Up early this morning. Actually, I’m about to hit the road for what will probably be a 16-18 hour road trip up to Ohio and back again (picking up my Ohio boys for Thanksgiving break–yay!). So if you see someone between Duluth, Georgia, and Fairfield, Ohio, today wearing glasses and a brown You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out T-shirt, then it’s probably me. So be on the lookout.
For today’s prompt, write a “what’s wrong or right” poem. As with any of these prompts, there are many ways to come at this one. However, since I’m in a hurry to hit the road, my mind is completely blanking on all of them. So, whether it’s right or wrong–wrong or right–I’m just gonna get down to poeming. Have a great unsupervised day!
Here’s my attempt:
“Whether it’s write or wrong”
I have to write, though it may be wrong
to just start typing and drift along.
There are two boys who can’t wait to see
their very silly poet daddy.
My one hope is you’ll play nice today
while daddy poet has gone away.
But I’ll be back for poetic fun
after all my traveling is done.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
I never see so wonderful article. UGGs, UGG Elsey Boots, UGG Gaviota Boots, CHI Digital Flat Iron, CHI Turbo Flat Iron 1", fashion designer handbags wholesale, fashion designer handbags, coach handbags wholesale, Jimmy Choo designer handbags, Juicy couture replica handbags
Mindful Collaboration
Sometimes I feel
as if my spirit
stepped into
the wrong body.
When the dance
inside of me
sustains a beautiful
move, my legs think
that they are tree trunks.
Innocence
‘I must believe,’ he said.
I understood. ‘Yes,
because you have seen.’
He nodded. He was speaking
of the witches in his home village
in Karangasem, past the mountain.
His uncle was one of them.
Already I too believed,
though I didn’t know then
that I myself was a witch.
There were just these things I did,
these things that happened….
I think of that acceptance
now, in my own country,
where so many ignorantly think
witches are evil, magick is wrong.
In Bali the villagers knew
witches are healers, magick
like all things, is a gift from God.
BEING RIGHT
I need it–
I don’t know why.
But this need to be right-
is harmful, destructive;
pride in its most elemental form.
It’s as if my entire world
will crumble into dank nothingness
if I am proven wrong.
I wrap myself in this rightness,
a protective sheathing
that holds me together,
letting nothing in,
allowing nothing out.
It causes me to be alone–
unhurt, untouched, untouchable.
It’s pride…and fear:
a stunning fear that
buzzes my brain–
fear of others’ opinions,
fear of losing the grip on myself,
fear of not having the answer
when I don’t know the question.
Same Time Next Year
Is it wrong to call him on his birthday
once a year? or send a birthday e-mail?
To hear his familiar voice, like
velvet whiskey, warm in my ear,
one that both men and women,
love and have loved, his wife, his children,
his grandchildren, his lovers.
He, thirteen years older, our liaison many
years ago. He calls on my birthday,
I call him on his only to say how are you?
are you healthy? How is the family? Not
wondering any more about what could
have been, but how has your life played out?
When he leaves this planet I will know.
There will be no call on my birthday,
eyes sparkling, saying “I didn’t forget.”
COUNTENANCING SLAVERY
for Elihu Burritt, traveling South, 1854
On Main Street, what a crowd gathered!
Auctioneer’s voice, the familiar “going! going!…”
He tries to raise the bid. “Only 985 dollars?”
What could be worth so much?
A Negro stands in the midst, but elevated
and apart. Is he the groom of a pair
of splendid bays matched for carriage,
that might fetch so high a price?
Fall of the auctioneer’s hammer, “gone!”–
it strikes you. The black man leers
at the master who just bought him.
The very countenance of slavery.
sodium pentathol tango
by juanita lewison-snyder
truth serum
where inhibitions
are scooped up like
manure on pitchforks
and hauled off to
storyteller markets,
and interrogations
in dim-lit backrooms
come faster, more diligently
the answers more easily
now that she’s freefallin’
from an barbiturate parachute
skimming between fact and fantasy,
‘cuz when you’re
dueling with ether,
right and wrong
good and bad
truth and lies
tend to meld together,
therefore
unable to censor herself
she empties memories into
an foreign operative’s pocket
when she’d rather eat her liver
than spill her terrorist guts.
© 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Joseph H: Mercy Killings…wow…wonderfully haunting, powerful…nice job.
Just Because
There’s nothing wrong with it, she tells me
I’ve made up my mind; I’m going ahead with it
Just because it’s not wrong doesn’t make it right
I tell her – it is the title of one of my favourite
Parenting books and says exactly what I want to
Her nose crinkles up the way it did when she was five
And she smiles coyly at me as if she doesn’t get me
But I know she does; our kids know how to think
Not what to think, and that’s the point here
She’s well aware of how little wiggle worm I am
Willing to allow her – it’s important that she remember
Some things will never change no matter how grown up
She gets – I ask her finally if she really feels there is nothing
Wrong with the plan, why is she talking to me about it
Why didn’t she just go ahead and go on vacation with the guy
And work on the farm with his mother and keep to herself
Her suspicions about what the farm really is, what his Mom
Does to make a living – if it’s not wrong, why is it she doesn’t
Want her Dad to know some of the details about her plans
I wonder; she looks away and I can tell her resolve is weakening
The rest will have to be up to her but that’s the way of it—
After a certain point, it’s all you can do as a parent – teach them
Inform them, then trust them to do the right thing …
Sage vs Age
Chartreuse fades to maroon
Dusk recedes to twilight
Fragrance of jasmine lures him
to dream of you walking along the shore
Glaring gap in ages does not seem wrong
after you passed half century mark
He bids you come, and smiling you take
his outstretched hand.
overseas tour
taking photos through the smog
she asks what’s wrong
finished house
from the wrong plans
the spider keeps spinning
lost at sea
looking for the right direction
I hear whales
What’s wrong with chocolate
for breakfast? It’s not right
for you, but it’s just fine for me/
Just a couple small pieces
to give me a thrill, or
to calm me after a
troubling customer.
Right
Always bumping elbows,
wrestling with scissors
made for other hands,
she feared that if right
was right, then left
was wrong. No so,
I told her, putting
the chubby pencil
back into her hand,
the right hand—her
left—giving a look
that spoke more than
words to the stranger
on the train who,
with good intentions,
tried to make her
move it to her right
November 20, 2010
Forgiveness
Oh, she would list them all right—
all the burden-heavy wrongs
with their woebegone detail,
the sad recounting of sorry nights,
days of wretchedness.
Maybe this prayer
will be answered,
maybe this prayer—
from the maker of lists
to the One who rights wrongs.
Here’s another try with fewer typos,
Waiting while Poetry Lurks
Spontaneity reveals nature,
The guide man lets us know.
A figure is born in one stroke,
That’s what painting shows.
I, with my personal traits,
Look challenge right in the eye.
"Tell us what is right and wrong,"
The song goes, "you won’t have to die".
I speak many words with less thought,
Some words fake ones, some are real.
Here is where I write one more poem,
To tell you precisely how I feel.
Peace is right and war is wrong,
I think love is better than death.
If summer were here all year long,
I would worry not about my breath.
Summers come and summers go,
And I find beauty is but a dream.
Paintings may be all that is left,
And they are covered with steam.
Whose right is better than whose wrong,
Some say they change with every scene,
With money, everything is possible,
I believe that’s the American Dream.
So, I put on my clothes every day,
We all go that way to work.
Then I take them off to go to bed,
As I wait while poetry lurks.
Just Because
There’s nothing wrong with it, she tells me
I’ve made up my mind; I’m going ahead with it
Just because it’s not wrong doesn’t make it right
I tell her – it is the title of one of my favourite
Parenting books and says exactly what I want to
Her nose crinkles up the way it did when she was five
And she smiles coyly at me as if she doesn’t get me
But I know she does; our kids know how to think
Not what to think, and that’s the point here
She’s well aware of how little wiggle worm I am
Willing to allow her – it’s important that she remember
Some things will never change no matter how grown up
She gets – I ask her finally if she really feels there is nothing
Wrong with the plan, why is she talking to me about it
Why didn’t she just go ahead and go on vacation with the guy
And work on the farm with his mother and keep to herself
Her suspicions about what the farm really is, what his Mom
Does to make a living – if it’s not wrong, why is it she doesn’t
Want her Dad to know some of the details about her plans
I wonder; she looks away and I can tell her resolve is weakening
The rest will have to be up to her but that’s the way of it—
After a certain point, it’s all you can do as a parent – teach them
Inform them, then trust them to do the right thing …
#20 and only 1 day late – Day 20: Gray Areas
Waiting while Poetry Lurks
Spontaneity reveals nature,
The guide man lets us know.
A figure is born in one stroke,
That’s what painting shows.
I, with my personal traits,
Look challenge right in the eye.
"Tell us what is right and wrong,"
The song goes, "you won’t have to die".
I speak many words with less thought,
Some wards fake ones, some are real.
Here is where I write one more poem,
To tell you precisely how I feel.
Peace is right and war is wrong,
I think love is better than death.
If summer were here all year long,
I would worry not about my breath.
Summers come and summers go,
And I find beauty is but a dream.
Paintings may be all that is left,
And they are covered with steam.
Whose right is better than whose wrong,
Some say they change with every scene,
With money, everything is possible,
I believe that’s the American Dream.
So, I put on my clothes every day,
We all go that way to work.
Then I take them off to go to bed,
As I wait while poetry to lurks.
November 20, 2010
What’s Wrong…
What’s wrong with waking up to fried moon,
tasty, peppered with stars so midnight blue,
then driving to work on a breeze-drunk cloud,
leaning back on a velvety chair
made of invisible human bones?
(Poetic Asides PAD)
Right is Right
Right is right, wrong is wrong
I prefer to do right than wrong
in fairness to all my friends.
Right is more right than wrong.
I believe in the Bible and the Koran.
Right is right and wrong is wrong.
In fairness to My Lover all is more
right than wrong, wrong is wrong.
Theoretically Speaking
Life is just one big theory from beginning to end–
all these text-book lessons
will be re-written, edited, abridged, expanded,
waiting to be invalidated or confirmed,
some rights turned wrong,
some wrongs righted,
until the theories are more right
and less wrong–
theoretically.
TRADITION
The way it’s been done
most often becomes
the burdening yoke
out of which unboxed
ideas free themselves,
from the choke of rite
and ritual unclimbed
rungs are toppled
on the way to the top.
The status quo shivers,
claiming right for the usual
and frowns at crucial
points of change,
wrong it’s named,
till the undercurrent
rips the tide free
from tradition.
The Way of the Desert
When we stand before the crossroad,
stand before the swinging gate,
when we make our life’s decision,
at the turning of our fate.
Then we ask for spirit’s guidance,
reach for spirit’s helping hand,
listen to our heart within us,
as we step across the sand.
If we listen to our heart’s song
singing softly in the night,
we will win through to the morning,
walk in spirit’s shining light.
First Draft
Words first said today
will change tomorrow,
like first love in college days.
Words on page resist change,
but without mercy
some will be sent their way
with a final kiss
to be recalled another day
like life coming to blank paper,
table rasa, a spirit to take form
unknowingly
like love when I was young.
"DJ DADDA"
You could fuss for hours over the details
of which songs to play, which order,
how many beats per minute.
And the soundboard has more knobs
than the door department at Home Depot.
One suggests a little treble to brighten the horns.
Another offers to move that shrill tambourine
to the back of the house.
You can run to the booth between each song,
twiddle and listen to undo all the differences
between each recording situation.
You can be in the booth always,
tuning dynamics during guitar solos,
sealing vocal pops one at a time.
But if you go out to the floor
and dance with people who dance,
you’ll see that everyone’s
made the adjustments already.
And in the pulsing collective
everyone’s set to move
through all but the worst mistakes—
and those errors, so protracted and jarring,
are simply not ones you own.
Elizabeth- 70 degrees! That sounds lovely!
If You Say So
Should I name you? I only do
if you
have decided it won’t betray
you. Say
to kiss you, like, as our foe
say. So
you’ll look like whom I know
to have been one you thought meant
to still be so after things’ll get bent.
If you say so.
________________________________________
for prompt 21 per robert‘s tweet
What’s Wrong?
what’s wrong?
Is asked you look a fright
Oh I don’t know
Things are just looking
Right
Lol to all
Right and Wrong
How seductive those
Words to some
When combined
Unconscious stick in eye
Provocation come?
The Futility of Morality
There is no right or wrong,
only positions
on the moral compass
and where you stand
determines
your side in this dichotomy.
My point of view
is invalidated
by my nemesis
whose position
I invalidate:
a zero-sum game.
The only perspective
that matters in
this eternal riddle
is the one belonging
to God
and in His eyes
we’re all sinners.
Thank you, Sara.
Walt, your iambic feet are as light as air. Awesome.
Figures that the blog would go all crazy on the day I’m out of town. Back now. Since it’s past midnight, I’ll probably go ahead and post Day 21 here in a few (after I see what the prompt is and write a poem). But first, I need to set up our new warm air humidifier for Toddler Will’s room.
My brain is fried and this is all I got. Night. I can’t think anymore. Hardest prompt yet, for me, at least.
Young Love
Some will tell you
that it’s all wrong
that you’re much too young to
know what it all means
as if they know
the true meaning.
But they don’t.
They used to,
but somehow
they forgot.
It’s been that long –since
they waited
until everyone in the house
was asleep
to lift
the window slow
or to tiptoe downstairs
to unlock the door
and slip out
for love.
My brain is fried and this is all I got. Night. I can’t think anymore. Hardest prompt yet, for me, at least.
Young Love
Some will tell you
that it’s all wrong
that you’re much too young to
know what it all means
as if they know
the true meaning.
But they don’t.
They used to,
but somehow
they forgot.
It’s been that long –since
they waited
until everyone in the house
was asleep
to lift
the window slow
to tiptoe downstairs
to unlock the door
and slip out
for love.
Two "What’s Wrong" Poems
Kids Today
You know what’s wrong
with kids today?
I’m not still one of them.
Mistake
If I had a nickel
for every mistake
I’ve made,
I’d probably just
spend it all on
something stupid.
Righthgir (An Acrostic Palindrome)
Right is reliable
I am intelligent
God given gifts
Humble be thyself
Today
Thyself be humble
Gifts given, God
Intelligent am I
Reliable is right
Mr. Right
Walt, left feet: me too. Adore your piece. =)
here’s my poem for day 20!
With You
The way you whisper in my ear
And send wonderful shivers down my spine
The way I laugh with a grin from you
The way we share our happiness
All so right
And yet
He still pops into my head
And that seems wrong
Wrong Turns
The wrong song sung
may bring showers
of tears,
but when a heart
that has been wronged,
casts off
the weight that burdens
its beat, the tears dry
and the world seems
right once again.
Joseph, your use of language astounds me.
De, all your poems for today are excellent and clever
Sam & Chev, wonderful poems
The right to differ,
simple, yet seldom practiced,
should not be thought wrong.
I Question
Death came for children
Parents warm, wise, generous
Now one soldiers on
Gambo says:
Nov 20 at 14:00 PM
loosing sight
of what is right
is what is wrong
making bad choices
ignoring concequences
and regretes after its done
Me too, Pam. Me too.
I saw that too, Bruce. Weird.
Dang. I’m not going to repost everything from the past few days…I’m glad I did some reading in the past couple days and didn’t wait for the weekend to catch up.
Looks like all the posts from the 16th to 18th were affected, including the non-PAD posts.
Janet, Walt has a magic wand. He’d tries to hide it, but if you take a really quick peek when he turns around, you’ll see him hide it.
REPOST. SORRY.
HAD TO FIX ERROR IN ENDING
Aunt Elaine in New Love (late `60s)
He was one of the few white boys
walking the campus of Howard
University. He, long-haired
and feeling jazz, didn’t stand a chance
with her, Elaine, my father’s radical
afro’d pro-black sister. He kept asking
her out and she kept saying no, saying
she had a black man back home in Alabama
who’d wring his neck. That didn’t stop him:
once, after class, he asked if she’d go
to dinner with him. This time, he got a yes
and only because she was lonely— missing
her back-home-black –man. Somehow,
sitting across from him in a booth, she fell
for him. Was it because he had left
his glasses at home? Was it because
he talked about Miles like Miles had some titties,
thighs, a pussy? She doesn’t know what it was
just that she wanted to know more
about him. Though it felt right,
she knew it was wrong: her, with her ‘fro and
Black Power pamphlets in her purse; her,
with her boyfriend back home
who, if he had known his righteous
mama was falling in love, in a booth,
with one of them, would’ve marched
all the way up north, barefooot,
to kill the “white motherfuckuh” who made
his woman forget who she was
and where she came from.
I entered for the 16th even though I am still the only poem there as far as I can tell.
Aunt Elaine in New Love (late `60s)
He was one of the few white boys
walking the campus of Howard
University. He, long-haired
and feeling jazz, didn’t stand a chance
with her, Elaine, my father’s radical
afro’d pro-black sister. He kept asking
her out and she kept saying no, saying
she had a black man back home in Alabama
who’d wring his neck. That didn’t stop him:
once, after class, he asked if she’d go
to dinner with him. This time, he got a yes
and only because she was lonely— missing
her back-home-black–man. Somehow,
sitting across from him in a booth, she fell
for him. Was it because he had left
his glasses at home? Was it because
he talked about Miles like Miles had some titties,
thighs, a pussy? She doesn’t know what it was
just that she wanted to know more
about him. Though it felt right,
she knew it was wrong: her, with her ‘fro and
Black Power pamphlets in her purse; her,
with her boyfriend back home
who’d, if he had known his righteous
mama was falling in love, in a booth,
with one of _them_, he’d march
all the way up north, barefooot,
to kill the “white motherfuckuh” who made
his woman forget who she was
and where she came from.
Arggh! I thought I entered a poem in the 16ths comments. When I went back it said there were 0 comments as opposed to the over 100 it originally said!! Did I erase every other comment? What went wrong? Finally came back and I see others are having the same problem. I hope all is solved now.
Writing Wrong
Arggh! I’m getting scared.
What is wrong?
I entered a poem in Day 16′s comments.
When I went back to check it
there were 0 comments
not the over 100 it originally said!!
Did I erase every other comment?
What went wrong? I entered the 20th’s
Poetic Asides–Again 0 comments.
Oh, Oh!! I am never
the first person on this site.
The rite of writing a poem
and then merging on to the
poetic highway with other poets’
work is going wrong. What does this mean?
I get really nervous when nothing
goes right. I worry that it’s all my fault.
I hope I’m wrong.
No holes will ever de "feet", you, Walt! Way to step up and show us the way . . . one foot at a time!
Seriously, how do you do that? I tried but it literally fell through a hole!
Combining yesterday’s and today’s prompts, because I didn’t write yesterday’s till this evening (it’s posted on Day 19 thread) and kept going with it today. The title is a working title.
Holes II
There’s a hole in this picture, and it’s you.
You’re a nonentity to us, till you do something stupid.
That’s how you got the holes in your elbow and knee,
shot while trying to flee from a robbery.
You’ve spent half your short life in jail,
and now that you’re out, the question is not if
but when you’ll get slammed in again – for what,
the fifth time? You’re a hole in the society’s fabric,
and no one knows how to sew you up.
Perhaps we shouldn’t be so harsh, because
of your rotten childhood, and your worse education.
When you left middle school, you struggled to get
through the second-grade reader. There’s a gaping hole
in your learning. But I’m sorry, that’s not enough.
I’m the guy whose head you put a hole in,
when you mugged me in the park last week.
To you, “right” and “wrong”
are just two words that start with R.
"on a foggy Ohio morning"
the misty white backdrop
accents the small color
which remains.
through a small hole
in the fog I sense a path
which leads to melancholy,
and though I suspect
it is wrong
to enjoy
the final dance
so much more than the first,
I find myself
reaching for
Miles Davis
on vinyl,
asking fall for her hand
and taking one more dance.
Walt, LOL on mixing poetics with geography. Please do pardon me and take it as a sign how much I did appreciate that laugh if I can help myself, but must respond -
Northbound, at least he stopped in time
else we’d've all been teary,
since otherwise he might be floating
somewhere in Lake Erie.
Whereas that blooper coming back
he needn’t mark with x’s –
just make a left and head straight south.
we’ll put him up in Texas ! ! !
Well, it was the first time this month I was able to spend some time reading and commenting, and it all disappeared. Sorry, folks. Here’s mine again:
Not Ready to Write About 1972
I was in the air more often
than not, yet grounded
by an unwanted pregnancy.
Atlanta, New York — cities
larger than my imagination
loomed like hallucinations
from the Book of Revelations.
But, there were no horses,
no trumpets, no ends of worlds.
Just my escape from rust,
clotheslines, moldy basements
and mountains that loomed
like the smothering breasts
of an unwanted mother.
Forty years later, I’m not ready
to write about that boy, a son
rejected by this world, this body,
this unloving village where men
stand more right than wrong,
where women hang by their teeth
and gnaw at ropes meant to strangle.
Right/Wrong?
Robert’s trek to the Buckeye state,
is a trip he has made times before.
To pick up the boys for some Thanksgiving noise,
to go with the Holiday lore.
A return trip soon in the offing,
driving for hours, he did hurry.
In his haste, made a wrong right turn,
and ended up somewhere in Missouri.
Right or Wrong?; Write or Song?; Left or Right?
© Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov. 20, 2010
Choices, choices, choices; we must make them every day of our life!
Is it right, or is it wrong to be Pro-Life, or to be Pro-Choice in stance?
To choose to be blue-collar Democrat; or white-collar Republican in strife?
Or make a decision as to what to be when we grow up; and how we shall dance.
Should we write a book, or maybe poem; compose a song, do both; or just sit still!
Bring out the Tom Clancy, or Danielle Steele in YOU; perhaps the Dylan too!
Perhaps Burt Bacharach style, a melody will come to mind as you compose at will.
A budding Shakespeare yet may come by some surprise; perhaps a Paul McCartney who-
Will change the world, in word or song, promote the cause of life on stage, or screen,
And efficaciously arouse, persuade the feelings of your mood, along with millions too,
Why not YOU! As soldier marches “left, right, left right, left” along the trail of green,
Into the history books of those who accomplish that which has consequence of what we do!
Huh. I was sure I posted my poem; now it’s gone. Oh, well.
Apologies to the real classmate named David Glorius, whose whimsical name I borrowed to use in this poem.
Ten Inches
I have a crush on the Christian pop star’s bass player.
Look at him, staring at God, eyes closed, grimacing.
He is holier than me. Black hair like an Osmond.
(What would I do with him if I had him?)
I am here with my friend Sheri, who I really
don’t like much. Sheri was born again
just before I met her. I have never before heard
the Christian pop star. He’s cute, too,
with his aviator frames and
his tight shirt. Pants kind of tight.
Watching fingers, agile fingers, travel up the bass,
I realize, at once, the singing has stopped.
The pop star is talking about
how no one used to love him
how much he wanted a girl
to love him. Oh, me too,
corner of the cafeteria
with the girls even
less popular than me,
like Sheri. Girls
I feel guilty
for not really liking.
I want to be popular.
I want a boy like David Glorius
or Richard from algebra
or the bass player.
And somehow, while I’m cataloging boys,
things have changed. There is chanting
and the sound, here and there, of urgent words
in languages I don’t know. No music: everyone
has raised their arms above their heads.
Oh, I love God. I pray all the time. He encircles me.
Asking whether he wants me to lift my hands heavenward,
I hear nothing.
I will not lie, but here I am, one among hundreds,
with hands at her sides. So I raise them
ten inches or so, just enough,
I hope,
to pass.
Day #20
what’s wrong?
Cara – come down South, we’re supposed to hit 70 degrees tomorrow!
Walt – that was cool!
Right and Wrong
What’s wrong or right,
a constant fight.
Good and evil
blurring gray.
What’s wrong yesterday
is right today.
Since Jesus is the standard,
I’m glad
we don’t have to measure up
but believe.
Love Like a Ghazal: the Right or Wrong Choice?
Maybe it’s wrong to imbibe the dregs of our love
like leftover wine caught in the bowl of my glove.
Some say it’s right that I cling to what we have lost
but others say it is wiser if romance gets the shove.
So entranced were we, immersed in our romantic fog
too engrossed to notice the call of the mourning dove.
Inebriation is like floating on cumulous formations
as is love, but both transform to headaches thereof.
Having drunk her fill, Marian has wisdom enough
to leave the dregs in the goblet: not foolish in love.
Walt – as usual, your fleetfooted creativity blows me away!
I CAN’T DANCE
o o O
o I can’t o
dance.
I am
not
equip-
ed for
it,
o o O
o though o
the band
has
the
right
dance
beat.
o o O
o Stumble o
mostly
is
all I
really
c an do,
OO
o o O
o because o
I was
bless-
ed with
these
two left
feet.
Not rich – fortunate.
We write our own stories
not always in words
deeds deciding pathways
sometimes others choose for us
no matter how we struggle.
Yet even if we lose the fight
to make our own plot come out right,
the music from our lingering song
helps those we leave from going wrong.
Dedicated to the memory of a real princess.
by michele brenton aka banana_the_poet
Was it wrong to cry?
Wrong to whisper my goodbye
To you? I don’t know why
But somehow it felt right
And still I cried.
Was it right to make
An end to it, agree and say
Okay and let them let you sleep.
I weep remembering;
You sweetly died.
A White Thanksgiving
With Thanksgiving but five days away
an icy chill is in the air
clouds are gathering, fleecy and gray
though snow before Thanksgiving is rare.
An icy chill is in the air,
it’s time to batten down the hatches
though snow before Thanksgiving is rare
and leaves cling from the trees in patches.
It’s time to batten down the hatches
the weather turned cold overnight
and leaves cling from the trees in patches
I wonder, is the weatherman right?
The weather turned cold overnight
they say snow is on its way
I wonder, is the weatherman right
or will we hold winter at bay?
They say snow is on its way
clouds are gathering, fleecy and gray,
or will we hold winter at bay,
with Thanksgiving but five days away?
Okay…repost time.
A ‘Bad’ American Idol Audition
How did she kill that song?
So wrong.
Some sharps, some flats. What key?
Beats me.
She thinks she’s tops in ‘Croon’?
Her tune
went viral as lampoon.
Why do some folks try out
when vocally, no doubt
exists: they suck. Full moon?
###
Jekyll and Hyde
Was Jekyll the ‘right’ side
of Hyde?
Doppelganger mash-up?
Hash-up
or good and evil traits
and fates
all locked in desperate straits?
In the book’s study guide,
it’s one man, in divide,
and how he modulates.
###
Ambidextrous Wish
My left hand gets confused
when used
to do things like the right,
despite
the fact they look the same –
a shame.
What if my left became
adept like my right hand
and then could, on demand,
quite neatly write my name?!
###
Mariya! A large shark??!!! Bwahahahahahaha!
My God, who is right and
Who is wrong?
Aren’t we all a bit of both?
Written on my chest should be:
I am not a perfect person!
Some of the kids call me
Aunt Perfect, which is a lot of
Pressure but surely they know
I am just a girl, a mom,
A writer, teacher, a friend,
A person trying to make it
In a world where things are
Sometimes scary and hard.
A place where beauty is not
Always easy to find.
But what is always right
Is writing the words I have
Been blessed and cursed to
Share, the words healing
As my voice travels to places
Unknown so no, there is
Nothing wrong about that.
Poetry, fiction, words …
The safest place I know.
Theft:
What makes certain acts “wrong”
And others “right?” Why is theft
Considered a sin? Those who do
Not believe in God have no reason
To be honest men; why don’t they
Live to what benefits them and their
Kin? Why not rob others and push
Yourself ahead? If you don’t, and
Say it is wrong because the law
Forbids it, then why do we have
The law? Most people must agree
With it. But why? People may
Claim to have conscience, but
What makes up guilt? Without
God, it’s just a chemical reaction.
A man made a wrong turn
Down a one way street
Turn around, his wife said
From the seat beside him
But it became an alley
Narrow, no shoulder,
Headlights blinding
Horns blaring
Too much coming at him
Something so little
Suddenly felt
Like a wrong
With no right
"knowing no more or less"
Smoke curls round my eyes,
choking me —
Wrong is on the right
Right is on the left
Remaining in between lines
As cancer consumes
Blindness helps us see
Silence wants to talk
Desperation heals the sick
— hopefulness watches death
From a tower of inlaid ivory with
Crimson flowers blooming in the
Gloom …
Placing meanings on the wrong side
Here’s mine again:
Is it wrong to cherish perfection
To cease with the self-doubt
And sing the praises of life?
Is it right to earnestly endeavor to work hard
When deep down all you’d like
Is to hardly work?
Is it wrong to select your mindset
From those you are predisposed to –
The ones that you always find yourself stuck in?
Is it right to put off what you can do tomorrow
Just because you don’t want to do it today?
As wrong or as right as it is for you
To be as you are
Unaware of consequences
A slave to your each and every whim
The answer lies solely within those
Who justify their morals
Stand by principles
Relate pertinent values to life lessons.
My second attempt at this prompt.
What used to be on the jukebox
Somehow Not Right Enough
Lover: Does tell work against show?
Somehow.
Victim: Which way down sets me straight?
Not right.
Patient: Does this pill work as though?
Enough.
You don’t see me. You hear a cough
so think things cold. What’s rightly yours
finds fault with what in me’s of ours,
somehow not right enough.
Of Moonlight’s Lair
As she writes of tomorrow’s moon,
"Bathe us in words of fertile light!"
No sun, no star’s as opportune
as she. Rights of tomorrow’s moon
are passed along to us by rune,
by ancient mystery forthright
as she. Rites of tomorrow’s moon
bathe us in words of fertile light.
___________________________________________________________________
[triolet as earlier posted under the 19th prompt during the 20th's purge]
This’ll help lift today’s laurel load
if it’s swallowed whole in oral mode.
With our rightin’ or wrongin’
it’ll want be belongin’
seein’s limericks know no moral code.
__________
[reposted]
Rightly or Wrongly
What’s right on the money’s wrong on the street.
What’s wrong for keeping’s just right to delete.
What’s right for the living for’s wrong for its dead.
What’s wrong left unfelt’s just right touched in the head.
What’s right in sheer hatred’s wrong if for love.
What’s wrong making for’s just right when made of.
What’s right as it’s matching me’s wrong as it’s rhymed.
What’s wrong for misplacing’s just right badly timed.
What’s right blowing easily’s wrong dripping dry.
What’s wrong as its lowdown’s just right getting high.
What’s right shooting up’s wrong for shooting down.
What’s wrong going verbal’s just right as its noun.
What’s right ending soon enough’s wrong getting stretched.
What’s wrong getting drawn out’s just right being sketched.
What’s right coming after’s wrong going before.
What’s wrong making peace with’s just right making war.
What’s right when you do it’s wrong were I to.
What’s wrong for you writing’s just right like I do.
__________
[reposted]
RJ, I think a large shark ate them
Is it right or is it wrong?… we’ll never, ever know.
Concrete Absolutes
If at concrete poetry
one might long
to be deft,
there’s no right or wrong,
only right
and left.
__________
[reposted]
Eeeeek! Where did all the poems of the AM go?!
There’s more to being right or wrong
than correctness,
For divine truth is greater than which is right
according to the world.
What looks wrong to people looking on
may be God’s divine judgment at work.
What seems to have all the makings
of a sin,
may really be an anointment of divine truth.
What is irrefutably deemed wrong since the most ancient of days,
may really bear with it the untold glory
of divinity.
One may not see or feel what is wrong –
but one will feel when one is right,
in divine ordinance.
‘Right’ may be disguised as a beggar
or garbage that should be discarded,
But within the disguise,
the right that humanly appears wrong
falls within the very realm of heaven itself.
Divinity is beyond faith.
Legacy
His creatures eat each other
alive, murder their step-children,
incubate their eggs inside their
enemies and abandon their young
to the elements. Only Man, the
cruelest creature of all, did He
burden with a conscience.
Right Place / Wrong Word – professionally speaking
“How did the fight start?” she asked,
microphone in hand. The Officer
gathered his thoughts. “People were
leaving the stadium,” he said, looking
directly into the camera. “Some fans
began exchanging racial epitaphs.”
Her train of thought derailed by
images of teenagers running
through a graveyard with
cans of spray paint,
the reporter could
manage only,
“What?”
See what happens when you leave the kids alone, Robert? We’re sorry for running around and knocking the blog over. We didn’t mean to spill poems all over the floor. Thank goodness Earl turned the blog right side up again. We are picking up the poems we can find. Are we grounded?
DISCLOSURE
Late. Rain. Driving home from the reading.
Friday night too fast traffic. Streaky
wipers, oncoming headlights magnified,
I can’t see the lines. Oilslick pools
on pavement. My aging eyes. Through rain
and ground-mist rising, a signal
in the heavens, beams of light spiraling
to the left: three beams, four, emanating from
a single point, a moving star to guide
the traveler, net to lure his eye
off the road – this six-lane hurtling
through dark and rain. Klieg lights of
grand-opening? God announcing miracles
of birth? I held my
course, fists clenched to the wheel.
Already in my rearview mirror,
those lights leaping out of earth
to dance in clouds, glorified in every
raindrop. What revelations
when we’re not looking, speeding past.
WRITE AND WRONG
Moment of passion,
Pass on,
Deep feeling to express,
Suppress.
A caught glimpse,
Near miss,
Humorous image,
For another age,
New understanding,
Negative ding!
What to write,
Cancel that thought,
Something’s in sight,
NOT!
Bring it forward,
Stop! Nasty word!
Do we write each wrong?
Correct the song!
Squeeze it in tight,
Make it belong!
Or is it a blend?
We tweak and bend?
Seeking out that middle road!
Or is there no end?
Is perfect balance our friend?
How to correct this light/heavy load?
If we write what is wrong,
Is that ever ok?
Should someone 85 wear a thong?
If we look the other way!
Or do we simply notice,
Balancing the two in our mind,
Make negatives open like a lotus . . .
State the truth . . .
And be kind!
Glad to see things are working again!
…
MERCY KILLINGS
(8th and Maryland)
Another cigarette dangles from your mouth while you tell me
you’re dying young.
Nothing contagious and nothing common,
no cancers or viruses, just your body rebelling against itself.
Insurrection of the blood vessels, fucking with
the supply lines until what, exactly?
Organ death, you tell me. The mismanagement of resources
resulting in pain and swelling, systemic failure.
They named it for this German doctor, you say,
who might have been a Nazi.
And now his sadistic streak has run a ragged brushstroke
through the stairways of your body.
If you’d said the hoarseness of your voice
and the slight tremors of your fingers were the aftermath
of the flu or pneumonia, this would be
a much better first date.
As it stands, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
You’d never think this was a body fighting its own decay:
it has the same salt flat taste, the same slick plateaus
as any other. But when you lean in for a kiss,
I’m terrified that I will bite right through you,
that something will give way
and I’ll be left with the casualties. I’ve never
dated a time bomb, and you’ve never been with anyone
who can tolerate the knowledge of your outmoded self,
your expiration date.
The streetlights through the blinds reveal my tongue
teasing your tongue, but I am dripping my hesitations
all over the rug. What choice do I make:
do I tell you that I can only see your death mask,
break away from those lips that are so soft and so kind,
or do I swallow my pride
and let your hands continue to wander,
damning the consequences and premeditating
how my kindness might burst you like a water balloon,
selfishly giving you this joy because I don’t want
to admit I might be desperate too?
Right or Wrong
how can you say
thatmy poem is wrong?
too many syllables?
not enough song?
I put it down rightly
not short or too long
you say it’s unsightly,
its meter not strong
enough for the metaphor
expounded on nightly
and snatched from the downpour
seen through a glass brightly
so stick up your iambs
and play with your rhyme
I’ll wind them up tightly
and send them on time.
Argh. Has this happened before?
Here is the repost of my repast:
WRONG TURN
All that was left
from turning left
rather than right
(he chose wrongly
instead of right)
were a couple of
chicken fingers,
some tailfeathers,
and two really
cracked-up
chicken wings.
Poor little chicken.
Hm, a single day Robert is away and things mess up
My poem disappeared, too, although I don’t consider it great trouble. Yet, I’m an obstinate little one, so here’s my offering again:
*****
What is right is never left.
But can a wrong be righted by a left-hand?
Who is fair is never dark.
But who is strong, is never wrong.
****
Middle Ground
The war between
what’s wrong and right
leaves me a bit
bereft.
If we choose to fight
(instead of write)
about what’s
right
what’s
left?
My three poems were in the twenty odd that disappeared. I can’t be ….. to re-copy and post them, but you’ll find 1 of them here – a serious attempt: http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/2010/11/20/pushkin-stanza/
and two more frivolous ones are here: http://vivnada.wordpress.com/2010/11/20/right-or-wrong/
It seems all my formatted ones disappeared. Oh well. Can’t be doing all that again, but I will post again.
RIGHT AMONGST THE WRONG
I long for lots of choices
where lots of them
are wrong
instead of fewer choices
where the right ones
are far too rare.
A WRONG RIGHTED
I’m in the self -checkout lane
with my wire basket in hand.
A woman stands behind me,
two bottles of milk in hand.
I suggest she goes ahead,
she nods and so she does.
She scans one bottle, this much
I see, but slips two inside one
bag. She then claims four bags credit
for a single one. I thought
but just a second — I handed
her some cash, saying take
it if you please. No one steals
milk without real cause or need;
it was for me to right what
might have gone so wrong.
Wrong Or Right
I sit in the car and
Watch the marshmallow
Flakes of snow fall
Into the slush on the
Sidewalk where they
Instantly turn to the
Grey wet only slightly
Lighter in color than
The sidewalk.
It acts as a sponge
When gravity drains
Away the heavy wet.
Winter’s effluvium
Gathers and rots away
On man-made surfaces.
The striated lines
From tires, marks
From footfalls sag.
You see, there is
Something about snow
Undisturbed that soothes,
Smooths and rebuilds
Life. The delayed melt-
Off allows the earthy
Soul to rest, then drink
Slowly until the sun
Wakes the green growing.
But for now, snow as
Nutrient is far from
The thoughts now.
A glance at snow slosh
Brings all that flitter
In the mind, a slight
Aberration before the
Slickness of other
Things bogs the attention.
What’s Wrong or Right?
Sometimes goodness is
stolen by the rich.
Only they can afford to be right
all the time, like wearing good clothes.
Further down the scale
we have the politics of being poor.
Fudge and obscure and just getting by -
we work in shades of grey.
Honesty costs more
when the loaf is gone,
the biscuits finished.
It’s difficult, as the supermarket shelves
stretch out of sight
and I stand here,
trying not to shoplift,
torn between wrong and right.
De-"Scales" is quite lovely–and you right so many wrongs when you write
The Write Stuff
What’s right is writ
-ing
And everyone shar
-ing
Being open to feel
-ings
And not criticiz
-ing
So keep heartstrings strum
-ming
And happy thoughts hum
-ming
Pretty soon any wrong
-ing
Will be solved by writ
-ing
Actually Earl somehow opened the gate back up, Claudette. I just barged right on through. Happy to be in good company, though. The Poetry Eraser has been at it again today. Yikes.
Not sure where all the other posts for today went? Wish my headache would also flee, and not my muse! Having trouble getting into it lately. Anyway, here’s a shortie.
Presto Chango
So many wrongs weigh down the mind
especially in the dark of night
until the dawn comes ’round to find,
incredulous, that we were right.
But if by chance we’re not absolved
we’ll find a way to mitigate
and former wrong to right evolve
into a chance to educate!
Candace
When I wrote my poem this morning no one had posted. When I submitted, it wouldn’t take it. Three times. I came back a couple of hours later, and there’s De Jackson sharing turmoil and distress. I suddenly felt right at home.
Glad you got past the guards, De, and opened it up for the rest of us.
Good ones, De. I like that.
Decisions, Decisions
Oh, my, Now what do I do.
I find myself in a white box
And no one else has written
Anything before me or reacted.
I hate being first at something
That could count with others.
Instead, I like seeing what those
Before me have created to give me
Boundaries for definition, context.
Is it wrong to want to know what my
Peers are writing before thinking
That what I can write may be right?
Can I step out on my own like this
And not care if what I write is wrong?
scales
(a shadorma)
right or wrong
she jumps in, two feet
whole heart, hook
line, sinker.
then embraces weight of pen
and writes every wrong.
is this it?
this is my what’s wrong or right poem, my
why on earth do we fight poem, my some
body done somebody wrong why can’t we
all just get along song. this is my what are
we thinking rant, my own mea culpa recant
my last ditch effort to plant something that
might actually heal. this is the deal: just be
kind. we might find it makes a better world
than wordstones hurled at things we cannot
see. here’s my plea: let’s just right what’s left
of you and me.
What’s wrong with the world
We’ve turned our backs on Jesus
Without Him we lose