These two poems seem to go together. I wrote them during April 2025, which is National Poetry Month, based on Writer's Digest poetry prompts.
10:09 AM on a
Thursday
in April and it
starts
plut plut plut
on the hood of
my raincoat
as I’m walking
and it
makes me smile.
Early this
morning the birds
frantically
told me this rain
was coming, the
clouds headed
our way, the sunrise
not to be
taken advantage
of because
that sun would
soon be covered
by a blanket of
white and silver,
dropping its
treasure below.
I do not
shorten my stroll
which startles
four mallards
on the small
pond, who move
to the other
side to shake their
heads and wings
at me—or
the raindrops
falling—and paddle
noisily along
the far edge, bodies
gliding. I
finish my walk and
head back
inside. Later that
afternoon the
rain stops and
the silence in
the office is so loud
I can hear my
tinnitus singing
in my ears. At
3:29 PM I open
the door, peek
my head out,
and it starts.
The bunching of
tear ducts.
The tears
rolling down my face.
I don’t know
where they come from.
Relief.
Overwhelmed. Exhausted.
Overextended.
Happiness. Gratitude.
Whatever their
source, their purpose,
I let them
fall—my own rain shower,
my own silver
lining. The treasure
I drop to the
ground below,
joining the
rivulets from the sky,
traveling away
to join the soil.
Unraveling
(with prompts from @imandq)
All morning my
mind has been
in a state of
disquiet like the
sleepless wind
so I begin the
percussion of
feet against blacktop
before the
thoughts within me
melt my brain.
I’d like to see the sun
after so much
grey. The weekend spent
alone brought
about a vintage
loneliness, a
familiar tingle like
rereading a
long-forgotten memoir
once upon a
time I was…
listening to
cavernous whispers
and tracing the
lines of my hands
wanting to read
the future of it all
but my
reflection has changed
and though
letting go left a mark
I see through
the seeping blindness
that this
stepping has taken me
down a road
I’ve been before,
and looking up
I see her, a bald eagle.
She swoops down
to me, hovering above
so close I can
see her feathers and
the curve of
her yellow beak.
I stop and
stare. Just take it all in.
The eagle,
silently soaring in the sky.
The frogs’
prolific symphony.
The partial sun
igniting
every busy word
in my mind.
All this,
unraveling the knots in me.
***
I did not get a
picture of the eagle.
Some moments
aren’t meant
to be
photographed.
by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle
April 2025
***
Julie S.
Paschold: Poet,
Artist, Agronomist from Nebraska. Author of Horizons (won 2024 Nebraska
Book Award) & Human Nature. Semi-finalist in Kate Sommers Memorial
Prize, honorable mention in
two Writer's Digest contests. Resident Poetry Instructor at Omaha’s Lauritzen Gardens. Volunteer for the Human Library
Organization. https://medium.com/@jpaschold or https://jpaschold.blogspot.com/ .
