stood, keeping its own,
leaning each year a little farther south to cushion the blow.
bending earthward as grasses do,
earthward with the birches and aspen that have retaken the fields
gone all these years now uncut, ungrazed,
holding an impossible angle against wind, time
and abandonment.
Until one April strolls in, and in a snit,
blows hard from the north and does it in.
Because April is that way.
If April is anyway at all.
— by Mary Cuffe Perez [This poem needs a caveat. Leonard Glywa who owns the barn that collapsed on Mechanic Street, Galway, tells me that though the barn leaned south it collapsed north. Also, he says it was a hurricane that came through that took it down, not a mere “blow”. I took liberties as I tend to do.]
Moss
Moss on the old well pump boards
in the slant light of afternoon
is one thing I love,
the way the tiny greenery mimics
the forest, the boards wearing
acres of trees in their prime,
in miniature. Bend close,
pinch a stray strand of the moss,
your fingers a chain saw of destruction.
— by Evelyn Frank Hanna
April 12, 2021
The spring bud letting
of the red maple,
a softly falling rain
brings showers of
flowers to carpet
the road
— Photo and poem by Mary Cuffe Perez
Haiku series from Las Cruces NM, by Patty Kay:
Behind the wind came
rare rain. Mesquite, Prickly Pear,
Creosote washed clean.
Today I started
my barefoot days. Still need to
condition the feet.
They are back: Gambel
Quail, Roadrunners, and Canyon
Wren’s cascading calls.
When spring comes:
The sky pulls off its white blanket
that it’s had all winter long
To make way for the sun
which melts away the snow
So that the birds can come
they sing as they fly home
All the other creatures
stretch and yawn
They climb out of their homes
and start to sing along
The trees dress up in green
And they dance to their song
Then flowers grow up everywhere
to see what’s going on
the whole world seems to be in harmony
with colors and with sounds
And magic is almost everywhere
if you only look around
— Rue Ashman
April 11, 2021
Here and there,
the Gloweegie pauses, spreads out
time, gathers sky,
then runs fast as it can
to give itself
to the river. In the going
it sings the thrushes’ song,
or the thrush sings the Gloweegie’s song,
the pauses, the rushes, all the notes
along the way.
— photo and poem by Mary Cuffe Perez
The young trees grow so high
That they tickle the sky
Each time the wind blows
And the sky laughs back
With clouds of rain
- Jade Ashman
Hold out your arms and watch your step
There’s a fallen tree to cross
On the other side a castle waits
Where a dragon is the boss
You, the princess, must be brave
To reclaim your castle home
You beat the dragon, now it’s your friend
And you retake your throne
No on to more adventures with
your dragon by your side
A pirate ship is sailing near
Better go while it’s high tide
You sail the seas and find the map
Now where’s that treasure chest?
You find it full of ice cream cones
Because ice cream is the best
Now goodbye to your pirate friends
You have more work to do
Your dragon takes you to the moon
She likes outer space too
Play asteroid tag with aliens
But you know you can not stay
You hitch a comet back to earth
You’ll return another day
Tomorrow more adventures wait
Where imagination leads
Just grab the bug spray and a hat
And cross the magic tree
- Raye Ashman
Sharing a heartfelt moment with the swirling foamy water, mind wandering, time seems to stand still
Trees lining a water roadway for all of the water that is making its way back home to a far off ocean or lake from a mountain far up on land
Moments of peace while watching the ancient travel of the lungs of the earth that makes life on land possible
— Paul Ashman
Look closely near the center of the photo! Green buds opening A fresh start, new life begins Soaking up the sun Looking like a stone The egg case waits patiently Unassuming, plain Holding deep within Mantises by the hundreds Ready to emerge -- by Raye Ashman
A haiku series of springtime memories
— by Jeanne Frank:
We fish at twilight
for ugly, skulking bullheads
in our backyard pond.
Spring’s black fly covens,
with deliberate malice,
cast their wicked spells.
Big brothers threaten
worms and muck, ancient turtles:
stories to haunt dreams.
April 9, 2021
The leaf clutches the bloom
as tightly as it can, but the bloom
unfurls, rises,
stretches from its stem
to hold its one brief stun of light.
— by Mary Cuffe Perez
Crystal Walker wrote this poem for her grandfather who has dementia.
I Will Remember
I will care for you as I promised long ago,
When the day of the week, isn’t in your head.
Or when you seek the library,
and go towards the post office instead.
I will remember
When you forget.
I will reminisce with you about past times,
As I help you cross the street.
I will gently guide you up the curb,
And remind you the names of the people you meet.
I will remember
When you forget.
I will tell you how wonderful you’ve been to me
Throughout all of my childhood years-
I will tell you that everything will be okay,
When your face is full of tears.
I will remember
When you forget.
I will be by your side, as you’ve been for me
When the days of memory are rough.
Or when you feel like giving up,
And the daily challenges are tough.
I will remember
When you forget.
And after you are gone,
and I have only yesterday
I’ll take all of these times
I have with you today-
and keep them tucked
within my heart,
knowing that I did my part.
No guilt or shame shall come to me
As I will know I repaid my debt
By returning the love you always gave to me
I will remember
When you forget.
— by Crystal M. Walker
A haiku series by Patty Kay, formerly a Galway resident:
Home in Las Cruces
Winds of fury sweep
desert floors. Mountains obscured.
Dust envelopes all.
New York has mold. New
Mexico has dust. Either
way I cough and sneeze.
Desert Spring: Gusting
winds, blowing dust. Hey, masks are
really a good thing.
Two Pileated
Woodpeckers – huge, vocal – drive
my poor cat crazy.
— by Evelyn Frank Hanna
April 6, 2021
I think I would live one more spring
beyond my allotted years
just to see the Goldfinch
turn gold.
— by Mary Cuffe Perez
April 5, 2021
The Thing About Books
is how eerie they are, how they find you.
Someone mentions an old, obscure tome
and four days later there it is, very top
of a pile at the dollar-a-bag sale.
It may not be the best sellers that find you,
but the books best for you, now, here.
You stand in the middle of the library
and your hand finds the book,
the page, the very words
you need that will dissolve
that hard pit of unease
you’ve been carrying for months.
Sometimes it even seems books
rearrange themselves on shelves,
travel house to house,
library to library, store to store,
to catch and entice the reader
who needs them next.
— by Evelyn Frank Hanna
April 4, 2021
–Photo and poem by Mary Cuffe Perez
Nothing says spring
like the two turkey vultures
who return to roost
on the bones of the old barn
goin’ low.
April 2, 2021
Splashes of purple
cluster under the tree.
In the middle
of the lawn,
one lone crocus
socially distancing.
-- by Evelyn Frank Hanna
April 2, 2021 Windbreaks of spring snow buffer delicate crocus from icy wind gusts. -- by Jeanne Frank
April 1, 2021
April fools us once again.
Why do we believe her promises
when she buries them under snow?
–Photo and poem by Mary Cuffe Perez