Even the house can feel
the simmering approach
of another week.

I walk early,
stuffing one ear with stories
and leaving the other open
for birdsong.
The tops of the trees
knock together in the wind.

The morning fades
into thumps and piles
of laundry.
We give equal attention
to the couch and the dishes,
with mild motivation.
I make grocery lists
to confirm all that
can wait
another day.

The cavern of the afternoon
is accented
with sullen homework inquiries
and the festering drip of the faucet.

We are all trying to do
as much of nothing
as possible,
while still
being productive.

And eventually,
the savory evening
succumbs to the light.

~ Megan M. Codera


None of this is quite as we expected,
yet we cannot resist the urge to wonder
how tomorrow may hatch something unprotected,
and what was taken from today, we ponder.
You once thought you knew who you’d follow.
You once thought you knew how to succeed.
But given extra time, you just walk about and wallow,
searching between land and sky for the need.
All of this is out of your control now –
there’s no chance of stopping the rain.
You can change your dress and take a bow,
but you’re still on in the next refrain.
Is this anywhere near where you thought you would be
when you jumped ship and floated to sea?

~ Megan M. Codera

*NaPoWriMo poem prompt for Day 23: the sonnet.


You have to want to wake
at this hour.
You cannot argue
with that moment
when you could easily sink
back into dreams;
no discussion.
You just get up.
Switch on minimal light
in each space you pass,
to allow your attention
to the morning
and not the mess.
You put on the kettle
for coffee or tea.
You feed the cats and
pause at the window
when the newspaper gets delivered
across the street.
Then you open the front door
and step onto the porch.
You hear early commuters
warming their cars
and cat fights.
The five o’clock train
pulls into the station
and the water’s ready.

~ Megan M. Codera

*NaPoWriMo poem prompt for Day 19: “Many years ago, ‘didactic’ poetry was very common – in other words, poetry that explicitly sought to instruct the reader in some kind of skill or knowledge, whether moral, philosophical, or practical. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write the latter kind of ‘how to’ poem – a didactic poem that focuses on a practical skill.”

We See What We Remember 

In the spring
of the mid-eighties,
you took us over the mountains
at three in the morning
to try to see
the comet
that won’t pass again
for another forty-five years
from now.
I slept on blankets
in the way, way back
of the wagon.
We pulled into
a look-out
with other families
and telescopes
we didn’t know.
The dark sky
grabbed all of us,
lit up with more stars
than I ever thought
and a pull of energy,
I could not name.
We were above
the Columbia valley,
on the edge
of a one-shot moment
for most.
The highway
and the open sky
hushed the conversations,
but still the air
was electric.

I could not tell you
how the comet looked,
or even if
we saw it at all.
I must have foolishly
held the idea that I could
see it again
in my lifetime.
But either way,
it was up there.
And we drove over the mountains
at three in the morning
to try to see
the comet
that won’t pass again
for another forty-five years
from now,
long after you have gone.

~ Megan M. Codera

Pond Perspective 

What we find
in the shallows
is where we
Littoral growth
depends on
light and water
among toads, sunfish,
and other
growing things.
We can only hide
in the cattails and sedges
for so long
we grow curious
of what lies between
the watercress
and lilies.
We emerge and float
no further
than the pondweeds
to resist submersion.
When we drift
into the deep
we risk growth,
as our roots
to reach
for the bottom.

~ Megan M. Codera

NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 17: take a reference from your shelves and write a poem that incorporates at least ten words from your source. (Pond Life – A Golden Nature Guide)


Abandoned House

If we lived here,
we would see trees
from every window –
vertical lines
accented by the light
through the leaves.
If we lived here,
we’d gather
acorns and cones,
strips of bark and lichen.
We’d grow so accustomed
to the quiet
so much so
that the snaps
and howls of the forest
wouldn’t echo and crawl
into our rooms.
We’d shut the drapes
in the winter
and pile wood on the porch
for fires.
And in the summer,
we would abandon the house,
and spend most of our days
Some of the doors
might lose
their handles
and some of the rooms
might lose
their doors,
but out here,
the house is just a shelter
and the home
is outside,
among the trees.

~ Megan M. Codera

* NaPoWriMo poem prompt for Day 16: take the “Almanac Questionnaire,” which solicits concrete details about a specific place (real or imagined). Then write a poem incorporating or based on one or more of your answers.