For today’s prompt, write a poem with a hole in it. The hole could be referenced in the poem, which could be about subjects such as hitting a golf ball in the hole, punching a hole in the wall, or even visiting a hole in the wall bar. Of course, with everyone flexing their concrete poetry skills lately, I’m sure at least a few poets might take a stab at writing a poem with an actual hole in the middle (maybe a doughnut-shaped poem?). Another possibility is to write a poem with a hole in its logic, but I’m sure you can find any number of loop-holes for attacking this prompt.
Here’s my attempt:
“We’re not strangers”
We’re not strangers, but we are
visiting. Tonight, we will worship
the moon–not because we think
it’s a god or ghost rising over us.
Instead, we’ll worship it, because
the moon is the closest object
that doesn’t touch the earth.
We, who are not strangers, will
praise the moon and consider
those close to us who we do not
touch–those beautiful men and
women who might destroy us
if we were ever to collide.
Like stars, our hearts surround
the moon with smaller hopes
as it reflects the bright hope
of the nearest star toward us.
We, who are not strangers, are
unable to speak. Instead, we
reflect all that burns and hope
to be praised like the largest
orbiting hole in the evening sky.
*****
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*****
Find more helpful resources on Poetic Asides:
- More than 50 interviews with poets
- More than 30 poetic forms
- And advice on other topics, such as Evaluating Poems for a Collection and using similes vs. metaphors
Where You Are
I dug a hole in the ground
For a forsythia bush.
"More to add", I thought,
"To my Asian garden theme."
There stand the empty stalks,
Of Siberian iris that bloomed,
in late spring again this year.
Yet they do not stand-alone.
The peony and dogwood tree,
Sink their roots toward their home.
Who knows how many others,
Here join their shared heritage.
For the living have a home.
Some wander to find the world.
Some will stay alone at home.
Rest forsythia where you are.
Black Hole
I bought a bracelet that
says “je ne regrette rien,”
hoping it will remind me
that regret is a black hole,
sucking energy toward
an insatiable appetite for
Sadness of things not done,
Apologies for things said,
Where Guilt wears a crown,
Energy spent on it
is always wasted.
Je ne regrette rien.
I regret nothing.
At least I’m trying
to regret nothing.
It’s hard to do, we exhaust
ourselves with what ifs.
Regret always lives in the past,
where we wallow in unhappiness,
getting manic mud everywhere,
or run through it smiling, thinking,
Why can’t we have moments
like those all the time?
When we are too busy in the past,
the present is ignored,
and the future,
invisible.
Red Hole
A hole on the mount with two on each side
where they stood the tree on which my savior died
A hole in each hand and also his feet
Holes on his back cannot compete
with the pain he bore like a hole in his heart
when he cried to his father,"why did you depart?"
Lots of cleverness and fun here! I am still playign catch-up and posting rather late – but, if you get to see this, RJ Clarken I am lost in admiration of your brilliant palindrome!
The Children
The children squatted in a circle
around a space on the ground,
heads bent, hands moving
in a game I couldn’t see:
David and Stephen, blonde,
aged six and four — mine —
and Rini and Trisna, dark,
quick and thin, a little older.
Absorbed in their play,
unconcerned with us,
unconsciously beautiful
in opposite ways,
they spoke to each other
with looks and gestures
and with words they didn’t share,
the meaning understood.
In the centre of their circle
was a space, which they filled
with the business of play
and with communication.
There was no gap between them.
Still catching up–only three poems behind now….
THE HOLE
The hole broadens, widens,
swallowing me whole
in a single, satisfied gulp.
And I let it happen.
I felt helpless against its powers,
unable to put up a fight,
unable to struggle against it,
unable to whisper for help.
And who could help me anyway?
Perfection is a demanding taskmaster,
one to whom I had bowed in obeisance
far too often to resist now.
And so I had limply acquiesced,
entering the all-consuming black hole
once again.
sinkhole
by juanita lewison-snyder
the man i love
is busy dealing
with outside forces
that i am all too
well familiar with.
ever the pining victim
i cannot bring myself
to tap his shoulder
and tell of my own welts
that sting and redden
like pond leeches,
sucking away
faith and dignity.
nor is there strength
left to pray for
the widening sinkhole
within.
© 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
How Could I Have Known
That last night we called down the night
Bled the clouds scarlet, rushed twilight’s mauve
Trying to drown each other darkly with endings
You still spun your lines with spider-like intricacy
Weaving delicate nets of treachery you thought
Would bind me to you again but I slashed on through
Determined this time to ignore all your wiles, your coy
Ways and entreaties, the smell behind your knees
That cried out to my heart and tried holding me close
At long last you ran down the day and your love
Petered out with the sun rising brilliantly blinding
Me to the hole you were leaving, that large space
Where you’d been, the glow that you shed
Gone out now left greyness, not even your outline
Just a sucking deep emptiness – how could I have known
Dark Holes
Seven rifles muzzles
Point into the blue sky
With white clouds,
A barked command,
Three volleys;
Crracck
Crracck
Crracck
A violence of sound
Near fresh earth.
The seven, old and grey
Themselves not far from
Lying alone here.
Only those who have
Endured service in the
Mud and scream of battle
Can fire here benignly
At the white clouds
That simply accept
The shots and seal over.
Flowers here, pale in color
Sweet in odor, stand in for
There as flash flower sight,
Ground blooms pound,
An explosion of confusion,
Concussive on chests,
Sweet acridity of burn,
Eyes water, and the battle
Moves on without. Here
We listen to reverberations.
Lord
You’re in my spirit.
The gaps are lit with the gaze
of merciful eyes.
WEDDING RING
Gold polished to a perfection
about the stiffening finger-joints.
Long after the clasp of a husband’s
fingers on her own, she entrusts
the ring back to the jeweler,
its maker. What about the fire
lives in gems and precious
metal; what spark leaps from end
to end of the snake-circle of a ring,
its pledge of coiling generations?
The ring glimmers a jeweler’s dark
under glass. All night it nags the Moon,
that pale reflected light; envies the Sun
its incandescent core. Like an aging
wife, it desires flame, a forge.
Let midnight bells alarm lover
from young lover, rumpled groom
from scuffed bride. Brilliant center
of fire, a ring. Gold-banded hole to slip
a life through. Reflection of its loss.
November 19, 2010
Heartache
She senses the void,
yet can’t see beyond—
knew how careful her next steps
would have to be.
In her heart was nothing—
no joy, no sorrow,
no tell-tale glimmer
to guide her through.
Sans emotion, her mind
moves into action,
clarity a hard-won battle.
There’s a hole in the backyard,
that has been filled with
evil and filled in. The ground
is trying to belch it up, but
I won’t let it. I’ll fill the
hole with lye and holy
water to dissolve the evil
and keep it buried.
#19 I’m posting 2 days late. Still, I continue – Day 19: Poem with a Hole
My name is Diane Truswell – a glitch!
My name is Diane Truswell – a glitch!
(PAD – Poetic Asides)
Over But Not Done
When I was a little girl
I had nightmare after nightmare.
I was falling through circles
all in shades of neon.
First was blue, then red, then
purple, then orange, then yellow,
then lime green, then white. I
never learned what this was about.
I do have an affinity for color though.
I always saw colors within range.
I had a perfect memory to match.
and later in life I did learn to paint.
Something about falling through
terrified me though. I felt fear
every time I felt falling through
circles of neon lights.
What mattered was falling
through circles of light,
even though I had a perfect
memory, learning to paint later.
The next step
He always wore his socks out
at the heels,
a 2 inch thread bare hole
in the heel of every single pair.
His socks were a testament
to his approach to life–
strong confident steps;
He never tip-toed into a single
life’s moment.
It was only proper that
we buried him with his shoes off,
so he could stride through
those pearly gates like he did
through all of life–
raring to go and ready
for the next step.
How Could I Have Known
That last night we called down the night
Bled the clouds scarlet, rushed twilight’s mauve
Trying to drown each other darkly with endings
You still spun your lines with spider-like intricacy
Weaving delicate nets of treachery you thought
Would bind me to you again but I slashed on through
Determined this time to ignore all your wiles, your coy
Ways and entreaties, the smell behind your knees
That cried out to my heart and tried holding me close
At long last you ran down the day and your love
Petered out with the sun rising brilliantly blinding
Me to the hole you were leaving, that large space
Where you’d been, the glow that you shed
Gone out now left greyness, not even your outline
Just a sucking deep emptiness – how could I have known
Hole Diet
Hole in my
rice bowl.
I’m still hungry,
but the dog
doesn’t mind.
A day late, now I’m only almost one day behind. Here’s a kyrielle:
Holes
The life’s work of so many moles,
they’re bigger, the old riddles say,
the more you try to take away.
Our lives are always filled with holes.
We’ve tunnels, dug to reach our goals
beneath the channels and the bays,
All for our rails and our highways.
Our lives are always filled with holes.
Anthracite, bituminous coals
must be extracted underground,
we scar the earth with every pound.
Our lives are always filled with holes.
We dig – for what – to save our souls?
So many foxholes held the brave
who came home to an early grave.
Our lives are always filled with holes.
Our world’s dug up between its poles,
so much it seems like a Swiss cheese.
It quakes and rocks, to our unease.
Our lives are always filled with holes.
"A hole as something"
When is a whole not an absence?
When a crab finds it as escape
in the bottom of a bucket;
when the work break turns vacation;
in golf, when the hole is the prize;
when the sides of the hole are seen
as the wrapper or packaging
for something within, holy space
of air, flux, suction, darkness, light.
Pantleg holes make pants into pants.
The bottle’s center holds the wine.
The hole in your heart is a door
where who knows who might knock or leave
gifts or enter the holes between
your cells, where your cells breath and stretch
and seep into the new day’s weave.
DA
Hole: Punched in Wall
I don’t recall what caused the dispute,
only the outcome: hole punched in wall;
and some of the milieu: husband drunk,
angry at something we disagreed about,
angry enough to hit someone, even me,
but sober enough to punch the wall, or
maybe he missed. I don’t recall, really.
Next day was the maid’s day to come.
As other Air Force families in Turkey,
we indulged in a weekly maid. Enter
Aisha. She spies the hole in the wall,
starts plucking plaster bits from floor
tossing pieces in the trash, vehemence
smashing larger pieces smaller. Voice
muttering, she turns to me and growls,
Hepsi erkeler çok fena! I‘ll translate.
“All men, very bad.” Commiseration
fueling speech, she gabbles on, adds
dramatic gesture. Picking out kocam
and dişlerim, I watch her lift up fists
the way one holds a stick to break it.
I’ve Turkish enough to catch the gist:
“my husband” plus “my teeth” plus
breaking motion. She sympathized.
Absolutely perfect, Marie! LOVE the double meaning! We shall all have a "Darn it all, wish I’d thought of that!" moment.
Oh my, what to do -
Piggy toes are peeking through.
Darn socks.
It’s such a silly little thing
of circuits, bits and bytes,
a keyboard, mouse and monitor
a tower and some lights.
It’s kept me busy day and night
so many hours it stole;
and now that it is in the shop,
it’s left a gaping hole.
:-{
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.
The bottom fell out for sure but
Everyone knew it would eventually.
Spending more than the money
Coming in could only go on for
So long and he acted like he was
Shocked when there was no more
To take and blamed the world for
The crimes he committed.
Reading the paper only fueled
His zeal to be angry at everything
And everyone when really the lives
He damaged were all his doing.
Only some of his family still speaks
To him and he’s not much into the
Paper anymore but you know,
He wrote his own story. Shouted it
So loud the walls probably still echo
His rants and rages even though the
House is bare and empty now.
Surely his heart must feel the void,
But I don’t know. I’m still patching
The holes the whole damn mess left.
testing…testing…
A Child’s Remorse
A hole
in a tree
filled with hickory nuts.
Are they for me?
How nice.
No!
A squirrel
worked hard
to store food for winter.
I wish I could give them back.
Through It All
Roll the last bus.
This tunnel will run
through our empty bed
through your trial balloon
through a boat in drydock
through what we dug down for
through a false heart attack
through a random ad lib
through heaven’s mad hell
through what good time we had
through the razor’s sharp edge
through my medical files
through a groom and his bride
through your heart in mine
through what’s next in line
through a thought I can’t hide
through the uncrowded aisles
through the eye of a pledge
through what more could I add
through so long farewell
through our baby’s crib
through the scar in my back
through our dirtiest war
through your key in my lock
through the next fullblown moon
through each word I’ve not said
and I’ve paid the toll, Hon,
for the both of us.
Hole poem
20 hours after waking,
I finally carve
a hole out of my
wall-to-wall life
to write a poem,
and as I dig into
my back pocket
where I keep the facile
and glib poetic ideas,
I reach in
only to find
a hole.
In place of the vacuum that’s been my head today, filler villanelle I wrote the day before this month began; maybe it’ll kick enough inspiration into me to drop another hole-in-the-wall piece into my brain before I move on to robbing the next train of thought’s prompt –
Another Wall, Another Hole
It’s over for one if the other of us dies.
But what but a sudden end’d be apropos
just a two-bit outlaw? Who are those guys?
All of them’re coming after us, you realize.
We could split ‘em by splitting us up, although
it’s over for one if the other of us dies.
When it comes to work it ain’t easy to compromise —
what straight job would a crook like I’ve been know,
just a two-bit outlaw? Who are those guys?
Maybe we could catch them by surprise
and get ‘em to give up, but that’s unlikely, so
it’s over for one if the other of us dies.
A lead raindrop’s hit me right between my eyes,
like nothing’s fit the life my gods might owe
just a two-bit outlaw. Who are those guys?
We need more ammo, we’re done for otherwise.
I’ll cover you. You’re the one who’ll have to go.
It’s over for one if the other of us dies
just a two-bit outlaw. Who are those guys?
Lost one hole
In the blank tight space
of close woven lines
lost one hole
waiting in patient vacancy
for a single loose thread
onto which to hang
Hole-hearted
One thing about holes
is that they are the
only thing they are -
not a space
not a blank
but an emptiness
a hole is what is
where something is not
I am not
the hole in your life
but the hole in your life
is where I am not.
The next time
The next time I fuck you
the next time you turn over
& I fuck you from behind
I will thrust my thumb
into your ass, into your tight
dark hole, & you will writhe
in pleasure or resistance
your moans, your cries
will tell me nothing
you don’t want me to stop
the next time I fuck you.
The Nineteenth, Out Of
To sacrifice to fertilize its sound
unused until decay
no niche prey
notorious unbound,
engraved surround
last display.
Exposure array
nonsensical compound:
to forfeit Freud
reworded game,
as though toyed
naïvely destroyed
collapsed became
exactly what I’d wanted to avoid.
Gilgamesh’s Whisper, 2001
I was born Baptist,
raised Methodist
and found holiness in college,
tucked into a gap
of a cogent object,
a universe blessed
with vacuums (wombs?)
and surrounded by matter
that inhabits all,
even the obelisk
that Hammurabi used
to hammer Sumerian
Family Laws home.
In college, I learned
that boundaries are unsteady.
They are shapeless, shape-shifting,
all-seeing and sightless,
lurking in the lacunas
among the Cedars of Lebanon.
I could say I found
salvation in physics,
and I wouldn’t be wrong.
Newton’s unbreakability
surrounds nebulous quarks,
sinuous strings and theories
much like myths or legends
that can stimulate the soul
beyond all reason.
But, it was Gilgamesh
who carried me
on literature’s wings.
His first whisper
crushed exactness
with the certainty
that no one is tall enough
to reach heaven,
no one can reach wide enough
to stretch over mountains,
no one can see far enough
to view the invisible
and no one can sing sound
into the space after death.
HOLES
Holes,
where do I start?
Probably with the hole in my heart.
How can I mend a hole
when I am heartbroken?
That is my question.
I realize I am no fun anymore,
my smiles are forced,
my optimism fraudulent.
I can’t help it.
This is not me!
Wait, I guess it is.
My life is full
of holes with more
on the horizon..
_________________________________Bullet Hole__________________________
___________________________Just a mark in the wall____________________
_____________________________Really rather small______________________
___________________But the story could swallow you whole______________
_____________________________How he shot the gun______________________
___________________________With the heat of the sun___________________
_____________________Filling his angry and weeping soul_______________
___________(The trigger clicks)_____________(The bullet sticks)_______
_____________________How they dropped to the ground___________________
________________________At the loud, ripping sound____________________
____________________So frightened it had hit its mark_________________
_______________________________But it did not_________________________
______________________________That single shot________________________
_______________________Had no bite, but so much bark__________________
Donut Triolet
How could he be so mean and cruel
to eat the donut and leave the hole?
Has he no regard for a basic rule?
How could he be so mean and cruel
to leave the case and take the jewel?
I’ll fill his Christmas stocking with coal.
How could he be so mean and cruel
to eat the donut and leave the hole?
From a prompt on She Writes: use the phrase "The solution is" in the first line of each stanza:
THE SOLUTION
The solution is silence:
To quiet the dry heaves of busy-ness…
To blanket mind and heart with peace
quilted of words, phrases, clauses
sewn tight with thought, tangled and torn.
The solution is solitude:
To be alone at long last in empty house,
No one to care for, no needs to supply…
Aglow with aloneness that opens mind,
spilling soul onto page in gorging flow.
The solution is simplicity:
To discover self on thick stiff paper
welled with sepia ink dipped from
brass-nibbed pen, antique in spirit…
to unbury heart with words…and more words.
http://meditativemeanderings.blogspot.com/2010/11/nov-pad-poem-13.html
digging a hole and other relationship metaphors/clichés/idioms …
I think the hole in my poem is lack of sense…it’s late and it’s been a busy day, even farther behind on NaNo WC. There’s always tomorrow am.
WHOLE HEART
Dirty snow filled
the whole, my heart.
Ice ran cold
in veins, dark.
Dormant
feelings,
dormant,
dark veins, in cold,
ran. Ice heart, my
whole. The filled
snow, dirty.
Hollow
In the decades since your death,
a tree a year would make an orchard
if I could remember what trees to plant for you;
a dollar a day would buy a good used car,
but wouldn’t you still say: it’s somebody else’s lemon?
If I had made a shell to hold your absence
would it have contained the guilt within my grief?
or only turned into a hollow shaped something like you
rustling with scraps of ever-changing memories.
"Permit me a word of instruction:
that’s not the hole to apply suction."
So went the riposte
that I gave to the host
of my recent exterrestrial abduction.
Thank again Robert.
Maureen, thanks to you as well. I’m having my fun with concrete poems lately. A challenge within the challenge.
Walt, I love your Lost in Thought poem. Fantastic!
Rent Control Math
— as adapted from an old math fallacy,
the essence of when I’ve shown at the right
On your side of the hall, your room takes up halfway down the side.
Opposite your room, across the hall, my room is exactly as wide. X = Y
Your room’s a square, just short of going outdoors.
My room heads the other way, just as deep as yours. X * X = Y * X
Let’s take from yours the space that is in mine.
Then do the same to me, so we still align. X^2 – Y^2 = Y*X – Y^2
Then factor out what’s you that’s more than me.
I’ll do the same, as though that’s what would be. (X + Y)(X – Y) = Y * (X – Y)
Eliminate that difference from both sides of our hall.
Then line us up once again, you and me, wall to wall. (X + Y) = Y
Since your room’s width matched mine when we’d begun, Y + Y = Y
our rent’s not fairly set, since two equals one! 2 = 1
Love is… a hole
Lost in Space
There’s a hole in the center of the universe
Things aren’t always what they seem
There are other colors than black and white
And this might just be all a dream
There’s a hole in the center of the universe
The laws of physics don’t always apply
Sometimes it’s hard to tell down from up
And which way to look to see the sky
Hole In My Story
Our toilet was a stinky outhouse
That listed to the left.
A tiny box , narrow and tall
with a hole cut in wood the
box inside. Sometimes we had
magazines but more often not.
I don’t remember having toilet paper,
that was what rich folk had.
I was always so scared to go
outside along the path to the outhouse
after dark. I was afraid of a snake
on the path or worse, so going to
relieve myself took more courage
than I’ve ever had to muster since.
My friends asked me once when I told
them my outhouse story, “why didn’t
you have a chamber pot in your bedroom?”
Hmmm,I didn’t know but I called mom right
away to find out. Mama said, “Now Judy,
where do you think we’d a got the money
for a pot?” I guess when I say we were bad off
people don’t really get it. We were so poor
we didn’t have a pot to piss in
But This Hole
What’s a thief to do after theft?
They left.
Was any party badly cut?
Me, but…
What was insured of what they stole?
This hole.
In time, I’m told, I’ll have a mole
to mark the damage left behind
apart from parts that were not minded:
they left me but this hole.
an older poem I wrote on my blog in a particularly gloomy mood but perhaps can be in line with the prompt here:
"Dance on Broken Knees"
The jagged wheel of life runs over the child
on the hospital bed, suckling on the machines.
It runs over the heart of the gloomy young man,
too young to die and the old woman too frail to survive
the scars left on her demented brain by the teeth
of the driven wheel. It drives over the bodies
of blue babies and orphans, carelessly just
like the rasping cogwheels in the factory, that need
poor workers’ blood–but less cruelly than men
who poke holes inside the frail dreams of the romantics,
knowing how it feels to dance on broken knees.
You all are an artistic bunch! Literal holes as well as figurative.
Day 19
11-19-2010
Write a poem with a hole in it.
The Hole in Their Hearts
One said good-bye when her daughter was eleven,
the other when hers was twenty-one.
They would laugh and smile again.
They would wake up and not be in tears.
They would be sure to see the beloved girls
on the other side of life.
But thoughts would flit by on fleet wings.
The graduation not to come.
The wedding dress not purchased.
The grandbabies not born.
But each day they would wonder, each milestone unreached,
what would she have done today?
Holey Prayer
What do I know of holy?
How many times have I ignored
your still, small voice? Or shouted
so loud into the wind that I drowned
you out? Who am I, that you still
speak to me so tenderly, even
as I am
brick wall
lost soul
petulant child?
When I cried out,
you comforted.
When I let go, you held on.
When I ran away, you patiently waited.
And the very day I offered you this hole
in my heart, all my broken pieces, you made me whole.
But what do I know of whole?
On the Hole
My shrink caught me snagging a hole mid-air
right there in front slowing down to turn
and twisting out a tail back out behind me
pausing to suck in some of my unused space
so I thought I had enough time to myself
and it was like catching a fly in flight,
but my shrink chose that moment to come in
at least a minute ahead his usual routine
and he didn’t see the hole I’d just caught,
oh he wouldn’t've said he’d seen it anyway
although he claims to be so expert at it
and acts like he could find all the holes
and that’s why he does it for his living
but I see them buzz near him all the time
like fruit flies at a rotting banana peel
and never saw him once act like he minded
so I just figured him to be a hole donor
and they were all after his unused space,
but I wasn’t about to let them suck on mine
and besides he’s poked as many holes in me
as any and all of the worst he’s taken out,
then it’s three times he has to question me
before I look down at why I’m making a fist
so I relax the tension in my fingers a bit
but keep my hand tight so it won’t get away
and he sits there waiting for me to reply
while I lose track and count how many more
holes float by me or settle into his suit
until something gives a little inside me
maybe starting from my hand, yeah maybe so,
so I decide to be a good girl and cooperate
and besides he wouldn’t believe me anyway
same as nobody but you would ever believe
so I tell him I’d snagged me a hole mid-air
in front right there slowing down to crawl
and twisting itself on back out through me
while sucking at most all my unused space
and he acts like he so wants to help me out
asking me to open my hand and let him see
so I remind him how silly to act straight
as if a hole can ever be seen so easily
and he’d not’ve let on he’d seen it anyway
so he took my hand and gently tried to pry
and I did resist enough for him to work
but it was too late for both of us anyway,
the hole had eaten its way free through
and I could still feel its tail tangled up
but he only wanted to know of the new scar
which was all he needed to do his report
and he decided it was all just a metaphor
and some other babble he was scribbling at
but I let the hole suck at my open palm
as it slipped away from me, as I felt time
draining into its edges like the last water
how anymore all the holes smell like you,
and that hole in my hand that won’t leave
is the empty space keeping time for yours,
and my shrink asks again is it a metaphor
because he thinks I want to talk of you
like it’s supposed to be some secret sign
we shared together about holes lining up
between us as though connecting worm holes
from one of our universes into the other
and back again, not even light getting out
and he’s reading his notes from past weeks
and counting the holes he thinks he saw,
so I remind him of the one they carved me
deep into where I can’t reach in my back
to steal what you’d given without asking,
but he only wants to do that one his way
so I hold out my empty hand and say here,
want the hole I snagged here for my files?
except it’s only a hole left by the hole
and it’s not as bad as the one in my back
and it’s got nothing to do with this scar
and it’s not the one in place of yours
and it’s not even one of his metaphors.
Day #19
defiant rings of smoke
HOLE
In a roundabout way,
What can I say?
Are you a doughnut?
A pot made of clay?
Are you the top?
Of a circular table!
A round T.V.?
Minus the cable!
Tell me straight,
Could you be?
Inside of gate!
The peep hole, I see.
Could you be a rock?
Skipping across the lake!
Or a rounded ice block,
Cold drinks would take!
Are you a hubcap?
Traveling far,
A hole in a tree,
Dripping sap,
Into a maple syrup jar!
Maybe a roll,
Hidden in a basket,
A Halloween pumpkin bowl!
An open ended question . . .
Do I dare ask it!
Are you a round chimney?
Or an iron pot for cooking!
Should I get down on one knee?
Or just keep looking?
I think I am digging myself,
Deeper and deeper in,
I have searched every shelf,
Don’t know where else to begin!
So . . . let me just ask,
You to shout it out,
Can I finish my task?
Remove all doubt.
Find that hole, come back around?
Return where I first entered,
Reclaim my balance; feeling sound . . .
My wholeness readied and centered.
hole in the soul
A gaping hole which once contained
your soul, you try to fill the void with
whiskey, wine and sleazy partners
Squatting in a disheveled room
Grey, tattered curtains — once white
Cigarettes butts spilling from a chipped ashtray
Empty food containers rotting in the heat
Dirty linens splattered with stains
From your empty life
The stench is overpowering —
Sweaty bodies, unbathed, filthy
A life of degradation
A gaping hole of life
I love the fish and hook, and the tornado! <3
I love concrete poetry! <3
de and Walt – AWESOME and then some!
***
I Dig Ya/Ya Dig Me – A ♥ Story
Ya really dig me, Hon?!
The one
for me is only you.
It’s true.
You fill me like no one.
It’s fun.
No end since we’ve begun.
Don’t mean to sound droll. Oh,
you had me at hole. Oh!
I’ll never ditch ya, Hon.
No Holes Bard
Her fingers are fond of clacking
(for words are what she loves best)
but severely computer skill lacking,
so she’s giving up this unholy quest.
She’s singing the No Holes Bard Blues
for despite her most desperate wishes
she’s simply found her own concrete shoes
unworthy of swimming with the fishes.
Some great poems here again. I loved the socks one and Vivienne’s is well worth a visit on her blog.
The Bullet Bites Back
There’s a hle in the wrld
where the peace shuld be;
where the guns and the knives
and the bmbs decree
that the wrds and the deeds
f hate flw free -
s we kill fr peace.
Such irny.
Kyhaara – that was wholly cool!
shoes
haiku do not rest
on the soles of ancients but
lean to the windward
eased hearts
Annnnnnnnnd…still no. I’m out.
click
if I give this to you, will you hold it very,
very carefully? it started out whole, you know, but it’s
been through a lot, caught in the crossfire of romance
and reason, truth and treason and everything in betw
een. it’s been t r a m p l e d and to rn and use
lessly worn on sleeve, under wraps, in pocket.
i’ve decided to carefully lock it, but just
say the word and I will hand it over because
I can see in your eyes something I’ve al
ways wished and wanted, believed. could
it ever really be that sometimes,
every once in a blue moon
while, things
just
fit.
Unholy Holes:
Do not dig undignified digs;
Do not hole unholy holes
Where graves gravely graved,
Show lives once lively lived.
To do so is to sew up dues
That are not wont to want.
Wow. That took me a while to write. ><
Go ahead, check out inside my head. You’ll
see a dual. That’s what it is, yeah, duel.
The winner’ll get evening’s shank,
until then limericks fill in the blank —
they’re carving today’s hole in my poetry schedule.
Okay, I give. Supposed to be a heart with a keyhole at the "heart of it." Bah. Back to just crafting some words.
click
if I give this to you, will you hold it very,
very carefully? it started out whole, you know, but it’s
been through a lot, caught in the crossfire of romance
and reason, truth and treason and everything in betw
een. it’s been t r a m p l e d and to rn and use
lessly worn on sleeve, under wraps, in pocket.
i’ve decided to carefully lock it, but just
say the word and I will hand it over because
I can see in your eyes something I’ve al
ways wished and wanted, believed. could
it ever really be that sometimes,
every once in a blue moon
while, things
just
fit.
A hole has appeared
This prompt brings nothing to mind
Be back tomorrow
Love the fishing hole poem, Walt!
Whole Haiku
Sharp Santoku knife
on my life! no longer dull
finger once, now hole!
Candace
FISHING HOLE
I
c
o
m
e
h er
e
t o
f i s h, it’s
really relaxing, a
serene lake, I find isn’t
too very taxin g.
A
can full or worms
for the bass and the cod
a six pack of beverage,
my net and
my
rods,
my
best wicker cre el,
for all the caught fishes,
my premium reel, to en-
hance my chances. But
I don’t get a bite, na
ry a
nib-
ble all day, but
my lie just expands.
They ALL got
away.
Unwholesome Holesomes
Unwholly holding up
in a hole, he holed
up in a wholly unholy
hole-in-the-wall hold.
(And now the word “hole” and its derivatives look wholly unwholesome and holey to me. I think I just fell down the rabbit hole.)
Elizabeth and Joseph, you’ve got the essence of it I see. It’s a lot of manipulation, but fun. Good time-consuming fun.
Walt/Kit – the tornado thing is pretty cool!
Well, the first two lines should be pushed to the right a bit, but I’m not redoing it just for that. You can see it a ‘whole’ lot better (with some revisions) at http://dandeliondigest.blogspot.com/2010/11/holes.html.
Knitting Basket Stitch
Winding wool round the knitting needle
several times,
each row falls from the one before.
Carefully constructed gaps
all hold delicately together,
loop after loop,
letting air and light in;
yet this maroon scarf
works better than all the others,
its spaces trapping warmth.
Even better is the magic cardigan,
pure sheepwool, secondhand,
jumblesale tenpence long ago,
its intricate holes give warmth
like a hand-hold,
like invisible arms wrapped around
loop by loop
against the winter cold.
Well, here’s my first attempt – we’ll see if the spacing goes through wholly:
HOLES
Lots of things
somehow ob tain a hole where
they should remain whole instead:
socks always seem to top the list,
followed by gym sneaker soles,
pockets (holes make no cents), and
winter gloves; dig a little deeper to
unearth holey wallets (especially on
holey-days), seat cushions, flat tires,
buckets (oh, dear Liza!), theories and
thought processes, which I prefer to
refer to as in tellectual over-
load, not really a hole
but a whole.
There’s holes in the insulation under the door
Where wind blows in.
Its whistle calls and thundering voices echo in the hall
While leaves of fall have clattered
Worn and battered underground.
I shiver but remember more
The children’s tread,
Small voices echoing all through my head
Warm sounds instead.
A Hole Poem; or is it a Whole Poem??
(C) Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov 19, 2010
Said the lawyer to the dentist, as he sat within his chair:
"Do YOU promise to pull the tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth?"
And the dentist in great humor thus replied: "My Dear Sir! ‘Twas on the bench of justice there–
That YOU took me to the hole of bankruptcy as my wife filed for divorce booth!
So—-what do YOU think the outcome was between two painful pair?
Was it a hole poem, or a whole poem! Take out YOUR notes and let’s compare!
This is the second attempt… let’s see if it fares better. (It still looks better on the blog.) If you’ve never seen the cylindrical Hirshhorn museum, check out the photos at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hirshhorn_Museum, and you’ll see what I was trying to go for.
…
A CROWN FOR THE HIRSHHORN
(7th + Independence)
the whole building seems to be ready
for takeoff: squat hollowed rocketship missing
its nose, its center open to
the sky: from here
you could gape up at the sun’s
perfect brilliant yolk and think, it could sink down right here
onto this pedestal: it would perch on the roof, round sides
dripping slimy ropes of light off the edges in tall cascades
onto the sculpture garden below: the Burghers of Calais,
suddenly swimming through glory, Kiepenkerl exploded
into a deity of ten thousand blinding, dazzling reflections
and the people milling about the paths, gazing upward
to say, what a perfect capstone for this place, which is
more like a cauldron than a building, a crucible
of minds with feet
and a yawning mouth
Sorry—got off track with posting and lost which day was which in this topsy-turvy world. Ran afoul of too many airport SCREENS and shake-downs and even body pattings, and suitcase inspections for keeping up with the times. Got stranded on the way home in Moscow Transit awaiting a late flight based on security hold ups. No sleep for 3 days…but NOW—-I’m HOME—and hence back to my hen-scratched NOTES on "Thought Pads" to be enscribed on emails sent ot myself, to re-post on WORD—and then click and post to Poet Asides.
Thus for the several days since my last POST–here is the update of takes from Prompts given! poem with a hole, lost and found, tell me why, stack, unstack, crossroads, and a Question—or three!. I believe i already posted Just When YOU think or thought–if we ever have time to do such!!??hahaha
Which sequence–I’m lost,,,but as tomorrow I’ll be on track to POST per day as given for the final TEN DAYS heading towards Christmas:
Three Profound Questions
Who Am I ? Why AM I Here? Where Will I Go AFTER?
(c) Richard-Merlin Atwater
Have YOU ever finally reached the philosophical stage of life?
To ask the questions everyone must ask, to know why life is so.
Ancient Philosophers put pen to hand, and mind to words to try to understand the strife;
And purpose of it all from beginning to end, that would give meaning as to why we go to and fro.
We go to earth and then depart, from birth to death, but what of the before and of the after,
Trails of glory left behind, from God who is our home upon the plains of spirit realms.
The course is set by reasoned plan to leave behind forgetfulness and hope for joyous laughter,
But our joy oft times subsides as off to mortal realms we go as stark reality causes us to take the steerage of the helms!
We live our life from day to day and sometimes wonder how the road will end and where we go,
To death we must succumb as part of the eternal plan and release the spirit from the body,
It may be accidental cause, disease, or war, old age, hopefully not violent revenge of foe.
That lead to our demise and we determine the size, length, and breadth of our casket shoddy.
From the life that we live ’tis experience we gain as we choose between the evil and the good,
We learn to love, or to hate, to open up the gate of searching for the one who’ll be our mate.
Pro-create to have off-spring as the joy of our union comes, and provide for family necessities of raiment and of food.
Then to serve our fellowmen by the kindness that we do to lend a helping hand to those in need, our fate.
But "the Why" still remains as we take hold of the reigns of our reason and the meaning of the substance to it all.
Then true teachings find their way into our lives as pray in our mind to the God who gives us breath.
And we learn of "the Plan" which comes from "the Man of Holiness" who sent His only Son to the beckon call,
"Come unto me, ye that are heavy laden and I shall give you rest from weary toil and cares of the world", as He saith.
"For blessed is the man who stands humble in his land with broken heart for squalid, languid sin,
Who overcomes all temptation, and stands in his station, as a man of pure heart with clean intent of virtue to the end.
And receives the Holy Ghost as companion now to guide him to the truth that comes from JESUS CHRIST our Lord to win!
For he shall receive the reward of happiness and peace which is promised to the just and true who fend–
For the right, and carry “in the fray of battle” sword of TRUTH, and the breastplate of righteousness across his front.
With a helmet of salvation on his head, and his feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel truth.
Having FAITH as the lead, trusting God to be his feed for wisdom to conquer every evil foe on the hunt.
With his loins protected too from temptation, not to do that which is forbidden, thus to soothe.
If YOU be such a one who seeks to know "the WAY" of happiness, come what may, if ye ask ye shall receive.
What’s required is a sincere heart, and try to do your part of good with real intent to stay the course.
Then the possibilities arise, they can take you to the skies, for to dwell with God above in love—believe!
The kingdom of the sun, exaltation for the one who obtains the prize of the Celestial source.
But perchance you fall somewhat short of the goal by failing to meet requirements set in stone to obtain,
Yet are good and honorable too, missing covenant of Christ as the price, then he has reserved for you Terrestrial home of the moon.
However, be you wicked, live in evil all your days, and never change your ways to repent but seek to live the lower vain.
Then for you there be a hell for punishment to dwell in the chambers of inferno Telestial stars set by Dante’s tune.
And for truly those who do, the unforgiven few, denies the truth of Holy One once He has been given.
There is reserved a place: Perdition, a truly awful position with the Devil, Satan rules in outer darkness.
So the ledger it is grand, as given unto man by revelation of the prophets unto God who is in heaven.
Go to sun, moon, or stars in resemblance of the glory for to dwell beyond time into eternal pain or bliss.
Thus, Who am I? I am an eternal man with a spirit, body, mind, complete soul under self control.
Created by a God who is Father to us all to substantiate the call to follow JESUS CHRIST unto eternal life; or otherwise.
Here on a mortal globe I have come to take the test and by experience gain the needed character and a body to taste of sweet and bitter to my soul,
And after time is done, and the final exam is won, or lost, or in between— judgment shows: was I foolish, or was i wise– to get the prize.
Lost and Found
© Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov 19, 2010
What was lost has now been found, regained!
The blind poet Milton knew it very well, indeed;
His epic poem: Paradise Lost explained, great detail remained
To outline heaven, hell, and earth: heavenly and demonic hosts, and Adam’s seed.
What a feat for medieval times to capitalize upon the Renaissance,
Unveil the Christian theme in classical, epic poetry style,
Of Biblical proportions to chronicle actual events that dance
Across the landscape of time and eternity; interpretive history all the while!
Values and beliefs embodied in a systematic “code of living”.
To favor the hero who suffers and endures for the true and right,
And speak in “authorial persona voice” to guide the reader—giving
Express approval, disapproval, admonition, caution in the fight!
Ah! To answer the most profound questions ever posed,
That man can ask on “values and beliefs”–affect us all,
Twelve epic books to weave the pattern of it all, unclosed
An open book of reference to innocence of Paradise, and then “the Fall”.
To speak of God Almighty on His throne in awesome power,
And clash between old Satan and our beloved JESUS CHRIST,
Reveal the war in heaven with its fallen angels, one by one who cower
In envy, hate, rebelliousness towards God, they seek to heist–
Even “the glories of heaven” as the booty for the wicked scheme,
Perverse the intellect, and will of he who rules the regions of Sheol,
His daughter: Sin, and incestuous grandson: Death, in dream
Released by Satan to the mind of Eve, seek to capture in a bowl–
The mind of man, and even soul in efforts by temptation to destroy–
“The Plan” of God for happiness, remove from Paradise in Eden
To lesser world on Earth, creation of our God, and in the ploy
To demonize the human form, remove obedience of heedin’.
Heeding the words of God, command: partake not of the forbidden fruit.
Beguiled by serpent under influence of Satan in disguise,
Thus came “the Fall” of Adam and Eve, and hence the root
Of all evil is planted in the heart of man and woman because of lies.
But, behold! All is not lost; for yet to be found, Paradise Regained, comes to the scene!
ATONEMENT by the sacrifice of JESUS CHRIST who conquers Satan’s theme.
REPENTANCE brings redemption through “the Holy One”, in mercy, forgiveness–
to become a king or queen!
And thus the angels will rejoice, if YOU but do YOUR part within this epic dream!
Reality will thus awaken YOU to TRUTH surveyed along “the thorny way” –
In Christian FAITH to find the greater part of life is yet to come,
Primrose happiness and joy to find, that for those who find, all is not lost today!
Paradise of God, regain and found the better part, and take you once again to home!
The True Story of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
© Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov. 19, 2010
“The Hole in the Wall Gang”, because of hide-a-way amongst Wyoming rocks,
Such “hole in the wall” of granite shaft ‘long mountain range to hide–
The sins of man in fallen state of outlaws from the wild west past; Clocks
Of time reveal the scene of what was done to rob and steal from former banks; Confide
That Robert Leroy Parker was born in Utah territory at Circleville town,
Son of a Mormon Bishop, of no small, good renown; yet son deployed to sin!
And soon to join with Harry Alonzo Langabaugh, thus to frown
Upon the good Christian way, to form the crony group of outlaws, to pin–
The poster on the wall: “WANTED: DEAD or ALIVE!”, as Pinkerton’s sought
To gain the upper hand for great reward upon their heads,
And those of Harry “Kid Curry” Logan, and Ben “Tall Texan” Killpatrick fought
The law, as “The Wild Bunch”, robbing trains, arousing people from their beds!
It all began to steal a horse when but a lad while serving as a butcher,
Thus nickname “Butch” became his call to do the deeds of woe,
While Langabaugh served in Sundance, Wyoming prison for same deed, lecher!
Hence, “Butch and Sundance” was the names of fame spread ‘cross the world to go–
Down in history, lesser breed, among the pirates, and the criminals of the past.
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, did what not the Bible teach to do for fun:
And place a hole into the body, by the bullet of a gun, for death to last,
Yet truth be known beyond the story, there is no glory for what is done–
In avarice, or greed; to covet, lie in wait, rapacity, for degenerate craving
For easy money, and loose women, was the goal they hungered for,
A predilection, inordinate desire, to follow Satan’s lead in raving–
Madness, on to presumed glory, to escape to a Bolivian town core!
To settle down as country gentlemen, as farmers of a different life,
But ’tis said: “What is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.”
And thus at drunken parties they began to braggadicio of their strife,
Desire to rob the bank at Tupizo near the southern border mesh!
Bolivian troops did thwart the plan, thus turn they to rob the payroll mule train,
Then make escape across the hills and plains and mountain pass, alas!
Entrapped at inn to convalesce, a shoot-out then ensues with pain,
And in the end two bodies now lie still, dead to the flesh, on to the Spirit Prison mass.
November 3, 1908, alias “Butch Cassidy” (Mr Parker), age 42 met his fate,
Along with alias “the Sundance Kid” (Mr. Langabaugh) too,
The coroner report confides: fatally wounded friend in crime of late,
Sundance was shot by Butch to ease his pain, then committed suicide, last bullet him to do.
So thus my friend “of Latter-days”, who seek to become a “Saint”,
Those “Mormon boys” who turn to sin are subject to the rules of God above,
Because they became what the Gospel teach “what not to be”, and ain’t–
It true, one can not be– in truth –a woeful sinner and still love!
Poet’s Note:
The true story is based on facts that are slightly different than the Hollywood image of
glamor in crime for “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, portrayed to fame by Robert
Redford and Paul Newman for entertainment. Great movie of 1969—true story—but…
still awaits the judgment day, alas, as it does for us all! Mays YOURS be on better terms
as we all must stand before our Maker to give an account of the deeds done in the flesh.
At the Crossroads
© Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov. 16, 2010
Somewhere along “the road of life” we all arrive at the proverbial stance of “the crossroads.”
Robert Frost bespoke of “the fork in the road” that required decision, force of thought, then ACTION!
Some may choose, as he did, to take “the road less traveled” to find later on, ahead, it made all the difference in abodes—
Of circumstance, of outlook, of who we will become, the course we take in life, our ultimate attraction!
As YOU stand at “the crossroads of time”, my friend,
Peruse YOUR options with careful, solemn thought.
The path YOU take may not be the one YOU planned,
For God may guide YOU to a different battle that must be fought!
But in the end, with hindsight view, perhaps then YOU may find,
That the final outcome, though far different now, was for the very best,
For what YOU could not see at the outset then, would all unwind,
Unravel, to lead YOU upward and onward to the ultimate God-given quest!
To try YOUR soul in “the refiner’s fire”, to burn away the chaff and dross of life,
And formulate within YOUR soul, the character needed to become great.
A person of love, and kindness too, compassion for your fellowmen in strife.
To be of worth, as YOU serve all others, determined by the crossroads fate!
To Stack?; or—To Unstack?—That is the Questions!
© Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov. 16, 2010
Oh, so long ago! I remember the actor: Robert Stack, who on TV played the role of “Elliott Ness”, gangster buster, government agent, from The Untouchables.
He surveyed the scene of each new confrontation with “the dire straits malicious foe” to determine action against the unscrupulous, and the unconscionable!
To “stack the cards”, to control the deal of fate, to prearrange the situation for a balanced, sometimes unfair outcome;
‘Twas necessary to conquer “the forces of evil” who design, manipulate, live by ill intent to others “under the thumb”.
‘Tis a new time now, we live with threat from an “Al-Queda type” of terrorist foe,
Who seek with ill-intent to conquer, to rule by force, to denigrate all our values held in tow.
Thus “the secret agent of counter-force” must learn to “stack again the cards” , to unstack the reprobate of life,
And send him up the chimney smokestack at the point of the soldiers gun, or by the blade of a bayonet knife!
Oh, how I wish I could return to the days of youth when I could stack a bale of hay for feed,
In orderly pile, row by row, to keep the cows of pasture with stable care, content of need.
Or unstack the books from the library row, one by one, to read to my hearts content for knowledge of the true!
But instead, at 17 onward, my fate was to “stack the rifles”, leaned on each other, up on end, to form a cone: “Unstack!
Quick reaction team, let’s go!–out-of-the-blue.”
Tell Me Why!
© Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov. 16, 2010
The Beatles sang it long ago and asked the question true:
“Tell me why you cried, and why you lied to me?”
About how she treated love so bad, and he hung his head in blues.
Yet on his bended knees he sought to rectify through “beggars plea.”
How oft in life we ask the question every time something seems to go wrong?
Tell me why! I want to know the mystery that caused it to be so,
Is it true, is it right? Or is it wrong to feel this way in song?
So in life we live with questioned minds, we must ask if we want to know.
So tell me why there is a sky above, and if there is a God in heaven,
Reveal to me the purpose, meaning to my life, and who I really am,
“Que sera, sera, whatever will be will be”—sang lovely Doris Day a yearnin’–
To know what lies ahead, tell me why, or who, in other words is really what she said to him.
And the answer may not be the one we seek, or what we plan to expect.
Thus an open mind is needed when we initiate the plan to know,
Tell me why? Then if you do, you must be ready for opinions bedecked–
With persuasion, to and fro, to get you to accept what they may say; but, is it so?
All Poems listed (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater, Nov., 2010
Thanks, Walt. That is the essence of it. I’m too spacey (or perhaps not spacey enough?) to focus on the computer techniques when I’m "multi-tasking". I’d like to know how it is done, though.
Back to snow shoveling and the sick hen I’m doctoring.
Walt, thanks for the suggestion! (btw, I loved how your hole in the head turned out.) I think what happened with mine was that all the breaking spaces at the beginning of the lines got deleted, somehow, but I like your notion of replacing a filler letter with the space… I’ll try again.
I am in awe of the talent here…Walt, How do you do the graphics!
I would love to know how to do that on here…I can do them in word, but they always get messed up when I cut and paste.
Happy poeming, everyone!
House With Nobody In It
It sits on Main Street
with it’s ceramic cat keeping guard,
as weather slowly peels paint and
coats dark corners with moss.
As I pass, I feel the pain
of a home that has lost its heart.
A home with an emptiness so deep
passersby can feel it pulling them in.
Like a lover left behind by
death or deceit, the home
will slowly disintegrate until
nothing’s left but a hole.
Poem with Holes in It
knothole: dropped out for my benefit
so I could see what was behind the wall
donut hole: not a hole at all but
that which was not a hole
asshole: most powerful when it’s a metaphor
when you wish for a hole where the person is
watering hole: full of neither water
nor absence just assholes
hole in one: again a hole defined by what fills it
as is the figurative hole in my figurative heart
filled with literal you
KEY-HOLE, NO KEY
Rows of condos, every four-plex
unit the same. Empty. Rows of houses,
every floor-plan’s the same. Door-
lock smashed. Entry, living/family
room, kitchen mostly cleaned-out
shelves. She wrote happy
letters from here. Walls painted
blue. A dozen units,
neighbors gave up and left
in a hurry. Randomly banged-out
windows. Bathroom, closet.
Smoke detector blips
along the hall. Bedroom.
She left the bed behind. Where
do you go when you can’t
afford anymore? Kneel down,
peer – as for a child
in hiding – under the bed.
She left no forwarding
address.
I Will Never be the Woman
who mends the holes
in your socks
who sews the buttons
back on
who has your food
warm & waiting
who remembers
to leave the butter out
to soften
who spring cleans
& sweeps behind
the refrigerator
who gets along
with your folks
who straightens
up the front room
when company comes
who makes the bed
& cleans the oven
who shakes
the dust off the rug
who needs a ring
but I promise
to be the woman
who will never grow
plump
who will keep
her pie hole closed
when you need to sleep
who will open up
the bedroom window to let
fresh air in
who will write
you a poem
who will tattoo
your name
who will be sweet
harmonica music
in the morning
who will want you
‘til I’m all bones, no flesh
who will love you
‘til that box
is dropped
into a hole in a ground
Sorry for the presumption, Kit. I felt your frustration at the failure for the visual to launch. Just wanted to help you enhance your poem.
“The Middle Space”
I live in the eye of the tornado,
false sense of calm,
still shifting winds
may blast through
at any moment,
and overturn
my sense
of balance
eaving
me
em
pt
y.
**The power I see in Kit’s words. Hope you don’t mind if I helped with the visualization, Kit. I love this poem. ~ Walt
Budget Astronomy: Look Up
The night is long and the meadow
sighs, breathes like a sleeping baby
a million lips of wind
speak softly to the goldenrod.
The space between stars
in the dark sky is vast.
The scientist cannot go beyond perhaps
to explain how a black hole forms
much less what it is. The gravity
of it, like umbrage, distorts
even the appearance of stars,
sucks in everything around it.
And I, the maker of this poem,
am unable to decide what
all of this will mean. I fret over
each mercurial word and line
waltzing with the night sky—
like those black holes spiraling
together in an ever tighter dance—hoping
to crush this poem’s disorderly progress.
A Hole at the End
There’s a hole at the end of my rope
I try to climb back to civilization
but what I really need is a vacation…
Well, blast! It didn’t work. Maybe I should stick to blank verse like Sara Gwen
Robert: loved the moon poem.
Not as clever as you other clever word sculptors, but all that I have time for. (I don’t know if my html will come through…the text is supposed to be centered.)
<P ALIGN=center
“The Middle Space”
I live in the eye of the tornado,
false sense of calm,
still shifting winds
may blast through
at any moment,
and overturn
my sense
of balance
leaving me
empty.
</P>
Oh my gosh, so many holes already. both imagery and graphics are great.
so, here is mine.
***
A hole is emptiness
Surrounded by matter.
Are holes material?
And does it matter?
If it is nothing,
Then why we name it?
A hole is there
By its un-there-ness.
***
For no other reason did I want to nurture you but for you.
For no other reason did I sense you but for your soul.
For no other reason do you move me than for what I see in your heart,
A hole, with no way to be filled and no understanding of how to fill it.
A hole, in the shape of a heart,
In the center of a slice of bread.
You need heart, you need truth, and you need sincere love,
You need humility, justice, and tenderness, encompassed by passion.
This is the most important quest I have ever been on.
I beseech God on your behalf,
Which bears no distinction from mine.
Emergency Broadcast System Warning…
Don’t go! Unsafe conditions.
Cracks and potholes are everywhere.
Roads? Slick and icy.
Bad weather alert.
Repeat…
Alert! Weather bad!
Icy and slick roads.
Everywhere are potholes and cracks.
Conditions unsafe. Go? Don’t!!!
I am so impressed with all of these concrete holey poems! Walt you are a true word artist–color me wholly humbled
Whole Mind Flow
The hole truth
And nothing but
Holes in swiss cheese
And corks and
Holes in logic
Holes in socks
Holes in wool
Eaten by moths
Holes in nostrils
Holes in teeth
Holes in wood
Not so good
Wholesome food
Wholesome thoughts
Wholesome smile
I ain’t gots
Holistic healing
Holistic minds
Holistic approach
Holistic behinds
There’s many
Holes that I
Have missed
But
Holey moley
What a list!
"rear view"
some holes
can only be viewed
in the rear view mirror
(where objects are
closer
than they appear)
s p a c e s
partially filled
until you became
a friend,
a husband,
a father.
and now,
a glance in the mirror
shows you.
and you note:
so this is what
I look like.
Thank you de jackson for your kind and generous words.
Elizabeth C.
Joseph, I have had much success with a text editor to perform those feats. I end up having to write directly to the comment box and manipulate it from there. I map out the form in "x"’s and replace with the poems when I’m satisfied the shape is right. ALT+0160 renders the "no-break space" which is insert as characters as opposed to just using the space bar.
I don’t know how you guys got the non-breaking spaces to work, but they do not want to function so well for me.
Poem as it was meant to be shaped is on my blog instead: http://namingconstellations.wordpress.com/2010/11/19/a-crown-for-the-hirshhorn/
Oville-hole
There’s a look in your eye
that I
distrust, though you concur
(much prefer)
these slices in my soul,
the hole.
This slashing takes its toll
and you should know
with half smile in tow
that I much prefer the whole.
I figured Walt would come up with a hole-in-one poem, but a hole-in-the-head poem is even cooler.
Sara, love your empty blank verse.
HILL ROLLING
He said he was on a roll
But t’was down a hill
And straight into a fox hole
…no, of course it didn’t. Crap.
I’m crossing all my fingers and toes that this posts correctly…
A CROWN FOR THE HIRSHHORN
(7th + Independence)
the whole building seems to be ready
for takeoff: squat hollowed rocketship missing
its nose, its center open to
the sky: from here
you could gape up at the sun’s
perfect brilliant yolk and think, it could sink down right here
onto this pedestal: it would perch on the roof, round sides
dripping slimy ropes of light off the edges in tall cascades
onto the sculpture garden below: the Burghers of Calais,
suddenly swimming through glory, Kiepenkerl exploded
into a deity of ten thousand blinding, dazzling reflections
and the people milling about the paths, gazing upward
to say, what a perfect capstone for this place, which is
more like a cauldron than a building, a crucible
of minds with feet
and a yawning mouth
Valley
The land slithers under its sheath,
concealing my steps
to find you.
I walk beyond the edge, near your hill.
Lanterns
poke a thousand pinholes
high above your room.
All the flowers sewn
into your quilt
are sleeping,
you lay there,
waiting, wider than awake.
From echoes of twilight limbs,
let us instigate a fire.
Tonight is hollow, and hungry
for fruit, and we will never be riper.
Conversing at a party
A distraction leads me astray
Insert foot into mouth
Heart’s Hole
A hole in my heart
once filled with love,
now is a vacuum
as deep as the sky.
Where once I greeted
each morning with joy,
now I stare inward.
I moan, weep, and cry.
Whenever I try
to rise up from bed,
it drains me of energy,
gladness, and joy.
Food tastes like straw,
drink is bitter as bile
My friend’s happy smiles
only serve to annoy.
Where will I muster
the strength to go on?
How to step out
from beneath my distress?
I’ll put down my misery,
lay down my grief,
pick up my smiles,
letting spirit’s light bless.
FEELING WHOLE
Home heals.
Just a fact that
reinforced itself in my thinking.
When I was sinking, it was
a life preserver that served
to buoy my spirits,
and as I hear it, changed me.
It pained me that I would
have fallen so far, so fast.
But at last check, my train wreck
was averted. My psyche alerted
to the wonderful place that
never left me when it was bereft me.
Piece by stubborn piece, I was
given a new lease on life left
languishing, distinguishing
my passions and inspirations
as coming from a rejuvenating space.
This safe place. I am healed.
I’ve come home.
W ALT!!!
HOLE IN HIS POCKET
Hands behind his back, he paces past
the tables of ashtrays and salt-and-pepper sets –
collectibles in their time; diaphanous scarves
in fairytale colors; toys that children
never beg for Christmas anymore. Hands
behind his back, he isn’t buying.
Won’t even reach out to feel the heft
of a hammer. A sunny day, but
with a hint, this afternoon, of chill
at the corners. He’s got his winter coat on,
as if he had no safer place to store it.
Daypack worn-through cordura; ground-in
good soil. Now he’s come to the used-
book table; stops to read each title; considers
a tattered jacket – Poems of
Gerard Manley Hopkins. He can’t
keep his hand from reaching out – touching –
could the book inside its torn cover
still be as sound as a
grown man’s heart in a winter coat?
There’s merriment in the house today. All good ones and all full of holes.
What You Don’t See
It’s there, though no one can see it,
Sliding along, influencing us all.
It’s there, taking up no space at all
As it pulls us to and fro with it.
It’s there, always waiting to leap in,
Secretly cheering when all goes wrong.
It’s there, breathing for us like a song,
A note; each look, each tear, echoed din.
It’s there, even as we ignore it,
Still hanging on for our family’s sake.
It’s there, waiting to finally make
A break from our pain, need to end it.
LOST IN THOUGHT
Always the guy with
bright ideas. But the real
truth is – I lose a few from time
to time. It frustrated me for it’s been
said I’ve a hole here in my head;
a cavernous opening where
thoughts esc ape, not small,
the fact is it’s quite a gape.
I’ve tried a cork to keep ‘em
in, but they have their own
mind, my thoughts are a sin. I wished it
wasn’t so, but alas, it just is. It’s rather
transparent, like a piece of Swiss cheese.
My friends call me donut, but do not follow
suit, and it’s bothersome in poetic
pursuit. It takes me a while to get
my muse moving. Then quite un-
expected, my mind is grooving.
Rhymes start to flow and I
let myself go, a poet
dressed up with some
place to go.
Just don’t
mind the
whistle.
“But I’m Innocent, I Tell Ya!”
“Your alibi won’t work,
you jerk.
It’s full of holes and lies.
Unwise!
We nabbed you red-handed.
Candid
shall we be? You’ve landed
in a heap o’ trouble.
Hate to burst your bubble,
but you are remanded.”
This prompt’s asking to get cut up
by the whole pile of holes we’ll strut up.
But I’ll bet here’s why I’ve
on "Blank Verse" drawn high five —
It’s the first time all month I’ve shut up!
Enjoy!
a poem with a hole in it
Whoops I posted the wrong version. Sorry about that.
Friday Love Horoscope
Cancer woman, dreamy, romantic, moody, and sensitive, you feel
it all, get in a funk when your lover doesn’t phone. Like your symbol
the crab, you back yourself into a hole under rocks and hide out, to think
about all the things you did and didn’t do –-like that time he stayed the night
and had to be to work in the morning and you could tell, cancer being
the most intuitive of all signs, he’s used to having a girl (his mama) get up
and make him breakfast before he heads out the door. But you didn’t. Even
though your sign is associated with family and domesticity, you are lazy, too.
You rather stay in bed and dream of cooking blueberry pancakes from scratch
with fresh blueberries from Wade’s Fruits & Vegetables and the best
supermarket flour you can find.
open port-hole
a dolphin clicks and dives
the wave splashes in
rainy day
the spider closes its
trapdoor
Trapdoor spiders are quite common in Australia.
Sara, I love all the holes in your posts. Particularly attractive is Blank Verse!
I’ll try and do better later. In the meantime….
Pumpkin [a poem with six holes in it]
Swelling like its name, bound for _____,
neither savory nor sweet, it carries autumn’s Cinderella
without _____. Tenacity within its hard head,
it ____ the _______. Hey, rhymeless gourd,
[here you should ask the pumpkin a question.] You do not reply,
wise noggin, because you are asleep,
dreaming of _________.
Friday Love Horoscope
Cancer woman, dreamy, romantic, moody, and sensitive, you feel
it all, get in a funk when your lover doesn’t phone. Like your symbol
the crab, you back yourself into a hole under rocks and hide out, to go
through all the things in your head that you didn’t do –-like that time he
stayed the night and had to be to work in the morning and you could tell,
cancer being the most intuitive of all signs, he’s used to having a girl
(his mama) get up and make him breakfast before he heads out the door.
But you didn’t. Even though your sign is associated with family and domesticity,
you are lazy, too. You rather stay in bed and dream of cooking blueberry
pancakes from scratch with fresh blueberries from Wade’s Fruits & Vegetables
and the best supermarket flour you can find.
There’ve always been holes, always will
be holes full of holes we can’t fill.
But our most unfilled one
is how nothing’ll get done
the next two years on CapitHole Hill.
Sara, as they say in dominoes, you drew a blank. Cute
Empty
Family of four living among pines
laughing, camping, hiking our mountain
Suddenly a fifth person emerges on sideline
Four is now three
The hole left at the dinner table
and in our hearts is a void rhat
will not be filled
Sara Gwen – I love your blank verse!
Elizabeth Crawford, your Word Thread is one I want to read again and again. What a lovely image, beautifully written.
Torn
It’s that big toe that bothers her. She walks
on by, just like any other Tuesday, sips her
hot latte on the way to work. The old man is
there, just like any other Tuesday, shield
-ed only by his sign: OUT OF WORK MONEY
LUCK. The holey tin can is empty this morn
-ing, save the 87 cents change the adolescent
barista gave her. Her aim is getting better
and it all jangles right in as she clacks on
by. But today something’s different. It
takes her a minute as she breezes down the
street, morning meetings on her mind, and
then she sees it in her (heart) head, clear as
day: the old geezer’s filthy big toe, sticking out
out of his crusty left sock, exposed to the elements,
and the blind eyes of a world that has failed him.
Comment cops acted like it’s a crime
to look vacant all of the time.
But titling does it.
Not so criminal, was it?
At least none of my blank spaces rhyme.
Blank Verse
THE HOLE TRUTH
Your void is apparent,
your vacancy gapes,
what used to be there
found a way to escape.
You’re never half empty,
you are, what you are,
you’re all we don’t see,
when you’re full, you’re no more.
You’re good to receive buttons,
a fashion statement in jeans,
You’re really not there
(if you know what I mean)
Your presence is absence,
when you’re more, you’re less.
You can be an abyss, a breech, or a break,
an aperture, chasm, but make no mistake.
Whether ruptured or dug,
gapped, gashed or gorged,
a hole is a hole, a fissure, a pore.
You’re still just a hole,
a sad indentation.
You’re never quite whole,
you poor perforation.
**A Classic from the 2009 April PAD – Day 11: Object
[Idea based on a magazine article that our universe is suspended in a black hole]
WE’RE NESTED IN A BLACK HOLE (Poetry Form: Roundabout)
Our universe spins in a hole
Where life and time adhere
Its depths loom black
There’s no escape
Where life and time adhere
Our earth spins in a hole, nested
Like a toy Russian doll
We’re unaware
Twirling, spinning
Like a toy Russian doll
I’m spinning on the earth and my
Universe spins with me
Dizzy and free
I spin while the
Universe spins with me
I’m digging a hole stacked in
A hole that’s nested in another
Unaware that
It’s a black hole
A hole that’s nested in another
stab
(a shadorma)
we gave it
the old college try,
right? placed all
we had in
one fragile basket with just
one too many holes.
Instead of the abyss that surrounds you
The quagmire of disillusionment
Seek to fill the void with understanding
And a healthy dose of compassion.
Life does not have to be a continuous
State of staying cryptically hidden
Behind a veil of secrecy
Surrounded by the unkempt nature of it all.
Concentrate on your plights and
Search for creative means to an end.
Live like the whip-poor-will
And make yourself known by calling out to
Others and making them aware of
Your immutable presence.
Fill the darkened hole
You feel envelops you
And surprise yourself
With a deepened acknowledgment
Of all that is pure.
Sorry…I goofed up the 1st line, so here’s the corrected version.
Wholly Unholey
“As you wander through life brother, whatever be your goal,
keep your eye upon the donut, and not upon the hole.” -Unknown
Jelly donuts ain’t got
a lot
of holes, nor do crème-filled.
I’m thrilled,
because then otherwise
the prize
of crème or jelly vies
with the ‘o’ of the hole
which would sure take its toll.
The same holds true for pies.
Wholly Unholey
"As you wander through life brother, whatever be your goal,
keep your eye upon the donut, and not upon the hole." -Unknown
Jelly donuts haven’t got
a lot
of holes, nor do crème-filled.
I’m thrilled,
because, then otherwise
the prize
of crème or jelly vies
with the ‘o’ of the hole
which would sure take its toll.
The same is true of pies.
sara gwen, LOVE it. and I can sooooo relate!
Since I can’t control self-control,
control’s absence I’ve made my goal —
I put my whole heart
into playing the part,
so the sum of my parts makes my hole.
Vivienne, I went to your blog, and yours looks great! Great poem!
That may have been a Freudian slip? But my finigers finished my write, with "leason" instead of "reason."
I meant,
Holes in the ground,
Holes in the sky.
Holes in your heart,
For no reason why.
Sorry.
Word Thread
Mother used to mend socks.
Weave new thread back and forth
across hole in worn through fabric.
Wish it were that easy to mend
broken threads in connections
between past and present.
Or, the one between people
who used to be friends or lovers,
but no longer reach out to one another.
What kind of string would be needed
to patch a soul abused, worn so thin
that wind whistles through it?
Am not my Mother. Nor am I Penelope
with her on again, off again tapestry,
worked by day, then unraveled in evening.
Only a simple poet. Weaver of words
that seldom get heard, and sometimes
are not even spoken. Yet, these words
hold hope in their very fabric. Could possibly
connect present to future, reattach friend to friend,
might mend wall to stop chilling wind
that blows through a soul which is broken.
Elizabeth Crawford 11/19/10
Swiss Cheese
Swiss cheese had become his mind
as past memories melted away;
scrambled sentences blew from his mouth,
vocabulary he once knew disappeared.
Confusion altered his daily ritual
until the black hole of nothingness
swallowed him whole, left him alone
floating in a sea of vulnerability.
oops…I neglected to separate the 2nd and 3rd stanzas. Ya’ll get the picture tho…
Nancy J – Simple but poignant
Viviene – My memory has holes too! Cool rhyme.
Salvatore – Tis the season for hangnails and being stuck by choice. Nice.
Theory
So here’s what I think: I think we should get married anyway. Who cares if my parents don’t approve, and my friends think you’re a liar and a cheat? Why should we listen to what other people think? My heart says this is right. Your eyes say this is right. Your smile says this is right. Even your friends say this is right. So we’ll get married. Doesn’t matter that we’re only 20, or that I haven’t finished school or that you never finished high school. Doesn’t matter that the most important thing in your life right now seems to be the green stuff you stuff in that pipe day and night. Doesn’t matter that sometimes your anger is every bit as loud as your affection, or that the bottle is your constant companion, or that sometimes your words are arrows that somehow make me smaller. Doesn’t matter, because love conquers all and we love each other and that’s all that matters. Mom says a bird and a fish can fall in love, but where will they live? But a fish can learn to fly, right? Right?
Holes in Most Everything
When considering a hole,
You will find,
Holes of every kind.
Some are good and useful,
While other are to be avoided,
Some are open,
And let the sun shine thorugh,
Others are shallow, not too deep.
Some are heavy,
Much too much to carry,
Others are small,
Just big enough for a button.
Some are useful,
While others are paintful,
There are holes in most everything.
Holes in the ground,
Holes in the sky,
Holes in your heart,
For no leason why.
I managed to get a rather wonky hole in the middle on my blog: http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/2010/11/19/a-poem-with-a-hol-in-it/
HARMONICS
You and I,
together
we make
dissonant tones,
and minor notes
float from string
to hearing.
we make
open and barred
slide together
tie together
string together
a key of chords.
we make
mistakes and though
never yours
you cover and make
any song belong
here on my lap.
we make
empty spaces full,
amplified, justified
pain and worship
spills from
your acoustic hole.
we make
great
foot-tapping
music, together,
You and I.
My poetic hole would’ve wowwed —
pure ‘blank verse’ to do that form proud!
Alas! gets rejected
and my whole poem ejected,
saying, "Empty comments aren’t allowed."
yay Pam! congratulations
Elizabeth… I too just stopped in now I’m hummimg Dear Liza ….
love that tune… thanks for the poem and the smile!
STUCK BY CHOICE
she was stuck voluntarily
having dug a deep hole
climbed down into it
threw dirt over herself
and stood tippy-toed
chin-deep in the ground
it was easier she said
than fighting life’s battles
waving her arms
kicking her feet
wrestling with the demons
that surrounded her
she remained stuck
until the last of the seasons
came and went
heavy torrents of rain
blizzards of snowfalls
hailstones the size of dimes
from where she stood
in that deep hole
unable to turn her head
she stared out at life
a happy spectator
free of entanglements
#
THE HANGNAIL
The hangnail at the bottom corner
of my left thumb is annoying
because it’s there, like a question
begging to be answered
but the answer is never the one
We like and so we regret
digging too deep, and yet
the hangnail is hard to ignore.
That stiff sliver of white protruding
Horizontally from my left thumb,
The one I pinch with fingers
Of my other hand, twist and pull,
Yank hard, bite between my teeth,
Stubbornly refuses to be wrenched free.
The hangnail causes me no pain;
Still, I take the nail clipper to it
and snip it. Not deep enough.
I can barely feel the head of it
but I go on, deeper and deeper
until I draw some blood
from the hole it left behind.
Then the pain of infection sets in.
But the hangnail’s finally gone.
#
Oops!
This poem had a hole in the middle, but it reproduced all over the place. I reckon I’ll have to sit at Walt’s feet and watch him do it.
There’s a hole in my head
where my memory was.
Age forgets, makes mistakes,
gets the shakes,
much regrets
time passed
too fast.
Age has now withered me,
my eyes grow dim,
support tights hold me up
and so my life is grim.
Cranky ticker’s out of synch,
hearing’s on the blink.
Memory is fallible,
so I forget the rest…
‘TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS
When Christmas passes by
Poor parents breathe a sigh
And wonder how they’ll pay
For toys their children play.
Again they’re in the hole.
They’d sell their very souls
To outdo last year’s gifts.
They ought to practice thrift.
#
Neutral Ground
A hole
is what you
make of it –
bury your heart
or plant a tree.
The choice is
yours.
Robert, I loved your example "We Are Not Strangers", great way to start us off.
RJ – Cool way to get at those pesky socks…
Walt – Yay! A limerick!
Everyone’s doing so well already, as usual. I am glad to be back.
Working on my attempt now, fully loaded with inspiration.
I love limericks, Walt, so many thank for that one. Charming. Banana: very clever and look forward to reading more from you. Genevieve: there’s a faint scent of freshly cut grass in the air — gosh, your poems are so vivid! RJ: Always a pleasure to read what you write. I learn quite a lot from your work.
And speaking of work, I’m off to work on my prompt for today…
THIS PROMPT SCREAMED LIMERICK
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who carried heart in a bucket,
But alas, lost his soul,
for his pail had a hole.
So he bought him a cork and he stuck it.
Elizabeth – I very nearly did the ‘hole in a bucket’ thing, but you beat me to it! Ditto the potholes! ☺
Amy – a quick note from yesterday…please post here anyway (if you have the time) and don’t worry about reading and comments. Not everyone gets over to SLP but would still like to read your work. ☼
Pam – (also, re yesterday) awesome (about Ed Hirsch.) He’s an amazing poet! What an incredible experience and honor for you!
Chev – Cubism – how clever!
Geraldine – what a sere picture you paint!
Banana – beautifully rendered!
Ah, socks always popup with holes when you least expect it.
"inherent"
Inherent to the argument
consenting to adults
regulate the spurious
dissenters of our thoughts.
a hole of high society
a whippoorwill, a scene
the rising cost of consciousness
will keep the children free.
remember life, sweet daisy
intrinsically redeemed
the scope of human righteousness
doused in whipping cream.
see see the empty past
commensurate and clean
one is on the razor
the other sparks a dream.
Holy Nasturtiums, Batman!
My dog dug a big hole,
ja wohl!
in my garden patch.
A batch,
in fact, is what she dug.
Oh ugh!
She really is quite smug
about her digging job.
I almost hate to rob
her joy. Still…holes? Must plug.
And, one more quick one just because it’s stuck in my head.
DEAR LIZA
There’s a hole in the bucket.
Then fix it, dear Henry.
With what should I fix it?
With a straw.
But the straw is too long!
Then cut it, dear.
With what shall I cut it?
With an ax.
But the ax is too dull.
Then, sharpen it.
With what should I sharpen it?
With a stone.
But the stone is too dry.
Then wet it.
With what should I wet it?
With water.
But how shall I get it?
In the bucket.
But there’s a hole in the bucket!
About to head out for the day for my weekly errands… hopefully I can get back to this later and come up with something better. But for now, a quick piece of advice –
When crossing the street
be aware of where you step;
watch out for potholes.
Frayed
There’s a hole in the toe,
y’know,
of one of my striped socks.
This shocks
me because yesterday?
No way!
Both were still whole, and they
were not a holy mess.
I guess I must undress
my foot, before more fray.
The Hole Truth.
Waiting, empty, open, free
is what I think a hole should be
potential waiting to be filled
with whatever substance fate has willed.
I fill holes with writing all the time
like the one waiting here at the end of this rhyme.
The temptation to fill them is hard to fight
But better they’re empty than filled up with
second line should just be ‘connect this room’
sigh
A hole poem
Going through a hole in the glass
I step in
Gingerly,
Over the heavy black frame,
Careful my skirt doesn’t snag on the matting,
Through and onto the grass
Newly mowed.
Clippings are raked in piles
Just there to my left
Now visible
Where before they were hidden
By lack of peripheral view.
And ahead, there is the bicycle
That’s casting the shadows
Of spokes, the image
That drew me within
Brought me Here
Where unfolds a whole day,
Now that framed limitations and imposed focus are gone.
I back out, having found, with the loss of restriction
So too gone the art,
Gone the vision,
Gone the lure
"cubism"
a series of holes
connects this room
to the next,
to the next.
slightly offset,
they finally offer
a glimpse
of the outside world.
a cut-out view
through a window
three holes deep.