Quick reminder: Daylight Savings is tonight. Set your clocks appropriately before going to sleep.
For today’s prompt, write a broken poem. The poem can be specifically about something breaking or just include something (or someone for that matter) that’s broken. Get as creative as you want about interpreting what’s broken: cars, hearts, toys, spirits, codes, etc. Heck, I guess–unless we’re writing prose poems–we’ll automatically be breaking lines.
Here’s my attempt:
“this tree spreading outward”
my shadow wants your shadow to filter
through these branches and dance for no reason
other than the sun is warm and the wind
shifts the leaves any direction it can.
this tree spreading outward wil break sidewalks
and foundations. its roots will seek water
while holding firm to the earth. the years will
ring themselves inside, and children will hide
behind when they play games. yes, this same tree
spreading outward will outlive us, but we
still have this quiet chance to dance alone.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
And while you’re there, tweet poetic with other challenge poets using the #novpad hashtag.
*****
Build an Audience for Your Poetry
It’s definitely a satisfying experience to write poetry for yourself and even share with friends and family, but what about reaching an even larger audience? Learn how to reach that larger audience with the Build an Audience for Your Poetry tutorial, presented by Robert Lee Brewer. From getting out to poetry events and joining organizations to using social media effectively, this tutorial shares how to start building up a life-long readership one reader at a time.
The tarmac shone like silver under her feet, where the
pools of street light hit the puddles of rain water.
A pool of oil lay on top of the water, its rainbow looking out of place
in the grey, wet murk surrounding it.
A rainbow was a promise of hope
shining in the saturnine darkness,
which had engulfed and swallowed her
whole in its brooding quicksand.
The rainbow twisted, fractured and vanished.
her life in a nutshell — shattered dreams, a broken heart, and fractured rainbows
At a loss for words. nice poetry.
fractured rainbows — great imagery!
lovely interpretation of the prompt.
I agree about the imagery being awesome. The third line stands out in a unique way–”a pool of oil lay on top of the water, it’s rainbow looking out of place.” Great read.
Clare, I too enjoyed the imagery and symbolism of the rainbow in the oil. Amazing the mood you created by showing something normally thought of as beautiful and full of promise being lost and fractured.
Clare – I agree with what everyone else has said – wonderful, wonderful imagery and the third and forth lines are my favorites.
Wow!
Precious Ringing
Outside the shop
where I need to go to buy
the morning milk, the frozen meals
a man has tied a dog;
a friendly sort of chap, this Bull Terrier,
but my three lads hate it on sight
(it’s tied to their rail, after all)
and they all start barking.
I tie them to a telegraph pole
and beg them to be quiet
while a spend two minutes
just two minutes
in the seven-eleven.
They bark as I browse the aisles,
bark as I wait at the counter,
bark as I pay
(and pay for a plastic bag, too)
and bark again as I wait
for a woman with a pushchair and a toddler
to manhandle the door.
The toddler,
a boy of three or four or five
(I mean, who can tell)
stands in the doorway
and screams
Shut Up! Shut Up! Shut Up!
shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup
and he is louder and more piercing
than all four dogs together
and I want to cry
because I think my ears are broken.
And two hours later I still have tinnitus
from the little brat his mother called ‘Precious.’
I’m enjoying your daily poems a great deal — they feel a bit like windows into your life. Thank you for sharing!
Your last line made me chuckle.
Carlos’s Wheelbarrow – 20 Years Later
overturned in tall
weeds
forgotten behind the
barn
bottom rusted, tire
flat
bereft of all
purpose
So short and so punchy. I love poems with layers of meanings, and I adore poets who build poetry on allusions – with poems that can stand on their own. Nicely done!
Ah . . . nicely done, short, concise, nothing extra needed – pure poetry
Thank you . Just a poor imitation of Williams; always liked his Red Wheelbarrow.
Me too! Love that it carries the same staccato and incorporates the prompt so well.
Mark, a clever twist! Nice take on “broken.”
Well done, and clever.
good one
love the allusion to — has it only been twenty years!?
made me smile.
EVERY WAKING MOMENT
Sleep, the un-won battle.
Up all hours, without
a speck of sleep,
I keep tossing and turning
yearning for my rest,
but the best I can do
is catch it in “packets”.
Broken dreams and
the sleep that goes with it.
ah, the insomniac’s hymn — broken dreams and broken sleep. Nicely done for a quick write.
I know just how it feels – well done.
Broken System
your best defense was always
no one ever said I couldn’t do it
and we, steeped in the pretzel
bindings of school handbooks
and unwritten laws, could never
counter your arguments because
you were a master
at breaking rules no one
ever thought they’d have to make –
I remember still the grudging admiration
behind the voiced exasperation when
your principal agreed that yes, your skirt
and fishnets clearly were within the rules
because the dress code didn’t state
that only girls could wear them
two inches above the knee
then added sotto voce
God help the world if he
becomes a lawyer
I laughed at that but these days I wonder
how many Wall Street financiers
wore skirts to school because
the rules
didn’t say it was
against the rules.
Interesting poem!
It reminds a best selling book for some reason. Have you ever read the Lincoln Lawyer?
I haven’t — but now I’ll have to look it up.
Broken
In an instant
Fissures appear
The whole is no longer secure
The core is released
An emergency
A catastrophe
It happens every day
There is no place safe
From weather
Or matters of the heart
Annell:
Loved your poem. Especially the first stanza
Broken
In an instant
Fissures appear
The whole is no longer secure
The core is released
Interesting — I was most taken by the juxtaposition in the last two lines. All of it is lovely, though.
Point made!
Love your poem, Annell, particularly “The core is released”
Wonderful poem, Robert!
I agree — it’s one of the most beautifully developed metaphors I’ve seen in a long time.
This poem is dedicated to the vast array of items broken in my life time including cups, mugs, bowls plates etc. R.I.P.
Deprived
Shattered fragments reflect the whole
Of countless shards dispersed
in utter confusion splayed
reckless, across the surfaces
Tell me how or what?
Has broken thy cohesiveness?
Pondering anew your shambles, contemplating your hopelessness
Temporarily resisting the truth
You’re forever deprived of usefulness
The second to last really stands out…
Thanks
I agree with Laurie. It is a wonderful poem.
Disguise
Talk the talk
Walk the walk
Do you truly know
Who I am?
One who walks the streets
Choosing the best place for coffee
In an old coat, begging to find
hope somewhere between the sugar and drink
Seeking companion,
As little hands guide me
Too many directions,
Groups see sweet and sensible
Hair brushed upward
gray suit with heels
Defending youth
From witless personnel
Fatigue guides tired hands to the door
Love knows that sound
No make-up, hairstyle or clothes matter
Here it hangs loose, no running from it.
One look says it all
Breaking down
Silence, you see
My disguise, Broken.
Throwaway
Trust is built, layer-by-layer,
Like good soil, rich for planting,
Right relationship grows there,
Woven heart to heart, soul to soul,
But the thread frayed,
The silk cut by sharp scissors of deceit,
Forgiveness offers relief
From clenched jaw and fist,
But lost integrity is not easily mended,
And friendship thrown away.
Well said my friend.
love the first line: trust is built, layer by layer.
BIRD WE NEVER SAW IN DAYLIGHT
It hit the windshield, changed parabola
of flight. You braked the car, ran back.
Great Horned Owl broken in the ditch.
Quite dead. How gently you cradled it
to the car. How many lambs like ours
disappeared to its talons. Such a beauty,
you said, as you folded it in plastic,
placed in the freezer, prepared to ship
to the museum. Now our windshield
begins its fine-calligraphy line, a glass
trajectory of dawn-dim into bright.
Inside the Hall of Ornithology, Owl
stares down from its beaked mask,
fixed forever-eyes, its voided breast
and fluted bones immobilized in flight.
Just… wow. You capture the beauty of broken things in this.
This is so sad. Recently saw a hawk on the road.usually these big birds do not go so close to road. A conservation rep said possibly due to apple core theory. Sad.
You capture the beauty and hard edge of life cycles. Wonderful images.
Always love your work, Taylor, but this has got to rank as a favorite
Your broken field
is my broken heart,
your locked play
is my untamed mind,
your unseen victory
and quiet crowds,
are my broken pen
and crumpled paper.
Your labored quest
amid arguing
and raised voices,
your frozen steps
that you would
have taken, your
deflated ball,
your unopened door -
foreshadow my wait
for an unbroken path.
The instrument of
our muse beckons
different waves,
and yet each saturates
the same.
The hole is deep
and dark, and lined with
rigid roots, and yet -
even if the strength
doesn’t fill your arms,
you may see a broken promise
to be those waves of inspiration
washing gently onto sandy shore.
.
Lovely, Justine.
Yes, I agree with laurie.
Great opening to your poem, Robert. Really like that “my shadow wants your shadow” part.
In my delirium I dreamt a cruel war -
a war of mud and blood and noise.
The air strident with the swish of shells,
piercing armour, slicing through lives.
In agony it never seems to stop -
no sooner dappled peace breaks out
than strife re-ignites.
A dictator flexes muscles, emits a threat
and armies pitch straight in again.
The peace is broken,
it seems on a whim,
but whims grow like triffids
until whole societies
are destroyed.
If we could pleat history,
scrunch it to eliminate wars,
not much would remain
to teach our children.
Tres bien Madame, tres bien.
J l’aime.
this ones certainly produces the great sorrow that is war and more war – very well delivered
“Dappled peace”, “pleat history” – wonderful phrasing on a beautiful poem.
“art”
if you were whole
there’d be
no
room for me . . .
our
broken pieces
fit together
like stained glass.
short and sweet…Like it
Yes, I like it – it says so much, yet has so few words.
Love the image of stained glass.
A title comes to mind, Broken For You.
Thank you for the suggestion and comments.
Perfection.
THE ART OF HELPLESS SWEEPING
A slip of the grip, you know it when
your fingers feel just air and there’s a
pop-crack-jingle-smash, a wave of
hot regret, the hand still clutching at
what now is fragments at your
feet. Perhaps you lift your eyes to
signal why to anyone above who might
swoop down and intercede, or at least
explain the need for these reminders
nothing gets to stay intact, that those
jagged pieces stand for mountains,
marriages, the fair-haired and the
bald, the kid across the street who
waves whenever you walk by, all
vessels sailing towards some
shattering you can’t undo, just a
broom in your hand that however
fine its bristles will not sweep away
this helpless feeling.
Beautiful!
I agree
I have a question before I post. How does one retain italics, bold, or other format distinctions in the posts?
I’m attempting a shadow-box poem that needs italics, and yes, I’m technologically challenged, so make these easy directions for my slow self. Thanks to any/all.
There are all sorts of complex Hotmail codes to enable you to do this, but I have never yet managed to make them work. My advice would be to post your poem on your blog and post a link to it here. I hope that helps.
Thanks, Viv, for thinking I’m savvy enough to blog. You’ve inspired me;-D.
What If…..
What if they all came back
Rose from the grave to look things over
Just to see what we’ve done to their country
To see what the centuries have caused
To check out our progress
Or lack thereof
What if
I’m sure our technological advances
Would truly amaze them
After all, in their day
They didn’t even have electricity
Can you imagine that
How could they have survived
I’m sure they would be very impressed
With our architectural wonders
From the Pentagon
To the Empire State Building
And, of course
Cowboy’s Stadium
They would be impressed
Then they could all pile on a bus
Take a trip across this nation
Experience the thrill of a convertible
At 70 miles an hour on our Interstate
A 3D movie or an IMAX
Would blow their minds for sure
And what about an ATM that
Spits our bills with their faces on them
That would make them smile
But with all of these man-made wonders
What do you think would be
Most important in their minds
Or would the inventions and creations
Blind them to their true legacy
I think not
If they all came back
If they rose from their graves
I truly believe that only one thing
Would weigh heavy on their minds
They would want to know what
We had done to the documents
They penned, signed, and put their lives
On the line to implement
They would want to know if
The sacrifices they made
For all that followed
Were respected
Revered
And upheld
If they all came back
And walked the halls in DC
Sat in on the debates
Reviewed the legislation of today
Watched the news on TV
And met the people on the Mall
They just might have to ask a question
As to when we turned out backs
On our founding documents
And decided to go our own way
Without their guidance
Without their wisdom
And without their God
What if they all came back
All those that signed their lives away
For our freedoms and liberties
Only to have us trample on them
Break them
And treat them like the chains of slaves
What if they all came back?
Neither you nor I are drawn to pen or read political opinions. I still need to write two poems and do a critique tonight before I go to bed, so I was not going to read this evening. However, I decided to peek in on only my partner to see what he had posted. This piece has my heart pounding, and wanting a good cry. I agree with the sentiment, and admire the presentation. Thank you for this, Walt.
EARL! I owe you an apology! How did I think this was Walt’s? It surprised me that he would pen a political poem, but somehow when I did a search for his work, my computer ended up on your beautifully done piece. Anyway, thank YOU.
Being compared to Walt is a compliment. Now, you need to read my other offering on down the tread called “Fix It”. You might like that one too.
By the way, thanks.
Broken
He’s my hero from the day I met him
He’s muscular, tall, and brave.
He’s made a career and then a business
He works hard for all those he loves.
He has a good heart, he loves God and
earth’s people. His net reaches wide and high.
He’s a giant among men of morals, he’s
true, loving and kind.
But he’s also a broken being. He’s saddled
with a horrific loss. His son died in his prime.
He sits at the gravesite and weeps. It’s been
eleven years now, but he grieves for his only son.
Oh, Judy… brings tears to my eyes.
The world is broken
Look around
See the shards of glass
Sticking out from pale green eyes
Lost souls amid lost songs
Fading on the wind of yesterday
When things were not so
Time is passing here
I cannot catch it
To bring it back
Tell it things it has forgotten
About me and you
How we loved
“Remember me”
Whispered in the air
I can almost see it there
Just out of the reach
Of my cracked fingertips
The earth is dry
My throat catches
On the acrid dawn
As the sun bleeds
The stars wink out
Night sky darkens to blackest nothing
Our souls the mirror
The ocean is gone
Lost at sea
The world is broken
Love this! Stunning images. Great mood.
I love this poem. “The ocean is gone/Lost at sea” – how perfect.
Fix It!
She screamed from the potty
“It’s clogged!! Fix It!!”
I am Mr. Plunger
She called from the side of the road
“It won’t start!! Fix It!!”
I am the Auto Club
She pulled the towels from the dryer
“There’s no heat!! Fix It!!”
I am the Maytag Repairman
She hollers from the hallway
“The cat hurled!! Fix It!!
I am Mr. Clean
She calls on her way home
“I’m starving!! Fix It!!”
I am the Chef
She wakes me with a grimace
“They missed the bus!! Fix It!!”
I am the Taxi Man
She’s panicking at the store
“I forgot my money!! Fix It!!”
I am the Banker
She sweats in August
“I’m hot!! Fix It!!”
I am the Ice Man
She freezes in the winter
“My feet are cold!! Fix It!!”
I am her Sock Monkey
She whispers at night
“I want you. Fix it.”
I am Mr. Love
Nice one – what a lucky lady!
Awe, what a guy!
Old military saying:
If it can’t be fixed, it ain’t broke.
Raising the Argo
Discovery of a broken ship
Grasping fringe of treasure
Hope.
Couple parts as one dives deep,
Trucks down fathoms, snags on
Slope.
Countdown ends above, she worries
For his breath. Can he
Cope?
Eyes are faint, searching upward.
Is this the end?
Nope.
Truth of Ren proves its worth. She
Appears. He’s not a-
Lone.
I love your blog! Very creative.
For those who have not seen Tara Tylers Blog check it out: http://taratylertalks.blogspot.com
thank you so much! that made my day =)
i love the versatility of form and meaning and emotion of all these wonderful poets! great job, everyone!
You too!
It’s good to share
Heart
The heart once broken is a heart no more
– Edna St. Vincent Millay
A broken bone heals stronger,
but what about a heart?
What once was whole
will never be again
that thing it was,
but perhaps, with love,
the broken
and the breaker–
day by day, year by year–
can pick up the shattered pieces,
gently, gingerly,
piecing back together
so that through the fissures,
exposed to sunlight,
they will cast prisms,
like finger shadows, rainbow
visions of hope,
a heart again.
Hi Nancy,
Sculpted very nicely. And yes, broken hearts take alot longer than bones. Bones heal typically anywhere fro 6 months to 2 years to completely heal. But who knows how long the heart takes to heal of all it’s trauma.
Nancy, I love “cast prisms like finger shadows.” Beautiful poem.
“It’s Just a Cheap Toy”
If we had thrown it away
last week, when it was whole,
there wouldn’t have been tears.
But finding it broken,
she carries me the pieces,
unable to form words, at first,
then asks me to fix it.
But cheap plastic toys,
molded and extruded by the millions
do not fix.
Her pain is transient
but real.
A moment passes,
her face clears
and she bounces off
having processed this
bite of loss.
Clouds form
in my mind
at the thought
of other losses
she will face.
And that, one day,
she will face them
without me.
Life with kids… is an adventure.
Interesting view though. How will they face the loss? How will they cope?
Oh I love this! Broke my heart! well done.
I’d like to steal a line to express my gratitude to Robert (for this challenge and his poems and prompts), and all of you who are going on this adventure too! I’m enjoying this!
Happy writing and Saturday smiles all @!
~A NEW DAY BREAKING~
Darkness falls away like leaves
the fragrance of light fills its space.
Sun breeches the horizon
bringing a rich glow
to bark, bush and buildings.
Transforming dusk to depth
and palatable color.
So delectable in hue,
I roll it around in my mouth
tasting each delicate detail.
My portion is more than enough.
As daylight breaks in the world
it releases within me a touchable truth.
To quote a tune, in this poem, morning has broken!!!!
Wow, every single one of the poems up so far is gorgeous. I wouldn’t even know where to start with the compliments.
keep reading! I started at the bottom and am working my way up. The quality is fantastic. I guess we can all relate to broken.
HAIKU ON ANCESTRAL GOLD
Jardiniere green
Grandmother’s legacy chipped
White memorial.
Breaking it Down
It wasn’t so much
the severed chambers
of her quiet heart
as the
p e r f o r a t e d
promises
the loose-laid laws
and grasping at straws,
fingers feeling
along the splinter
-ing spine
of that stupid
camel’s
back.
What a delightful play on words!
Pingback: Who Woulda Thought | Soul's Music
My poem may be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/05/who-woulda-thought/
Thank you
(From the viiewpoint of my nano character.)
Breaking the Law
I never thought
I’d get my clumsy motor home
going fast enough
through the streets of St. Augustine,
to break the law,
so scared, I was, to hit
the multitude of tourists,
but the next thing I knew
lights were flashing behind me,
with a quick blip of the siren.
And the man I wanted to impress most
sat beside me and laughed.
I said, “Sorry officer,
we were talking about
friends and adventures of the past,
and I got careless.”
The officer looked at Lee
and said, “You owe her dinner.”
“That I’ll do,” my friend agreed.
It turned out to be a good deal.
Tickets to Savory Faire were expensive
and for hours we ate
exotic food from around the world.
I broke the law, but not my budget.
And I hoped this man
wouldn’t break my heart.
Connie! Quite a delectable dish. Thank you!
This is a link to Mary K.’s poem:
http://inthecornerofmyeye.blogspot.com/2011/11/broken.html
After I Had Known You for Quiet Years
by Rachel Hyde
You broke a door,
your fist through the upper panel,
bursting like a star.
I loved you, then.
I loved you struggling
and frustrated. I wanted
to open like the universe.
Before,
you had seemed closed
and static,
stoic as a door,
until you both fractured
before me
and I smelled humanity
in drops of knuckle-blood
and white, wooden splinters.
After I Had Known You for Quiet Years
by Rachel Hyde
You broke our door,
your fist in an upper panel,
bursting like a star
and I love stars.
In your struggle,
I wanted
to open
like
the
cosmos.
You
had
been
closed,
static
and stoic
as a door—
until you
fractured
before me
and I smelled humanity
in drops of knuckle-blood
and wooden splinters.
Stolen Car
The car was stolen
and found a week later
at the Jersey Shore,
its seats sliced,
a side window smashed.
In the backseat lay
empty Gatoraids and
dirty towels–
the spare tire flat,
the fender bent.
What happened in
those lost days of
joy riding the back streets
of New Brunswick,
the race down the Pike,
the circling through
darkened beach towns?
I imagine the lone driver,
huddled over the wheel,
banging curbs
and cement walls–
silver paint scattering
in his path–
every mile, a sort of victory
of his own.
Day 5 11-5-2011
Write a broken poem.
Unwhole, But Perhaps Not
Crushed. Fragmented. Confettied.
My walking past their jagged bits
blurs the colors, and the shapes
melt together in blacks, oranges,
whites, grays, peaches,tans, and browns.
Were they dashed against the boulders?
Did the seabirds break them open?
Did footsteps like mine crackle them?
Was a park ranger’s three-wheeler responsible?
How did they come to form this prickly pavement?
Their seemingly endless line curves
along the beach.
How do our lives resemble them,
and what tale of love, sacrifice, and eternity does that tell?
Broken shells.
Broke
en
a mo
ment
a
go
nee
ded
as much
a part
of my
life
as blood
or breath
now
just
some
body’s
trash.
Implosion on Highway 105
Do you remember that spontaneous
road trip when, like shards of glass,
your cutting words crashed in my lap,
shattered our happily-ever-after dreams?
Everything I thought we had
now engorged in lies, glazed over
that scarring day our future
imploded on Highway 105.
Tectonic punch to this poem, I am there.
Wow…
Your imagery packed quite a punch.
PS
Had a flashback from your 105 poem.
Forgot I’ve been on the 105 several times to/from LAX…
Thank you both! Glad it evoked a memory Benjamin… hope it was a good one.
“cutting words crashed in my lap”–powerful words.
Your first stanza is incredible, Laurie.
Tinnitus
When your ears are broken
the rest of you is underwater, too,
browsing among tangled stems
on the bottom of the pond.
It can be pleasant there, the sun
filtering down, made kinder by
soft mud, clear bubbles; you could
rest your belly there, stay for awhile,
forget you ever wanted to hear.
But then someone talks to you again
and you are jolted back to the reality
of being human, the annoyance of
saying, “What?” and “Hmm?”
a million times a day, turning so
your less broken ear is facing
the source of all that noise.
Sometime, when you’re up from
that soft surface, when you’re
annoyed enough again, you’ll call
a doctor about this broken thing
you almost hate to fix.
Very nice, and I think it speaks of something that can be applied to more than tinnitus.
Thanks!
I can definitely relate to that. Docs are trying to find out why I have hearing loss in my left ear.
Thanks! I have persistent problems because I sleep with earplugs (which I’m trying to quit). I’ve got some serious blockage (ewww), but am afraid to have it checked out, and have also become oddly accustomed to the hearing loss.
Challenge
My spirit is not broken,
just detained
behind the bars
of my weaken flesh.
My spirit will be released
from these bonds
and shall soar
victorious.
Wonderful! Enjoyed the contrast between the two stanzas. In the first stanza you came to a realization. The second stanza was full of optimism, courage and faith!
Thank you!
She was a small woman
says the size of her shoes
on the broken glass of the deserted lot.
A young one, too.
The flush of the motel sign gilds
the pointy toes and spiked heels.
A man lived with her, they say,
All charm and fast talk,
drove a two-tone Coupe de Ville.
But something went wrong
and now her shoes lay on the ground
like spit on a tavern floor.
this is a sad, but very sharp image, full of color and hard edges. I like it!
I agree. Great, sad, wonderful images.
You brought me on a journey. Well done. Loved the final simile.
I agree with the other comments. Amazing images.
Wonderful! Enjoyed the contrast between the two stanzas. In the first stanza you came to a realization. The second stanza was full of optimism, courage and faith!
Whoops! That last comment was meant for Michelle Hed.
Going Blank
My muse is poised
Pen in hand
Don’t even have
To think
Wouldn’t you know
I’d pick a pen
That was out
Of in
Nice! Very creative…
After several tries, I’m posting the poem as is. It was to be a shadow-box poem, so imagine if you will a poem within a poem.
Breaker
The power snaps seconds after
the tree limb crashes across the lines
plunging us into imminent candlelight
and cold, sandwiches and bottled water,
three quilts, and frosty ears,
But our neighbors call, wanting fun,
dangling their new generator and hot toddies,
a warm place to sleep in their newly framed
attic guest rooms, up two flights of steps
and smelling of new wood and plaster.
Ice and rain hiss and freeze as we slide
our way over to them, believing in play,
even when work will beckon at dawn.
Nothing about that night is unusual.
Nothing predicts a precipice of change.
There were no toys, no spills, no reasons underfoot
to explain my fall down the stairs, my plunge, crash,
snap, the hiss of hard breath, the shift marking before
and after, my leg and foot lying at unnatural angles,
my new adventure in pain beginning, and unending.
But when I think of the moment between who I am now,
carrying the fear of long drops and shouldered limitations,
and who I once was, running long distances and diving
into the sky to float into slow drops, I see a limb break
across a power line, the crack of trees through the night
And curls of ice scattered on the daylight ground
like crystal goblets smashed after a party;
I watch the landscape slip by in a cloud of morphine
thinking how beautiful is this crazy broken world
even when fresh pain tears me from and launches me into.
Oh, Jane… you poor thing! Hope you get to feeling better soon.
Oh, Laurie, this was several years ago. I’m mobile again, though slower and creakier and achingly wiser.
The Road Lay Broken
This road had taken me away so many times
and just as often brought me safely home again.
Run down and driven over, young and old
every dip and curve a story waiting to be told.
Somewhere along here, if you look down
just right, the rusted remnants of some old dump
give testament to when this was beyond
the edge of town.
Over there’s where that kid lost control
in 69 and sent himself on to the great beyond.
Around that curve’s the place where we would go
picking berries with our grandpa way back when.
The same place he made us go one time
to find the deer he’d shot up on the hill
that we couldn’t tell anyone about
because that venison was a crime. Delicious crime.
The road lay broken in my mind when I go there now
as I look upon the sad patched potholes and fading lines
the ancient aging asphalt and the gutted guard rails remain
but where it used to take me is just a memory.
I love the detail of this, proof that memory is a living thing. Well done.
Larry, I love the detail of this, proof that memory is a living thing. Well done.
Love the poem and particularly the title.
Here’s my day 5 contribution.. An attempted triolet..
Broken.
Haiku Sequence
early autumn:
a broken well bucket
covered in leaves
early autumn:
Bon Iver’s sad voice
still lingering
early autumn:
high clouds darkening
the pale blue sky
Give Me a Break
I smoked erratically for years,
never zealous about it,
never enjoying the taste or the fashion of it,
instead attracted by the seven-minute
break a cigarette would afford me,
my mouth and hand engaged,
a few stolen moments
from my primary bad habit,
workaholism, that compunction
to hunker down, to lose track of time,
missing meals, rest, life,
sacrificing human needs to exhaustion.
I worked for years to give myself
a break, a life-affirming healthy habit just
smoking with discovery. It’s called writing.
Broken Peace
Sarah and I
can be sitting watching “Glee”
and something will slip
from a shelf
or my breathing will be too loud
or a sad thought will enter,
and she will explode
in a rage usually reserved
for life-threatening traffic maneuvers
and the peace is broken,
the illusion of normalcy
is shattered.
Most days
it’s an hourly occurrence,
whatever this is
in her dysfunctional cerebellum
that catches afire
and causes her to become
an angry flamethrower
and when its run its course
burned to the ash
she comes back somewhat contrite
pitiful and apologetic,
and there is no medicine
to fix this,
no surgery,
only time,
occupational therapy
and love,
the only antidote that ever restores
broken peace.
Mosk, I lived this one and know it well. I almost posted this older poem of mine,/a> that fits the prompt. I think you’ll understand it as well as I do yours.
Sad and beautiful and wise. Thanks, Mosk.
This is heartbreaking and loving, too.
How sad, and what a loving person you are, B.
But What Percentage Broken is Too High?
Whenever Paul was drunk enough
he would drink half a gallon of water before bed
to stave off the dehydration percentage of the hangover
and he said it worked most of the time
except sometimes he would pee the bed from being so hydrated.
Now that’s a manifesto if I’ve ever heard one!
The problem was
all that drinking whiskey and red wine to get to sleep
and drinking coffee to get awake
led to less and less between the two,
and 80 percent whiskey-red wine-coffee
is tough for the remaining twenty or so to maintain,
even for a moon lover.
Take some of my percents
just don’t get in your car after or before 7,
don’t waste it like I have,
tell Aphrodite I will call her
once all has settled after the mini armageddon
as long as my odes are not lost in the process.
Step inside the redemption chamber
that is my sparkling cinnamon-scented apartment
and although I don’t know the percentage difference between
sparkling cinnamon, cinnamon spice, or brown cinnamon candles,
we will make you whole again.
Seven Years
The bathroom mirror had a falling-out with me,
when the ceramic drinking cup slipped,
fumbled itself into the glass. It took a moment
for the quarter-lit morning to part into
realization: fairy dust, caustic steam,
the mark of the microscope grinder’s trade,
drifts of it in the sink, dotted with crystal ponds
and flecks of old pearl paint.
Knives of it still clung to the frame, and I
looked. (I know you’re not supposed to, but
I couldn’t help it: I wanted, in that way we do
after dreams leave a hole behind them,
to tempt fate and discover strangeness again)
Turned me into a spiderweb of a person:
not so much a face as collections of ideas,
the bridge of a nose, an eyelash, a chin
which now would not get shaven.
I closed my eyes and waited for the bad luck
to start– but then, maybe it was already here.
So what harm could there be, in picking away
at the remnants of vanity, letting them fall
to bury their beaks in the sink full of sand.
And the warped wood of the backing
stuck out in grey, tired whorls, a flatness
devoid of light. They say it takes this long for
cells to divide, the reinvention of the body,
an entirely new suit of flesh:
what kind of fortune is this new reflection,
all at once, and only half-awake to see it.
Well, sir, you’ve done it again–wowed me with your images and the meaning you’ve made of broken mirrors and self-images. Great job!
Beautiful. I especially love stanza 3: Turned me into a spiderweb of a person: not so much a face as collections of ideas. From beginning to end, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this.
Joseph, another winner! I love your writing.
HEART BROKEN
I think my heart is broken.
It beats…sometimes.
A short while ago,
It was stone cold.
Like marble,
With blue veins;
Through which
No blood
Flowed through.
But time healed.
And slowly,
It grew pink again,
Softened;
And, tha-thump..
Began to beat.
But it skips
The beats from time to time,
And beats to fast at other times;
And far to slow, indiscernibly other times.
Before, I knew I couldn’t love.
My heart as dead as a dead heart could be.
Now perhaps I could try to love,
With my beat-skipping heart,
Softened marble,
Blood pumping…but leaking.
You see, my heart is broken
If I tried to love you, I’m not even sure if it would work.
The Museum of Broken Things
You had a gift for locating perfectly good
broken items at yard and estate sales,
things that only a little effort could fix,
though it would not be your effort.
Eye of the beholder, Mama would mumble,
suggesting blurred vision, your eye faulty,
focused on impossibilities—the dream that
the broken had value, somehow to be redeemed.
Sheds and workshops were cluttered with the dead
among the dying, rusted tractors, mowers,
cars, carts, hitches, tools, even the sheds themselves
finally leaning into imminent collapse, guarded by
dogs abused by their last owners, big-pawed
love-starved animals you adopted, welcoming
ragged boys who came to pilfer your junk,
hungrily searching in all that waste for useful parts.
We dreamed of bulldozers with giant scoops
clearing away your museum of broken things,
of us spreading seed on that ground, planting a tree
to memorialize earth salvaged from your hoarding.
But finally, even we squinted to see what you must see,
hoping one day you will look at us this way,
hoping one day we will grow resurrection eyes
to see all breaks as paths to character.
oh, that’s beautiful! It painted such a vivid character portrait that it brought tears to my eyes. The skillful way you put the words together is perfection like “earth salvaged from your hoarding” “big-pawed love-starved animals,” and “ragged boys” There is nothing wasted in this poem.
Shards of my Soul
Shattered my reflection scattered everywhere
Pieces of me gone
Leaving me with an open void
Who am I?
So many different things
To so many people
The mother, the student, the lover, the worker
The daughter, the volunteer, the planner
What about me?
Who am I?
I bend down and carefully pick up the shards
I look in one and a small sliver of my face appears
I look in each one as I place them in the garbage
The garbage of my life
Who am I?
Surely I am more than just these shards
Just pieces of a soul
Fractured
I search for a way to make it whole
The key is to stop trying
Let myself be who I am
In any given moment
Knowing that I am more
Knowing that all of these shards
Make up the whole “me”
And there is always room for more
The poet
That is who I am
Trying desperately to catch up and to get poem to post. I’ll start here and go backwards.
Broken
“It cannot be repaired,” he said, “The motor’s gone.”
She sighed and faced the repairman, her model 1205
Electrolux had been dependable, a steel and blue plastic
canister of pick-up power. It took care of the crumbs,
the broken toys, dog food pieces and spilled elbow
macaroni. They started their marriage with that machine,
purring and growling over the thick carpet and new tile
floors. Now it coughed and choked on tumbleweeds
of dog hair and whined and shook when she turned it off.
“Yes, I’ll take the new model,” she heard herself say.
She took the pen, signed the contract, and wiped away a tear.
I just love this image of modern life. It’s a lifetime of love and home making.
Broken Heart or Broken Wish Bone
Rich Atwater Nov. 5, 2011
Will I have a broken heart for Thanksgiving?
Or, will my love and I break the wish bone,
And thus reveal the secrets of my desire for living
With the one I love in the happiness zone!
Who’s Guilty? ( a tanka style poem)
cat naps, one eye winks
dog greets me too cheerfully
broken flower pot
is evidence of foul play
which one is acting guilty
Ha! Guilt is not something my cats have embraced. Good luck with that!
Thanks for the laugh. I can just see this scene.
Trying to break my normal way of writing. Please comment to help me develop
Broken Trust
I opened myself
Revealed the snags in
The satin fabrics of my life
Exposed
Awaiting the editing of this
Flawed garment
Just one stitch can
Shape my silhouette
Or destroy the form
One hem
Can create a gem
And you left me
Open
Kept the broken zipper
Sewn in
And exposed the concealed
I don’t know your usual way of writing, but I see nothing “broken” here. The only thing I can suggest – since you did ask – is eliminate the rhyme of gem and hem because nothing else rhymes and it changed ther flow there, but there’s nothing wrong with it just as it stands. It’s got great imagery and symbolism.
Thanks, I felt that gem and hem was off. I keep going in that direction. I really do appreciate it
Broken Wing
Mother robin limps through the garden
dragging her right wing outstretched in the dirt,
feigning injury to lure predators
from her babies in the nest nearby.
She seems to be saying, “Leave my children
alone – take me instead.” But instinct tells
her to do this, and when enemies try
to pounce on her, she will fly away.
It’s more complicated in the human world -
Some of us, indeed, would risk our lives
for our children. Then there’s the mother,
sentenced to prison for thirty years,
because when depression attacked,
she slit her six-year-old son’s throat.
Bruce, you stunned me with the ending. Excellent.
Toppled Apple Tree
This hard winter
the old apple tree
in my yard came down:
uprooted, branches
snarled everywhere—
sudden, fast, it didn’t
make a sound—just
gave up, taking a
rosebush with it.
When I clambered
around to autopsy
the damage, I saw
tight buds that now
would never blossom.
What sadness a fallen
tree evokes:
old love, an image
of my brother, gone
so young, so fast
and no time to process
what was happening
to him, to me—simply
here, then not, triggering
a huge crack in the universe.
Like that apple tree
laying there, all life
bleeding out into
life underneath it:
a mouse nest, spring
dandelions. Life, death,
life again, destruction clearing
the way for whatever comes.
P.S. Please visit my Facebook page for my daily poetry video, read by the poets themselves and others. So far this month I’ve featured the poetry of Yusef Komunyakaa, Billy Collins, Robert Hayden, Lucille Clifton, and Gwendolyn Brooks.
Pingback: poem-a-day, november 5 « carolee sherwood
Robert, your poem today is spectacular. It is the only one I read each day before doing my own. I read this one several times.
A broken poem
Body as Enemy
I watched my father’s body break
down, bone by bone. An affable
man–mischief manifested in the twinkle
of brown eyes–Dad was an active
athlete. He excelled at handball,
swimming, biking, and annihilated
opponents at ping-pong. First flare-up,
a disk in his back. So the surgeries
began. One hip replacement,
another, crippling arthritis in his hands
and neck. In those golden years
of retirement, my father was denied
his pleasures, one by one, until
even the joy of smoking a cigar
was snatched away after his throat
was rendered hoarse from radiation.
I watched my father’s body break
down, bone by bone, and I am terrified.
Sara, this is powerful! I watched a relative break down in a similar way, bone by bone, joy by joy. Your last line is a stunner.
Powerful and beautiful and loving. Thank you.
This is a difficult circumstance to navigate for anyone, but your poem lovingly and honestly renders it.
My dad too broke piece by piece. So sorry.
Yikes, I can relate. My father has bone cancer. Not fun.
Thank you all for your comments and time.
Please to be pressing the return now
How can this guy fix
my computer crash when his
English is broken?
Short and sweet and so, so dead on the money.
Mazel Tov
Mazel tov is shouted
at the breaking of the glass.
Breaking bread for sharing
given freely at each mass.
Breaking bread from purest grains
grown from a single seed.
A new dawn breaking brings
refreshing hope to those in need.
A new dawn breaking faithfully
each day brings forth great light.
Breaking of imprisoning chains
will take all of your might.
Breaking chains unbind you.
Know that this too shall soon pass.
Mazel tov is shouted
at the breaking of the glass.
By Michael Grove
BROKEN RECORD
Hey little chatter-box,
don’t you ever talk slow,
Yappity, yap and no word edgewise.
So much to say, and so little,
time awaits to hear you tell your story.
Hey young lady,
you are quiet so,
Refined and reserved,
it serves you well to tell so little.
The time awaited enhanced your story.
I’ve heard it before,
but it sounds better with age,
so wise and so sage
how well you serve your name and manner,
carry your banner high and don’t cry.
Your voice is strong
I’ve heard it so long yet it never gets old.
Your story re-told like a broken record
the sweetest sound resounds
from the sweetest daughter; fully grown.
** An awe inspired treatise to my oldest daughter Melissa, so quickly grown, engaged and headstrong to live her story once only imagined. It says, “Dad, and Mom, you raised me well!”
TO MAKE AN OMELET
Stir up the pot and agitate,
step on some toes and irritate,
Put up a fight and fight for what’s right,
never just settle for second best.
Dictate your own rules and live
by the code you prescribe.
You can please some of the people
some of the time, and just
piss the rest off. Let them scoff.
If you want to make an omelet
you’ll have to break a few eggs!
“Flos Ferri”
Calcifying seals the joints
between you and I,
and
aragonite solution
crystallizes in rarest gem forms
unseen for centuries
in our hearts.
We must dance out the calcium
and protect the gems.
Sometimes we must break
the calcium with a kick,
and sometimes the aragonite flowers
break loose, too.
Let’s not spend
our little time
debating
which is more weighty:
loose joints
or precious stone florets.
What’s dance is dance;
what’s broke is broke.
We go on across the floor.
Love this tango with science and art!
Hairline Cracks
(A Shadorma)
Hairline cracks
show up in concrete.
It happens.
Guaranteed.
Like a healing broken heart.
It still has great strength.
By Michael Grove
At Peace (a shadorma)
the last rays
of afternoon sun
fall upon
the broken
pieces of headstone lying
amongst wild salal
“Breaking Down”
On the days I cannot breath
and my skin burns feverish
with boiling blood-
One broken column
reminds me
that there is still
beauty in the breaking down.
Racing Toward Smoke
He lived his life as if it
were a saltlick, insatiable
and head-on frenetic, saying
he had all eternity to sleep.
No sense of responsibility
except to his own desires,
and no sense of duty except
to himself and various pleasures.
He was a maelstrom in a funnel,
a spinning marble on a conical
journey toward an ever narrowing
choice of misdirection.
He laughed and watched as his last
candle burned to a thread of smoke.
A flame snuffed, a life spent.
He was a damaged and broken man.
Misk, Wonderful wording. I feel like I’m spinning.
Winter Sunset – Sandusky Bay
A flush of pale orange lingers across the horizon
which seals together white ice and white land.
Along the shore the trees hold their bare branches
stiffly in the fading light. Nothing moves. Even the gulls
stand in one spot, briefly scratch the ice and watch
the fishermen as they fold their gear and stow it
on their snowmobiles. Now they turn the switch
to start their engines and with a roar that breaks the silence
of the evening, they zoom across the ice and head for home.
could hear all your sounds hear – very fine
Broken
thoughts
promises
relationships
understandings
patience
hearts
bodies
minds
spirits
dignities
people
by Valerie A. Person
Valerie, it’s good to see and read you here. Welcome, lady.
Come night
I am an optimist,
I know what awaits!
Feather Pillows
And sweet Downy sheets.
As my sapphire sky recedes,
my clock through a
half empty glass reads;
Am.
Dawn has broken again!
BANKS ARE BROKEN
S
O
ASKNABERASKNA
R B B
E R
BANKSAREBANKS
O A
N K R
ABERASKNABE
E
N
When the money,
Is backwards,
And things just don’t . . .
Make any sense!
(“Cents”)
At first it threw me but then I got it:-) Very humorous, “When the money is backwards and things just don’t make any sense.” LOL So true.
Too true!
Ok . . . just had a collapse with the above poem! On paper it was a dollar sign with the words, “banks are” as the “s” and “so broken” as the line through the “s” representing money. The attempt to make a concrete poem failed to hold together! Must have to do with current world stress. Pay no attention to the poet behind the curtain. Just assumed there would be more structure to it.
yesterday’s poem —- I’m still in procrastination mode
Unexpectedly
My shuffling feet
Through mounded
Brittle leaves unearth
Cracking amber memories
Of burying ourselves
In childhood
Joy
I always loved walking in leaves as a small girl – love it to this day – like “amber memories” as description here -
When I post late I go back to the right prompt and post into it at the end. Of course you may do what you like – but then I can find things later if I lose a page. Glad to read some of your work again.
Shards of a Dream
The porcelain couple
Slips from my fingers,
Bride and groom
Tumbling end over end,
Hurtling at full speed
Toward chaotic disintegration
On the hardwood floor.
In the bride’s shattered smile
Lies subtle symbolism
That I notice
And he never will.
Great poem!
You had me from the first line. Hook, line, and sinker.
These are my favorite lines:
“The porcelain couple”
“Toward chaotic disintegration”
“In the bride’s shattered smile”
This line brought it home:
And he never will.
Thanks! Your poem was the icing on the cake tonight as the day comes to end.
Thanks so much! This is my first attempt at the PAD challenge, as well as a major shift toward writing on a much more regular basis. The feedback is both helpful and encouraging.
knowing and claiming what is known – well that’s what comes to mind – like this poem and the depth beyond
Love it! I remember when I got divorced and my father ripped the wedding picture in half, and carried my half in his wallet.
Epicenter
Above, the knotted skeleton of a dome perches
precariously on its precipice, rusty
knuckles spidering down to meet
the thin, naked rim beneath,
a monument to shame and
mortality.
Battered brick walls bare themselves
before me, balancing nothing
but each other, and that only
barely.
Was this framework once a stately
citadel? A stalwart city
watchman? A wartime
structure?
I don’t really know. What I do know
now is, being the last one standing
does not always make you the
victor.
Out of the Gloom
The night is broken
No longer the dark of dreams
But the light of day
Where I don’t need to be afraid
Of the past running in and out of the night
Where I can work
And focus on the now
And push aside the sadness
Of the night thoughts
Until the sun slips down in the sky
And sleep brings more confusion
And I awake glad the hours of darkness
Are over for a while
Morning has arrived once more
Severing the night grip on my heart
Pingback: Like A Broken Clock | TrollPants 2.0
Like A Broken Clock
I’ve met my quota
At the beep:
* Time to get up
* I need more sleep
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Today’s poem
From the broken world
I cry out to you
I cry out
For an answer
Searching bleeding hands
Thorough rusted shards that
Remain of
Broken dreamers
On a battlefield
Of abandonment
Where echoes
Get no answers
Wow, love the phrase “rusted shards that remain of broken dreamers.” Great poem!
BROKEN CLOCK
You can’t be right all the time,
but once in a while would be nice.
Remember that even a broken clock
is going to be right at least twice!
**Don’t forget to reset your clocks for Daylight Savings Time! Or else you”ll be all wrong most of the time!
Here’s my ‘answer’ to your BROKEN CLOCK Walt, it is of course, called:
BROKEN CLOCK
Twice a day, they saying goes, a broken clock is right.
But I beg to differ folks and go so far as call this saying trite.
For I have a clock, a broken clock, whose time is ever lost
its broken parts you see: its hands and face, were long ago tossed.
So no matter the time of endless day, or hour of the sleepless night.
My broken clock ticks on and on, on time and neither wrong or right.
METHOD TO MADNESS
She’s tired and broken.
50k? They must be joking.
Mad woman on the loose,
wide open and smokin.’
Fingers flying on keyboard–
but should that scene open
with her or him or them or none
at all. She presses delete,
erases it all. Oh my, oh no
that’s 500 or so!
Eyes blurred and weary,
on the verge of teary.
Can she reach 10,000
before the kids rouse and
they starve to death, or
smell her day old breath,
and see her crumpled clothes
from two days ago?
Maybe they should go ahead
and commit her to the nearest
mental pit stop before she has
a nervous breakdown,
but winners never quit;
champions don’t give up,
they just keep getting down,
writing ’round the clock.
Old and Broken
Finishing my coffee,
I slowly get up from the table
Grabbing my dad’s old cane and
clutching at the front of my pants
I make my way to the bathroom
Reaching for the zipper
Sliding my fingers down the front, fumbling
Twisting the material, panic
Sliding my hands around, where is the zipper?
Jesus Christ where is the goddamn zipper?
I feel the warm piss running down
my legs;
into my shoes
Horrified I looked down
I stand there frozen in time, staring at the floor, broken.
No where else to go
I make the long trip back to the table,
pants stuck to my leg, piss in my shoes
“What happened?” my wife whispers in disbelief.
“I couldn’t get it out,” I said far too loudly
She put her hand to her mouth
I paid for lunch and
She walked ahead of me
to the truck
She was leaving the shame behind
“That’s why I bought them you old fool, you just pull them down.
There is no zipper.” She growled.
She slammed the truck door, cursing
in a whisper.
But I heard it.
“What the hell kind of pants is that?
I’m a man, men have zippers.
It’s your fault this time,” I retorted, feeling justified for my condition.
I have had a zipper for eighty two years.
No siree, it’s your fault this time, I repeated
as I pulled the plastic cover out from behind the seat.
She kept it folded there for when this happened.
“So where are we are going to eat next week?” I ask. “I’m not coming back here.”
“The coffee was cold and that sandwich tasted like shit”
I have a mistake in my second last verse “feeling justified for my condition” is my fourth line.
Something broken
Didn’t we meet just the other day?
My mind was so distracted, refracted
By the busyness of life
I seem to have forgotten your name
This happens quite frequently, repeatedly
Thoughts zoom in and out
Like lightning bouncing off the landscape
Moving so quickly, too fast
So, if I ask you once again, please understand
You are worth remembering
My poor brain just needs mended
Repaired, back into one piece
Robert
Loved your poem today, especially your last line, “we still have this last chance to dance alone”! Beautiful and tender!
Whatevertheyaint
Thanks for your comments . . . yes, it was confusing when it didn’t post correctly! Yet, when something isn’t working correctly, it just might not stand up! The more I write about it, the more I see how reflective it really is! Again, it just doesn’t make sense on any level! Ok . . . enough said . . . thanks again!
SHATTERED
Dodging the conversation,
He stuck to football and his news,
Holding his book about weapons,
In his lap,
Just in case,
She opened,
Yet another can of worms.
Upstairs quietly writing,
And putting her things away,
She was poised at the window,
Preferring nature’s beauty,
To the tough feeling energy down below,
As dinner approached,
They both knew,
It could be silent evening,
With their exchanges being,
Cold, angry, tense,
Or perhaps they’d find some other way,
To break through the ice,
That had formed,
Not just on the driveway.
Soup and salad,
With the TV helped,
As did the dishes and dessert!
And when the space was as empty,
As it could possibly be,
She turned and hugged him gently,
For awhile,
Which, meant she would let go,
As he responded with equal warmth,
And kindness,
They made their way,
To the couch by the wood burning fireplace,
And as they curled up tight,
A loud crack sounded through the living room,
As a panel of glass shattered,
Seemingly due to heat,
Yet the moment was not broken,
The fire and their passion,
Was renewed,
Now much more visible . . .
And truly alive!
Broken Record
Puff Puff hack hack
Please don’t smoke.
Bet you can’t smoke just one . . .
I can stop anytime I want
Puff hack hack hack
I love you. Please don’t smoke.
Puff hack hack hack wheeze hack
I bought you some of those nicotine patches today.
Please try to quit smoking.
Puff hack gasp hack hack wheeze hack hack hack
2nd hand smoke is not good for the baby or me.
You may not smoke in this house.
Puff hack gasp hack hack wheeze hack hack hack
I made an appointment with the doctor.
Puff hack gasp hack hack wheeze hack hack hack
You won’t be smoking much longer
I can stop anytime I want, I just don’t want to.
Puff Pfhack, pfhack, pfhack
The doctor called today.
Daddy, what’s that in your handkerchief?
I guess I won’t be smoking much longer.
Daddy, why do you have cancer?
I didn’t listen to your mother.
Jamie, hack hack, please don’t ever smoke hack hack.
I won’t Daddy.
Daddy, I love you.
a sTaRviNg aRtiSt
rAisEd iN tHe hOoD
wiLL stOp aT nOtHinG
wiLL pOem fOr fOOd
Heartbreak
Where are you?
I wish you were here
I feel a hint
Of you in my tear
I feel the breath
Of your kiss in the air
Or is it your fingertips
Teasing my hair
Where are you?
The echo of your voice
Has become perpetual
Background noise
I sense a trace
Of you in my smile
Time cannot erase
Thought’s endless mile
Where are you?
There is no reply
Simply the moaning
Of wind from the sky
Where are you?
The answer is clear
You’re in my smile
And you’re in my tear
MOSAIC
Colored tiles,
broken pieces
of former beauty
laid to waste in haste
of the worth they still possess.
Alone the glimmer,
their past prominence apparent.
But inherent in their unity
a patchwork that shines,
a work of art in which
every color, every size,
every orientation,every origination,
has something to offer.
Cemented to retain
the power of its assembly,
and we marvel at the masterpiece
in which we all have a hand.
All of humanity is reflected
in these once rejected parts.
Colored tiles, broken pieces
of former beauty
laid to waste in haste
of the worth they still possess.
The rest of the world watches,
hoping to match and replicate,
a mosaic brought together
bound to each other by love.
GIVE ME A BREAK
Second chances rarely come,
we learn from our mistakes.
The hardest lessons leave us numb,
Second chances rarely come.
We try our best to make our breaks
but to failure we succumb
Second chances rarely come,
we learn from our mistakes.
enjoy the rhythm and repetition – so a fit with the subject matter
“Needle & Thread”
There’s a hole in the
Pocket of the world and
All the good is spilling out.
Straddle the sea, so
Gold coins can plop and
Splash a sopping offering;
Make a wish, but wish
Only for good things, and
Maybe a needle and
Thread to stitch it up again.
I love this! I was just at your blog/web and was reading your work. Pretty impressive.
Broken Paragraph
I do regret that
inspiration
did not arise
when broken
is what I was asked
to surmise.
So it really is no surprise
that words were
jumbled,
fumbled,
and thrown
into not a poem
but a broken
paragraph
and a groan.
Mended
There exists no less than a chasm
Between my sinful self,
and the holy God I adore.
The holy God I adore
Welcomes me into His arms,
Embracing me wholly.
Wholly embraced,
The chasm bridged,
Christ’s cross, my crossing.
strength here in the wave-like wash of rhythms and repeats
Broken Summer
I laid with my head in the curve of your arm
The smell of fresh wood smoke on your skin
Silent as I was of few words
Young, my life was not as yours
We were two worlds apart, two minds apart
Loving you, still loving you
Walking on the untraveled gravel road
My hand soft in your calloused hand
Silent as I was of few words
Listening to you recite Plato
You were in my world, apart from yours
Loving you, still loving you
Wrapped in your arms, softly cradling my hair
Lost in the loft, as you whisper your goodbyes
Silent as I was of few words
You returned to your world
Never having loved me, never to return to me
Loving you, still loving you
Residual
Was it tripping
on the treadmill, or the numb
toes? What I can’t feel, I ignore.
I linger longer and cultivate
an air of nonchalance.
Stairs cause the most difficulty.
Going up is like dragging dead
animals. Going down takes
handrails that vertigo
cannot negate. I can’t recall
what came first: the shaky leg,
or the rigid tottering gait.
Cognitive dissonance
may play a part in it too.
Meaning my ego may need adjusting.
I should start thinking about color
for a wheelchair and style of iron lung.
your line – “what I can’t feel I ignore” is so haunting – on so many levels – strenght here
Like a doll
Like a doll she lays
Pretty yellow hair
Blue eyes open staring
Like a doll she lays
In the earth
Broken
some pain delivered here in this good mix
BROKEN DREAM
one keystroke
reignited a piercing pain
that sucked all air
emitted from my lungs
the strident pitch
of my cries echoed
throughout the
shell of my being
while tears flowed
endlessly into the
pleats of my
pillowcase, until
delirium seemed
to overtake me…
or had I fallen
asleep, to dream
of the soothing swishing
waves on the shore
of dappled sand,
cool between my toes
2011-11-04
P. Wanken
The broken earth
Of the crack in the earth
the seed knows nothing
but a twinkling shaft of sunlight,
the insidious drop of rain
really love the way this moves from tiny to possible huge and lively
The broken way we love
Through parts that barely fit together,
stretched out seams that light infiltrates.
A gentle shove to stir, a poke
a prod – a reminder
of everything that is wrong with how
we sleep and wake and sleep again.
We stumble through this union,
bang our heads on a flimsy foundation
scrape change and cut coupons to cash in
a guilty pleasure or two,
just to try to remember the taste of
what we used to call a good time,
an idiotic notion.
We stay up late and go nowhere,
lay in bed and stare at the ceiling,
at the curtains being jostled by air vent heat.
Repeat. Resent. Repeat.
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Pie Season
Cherry, apple,
pumpkin and berry.
From the first bite
my diet was doomed.
I was breaking
the pound barrier.
this makes me smile – sweet tooth soothed for now
Everyone here has a story and this is ours.
How the insurance assessor pronounced our chimney sound
Then the city shook for a third time and the chimney
sheared off at the roofline, took a leap
over the side of the house
and crashed through the eaves to land in the driveway.
The assessor, from halfway down the ladder,
leapt to the ground to find his car blocked in.
When the builder took the remains of the chimney
to be dumped, he found
it was a ton of bricks.
It fell like a ton of bricks.
Unpacking
Every move ends with something broken.
From the packing box I unwrap the long-stemmed
handpainted wine glasses, one of my thrift-shop finds.
One base comes out of the box on its own, a glass disk
with a sharp glass nipple. My husband, on the phone
as I show him the rest of it, tells his brother, “We now have
a wine glass we can use only on the beach.”
We smile at each other across the room.
A tumbler that really tumbles. A drink
you can’t put down. A stem that could stab you
through the heart, if you’d like.
His brother is trudging through a divorce
as slow as a walk along the shore as the tide
whips up the sand, teases with splashes,
goes dead serious with undertow. It’s like a disease
that could worsen with a slight temperature shift.
When I told my cardiologist I didn’t feel ill
despite a blood pressure that ought to have laid me out,
she said “That’s why they call it the silent
killer.” I wonder what her machines
would show my brother-in-law,
who’s been snapped off at the base.
I want a healer to fix him. I want family love
to make it right. I want to cradle his heart
in my hands, share some light wine and dark talk,
feel the fresh air. I want his home to be broken
like his brother’s and mine, this long ramble
whose shards become stories, whose losses
are minor trash, easily swept away,
or tales bright as fireflies.
Pamela Murray Winters
Two interesting breakage stories here. I found the end very surprising.
cloudless sky–
the broken veins of maple leaves
dot the quivering bare branches
in the creek
until a downy duck
parts the wall of leaves
as if it were Moses
nice movement here – of breaking and comfort
Thank you, Jane, for reading my poem! I enjoy reading other’s interpretation of my work. “comfort” was something I didn’t realize at the time, yet it is very fitting. How interesting!
The only thing I have today is something that’s a little dark. Bear with me.
Broken
As a child,
the world we’re born into
is whole.
There are generally parents
grandparents
aunts and uncles
siblings and cousins.
This is our life
this is all we know.
And eventually,
sometimes sooner
sometimes later,
someone dies
and leaves our
little
world
a little less whole.
And we grow and
learn and
people come into
our lives.
Friends
teachers
babysitters
later, bosses
and coworkers
and eventually
(hopefully)
love comes along.
And our world gets bigger
with each addition
but also
a little smaller
with each loss.
And we discover
that everyone,
everyone
is from a world
that was once whole
and with each loss
becomes more
broken.
And in fact,
the people that raised us,
they were broken
for as long as we’ve
known them.
And as life goes on
and the older each of us gets
the more broken
our world is,
the more people
we are missing.
And somehow, even making
more additions
does not take away
the weight
of the loss.
Diana Terrill Clark
not so much dark to me as whole – well done to me
Thank you, Jane. <3 Loss is a hard subject so maybe that's why it feels more gloomy.
It’s beautiful. Sometimes you need dark.
I did that day. ^_^ And I’m grateful for your kind words. <3
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On my Birth Day……………………….
Forty-four,
Lashed by time unremittingly stark impossible to ignore,
Old memories grows frequently dim,
Bereft of sweet nourishment the soul grows unseemly unsightly unbearably grim,
A heart so long pierced an unhealing ache,
Now daily I drag myself reluctantly to wake,
For that one recurring instant that her face becomes clear,
Though from within bleeds a twenty-year-in-waiting soul-torn-tear,
In that miserable moment I despair that I yet live,
How I regret that every time you fell I just held you and said shit yes babe of course I forgive,
You couldn’t shake your addiction,
I watched helplessly your slow drug-induced crucifixion,
So so long ago,
My love all these empty years since how I wish I could rewind and forgo,
Just to squeeze you close again,
To out-love your affliction and to never-ending kiss away the pain,
But from this fallen world you gently passed,
And my loveless future was irrevocably cast,
On this day my birth day,
You went away,
Forty-four years and still without the words to make it clear,
Just how much I fucking miss you…my perfect delicate damaged dear,
And yet still branded by your addicted mark,
For I withdrew and desolately drifted… damaged in the dark…
TICK TOCK
Like an antique clock,
never quite on time,
my inner timepiece
begins to malfunction.
Hours escape down
unswept corridors,
uncharted, mislaid,
irretrievable.
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Pingback: Broken Poem « LOVELY: Life on the Inside
Broken Poem
It is wrong to assume
nothing else can be broken.
But dust cannot break,
nor mold, nor ash.
The art broke
The dishes one at a time
The spoken words broke
and the trust underneath them.
The floors, the stairs, the sidewalks
broke. Tables. Toddler’s tables.
Pool tables. Inside tables. Out.
The ease broke
The dreams
The evenings, the lights
out, broke
The stars falling, broken.
Bottles, of course, broke.
The night’s peace, broke
The morning’s peace, broken
The afternoons vanished into
into a darkness unbroken.
The pride broke
The will broke and broke
The will broke and it broke
The will broken
The money gone,
broke and broken
even the stretching beach
cut right to its edge
the waves breaking
without a spread to peace
That peace, broken.
It is wrong to assume
nothing else can be broken
even when nearly nothing
is left to break.
Where to Begin and When
I watched myself all week as
I peered again and again into my studio
wondered where to begin
All was well there – paper and pen ready,
computer humming low,
room neat and pretty, an inviting space.
Yet my feet turned me away
again and again.
A voice whispered, how about making
some cookies – try out your new oven?
A voice encouraged, write later
after the warm sun goes
after bird-song closes down.
And so the week ticked off the days
and we enjoyed oatmeal cookies, a dozen
sausage-cheese biscuits, all hot
I worked the challenge of Sudoku
met three new neighbors
Still, silk-sweet voice cooed its hold
a best time, a better time, but
not just now…
Until I replied enough, broke
the noisy voice with the volume of my pen
began again in the middle of a moment.
Jane Penland Hoover
I really enjoyed reading this, Jane! Isn’t it amazing that the more we “ignore” our voice and the urge to write, the stronger and more pressing it gets? Then when we sit down to write, it becomes water rushing over a dam.
I love how you capture the every day routine in this one as well.
I am out of order on the prompts, but I am still going.
Pamela
We are Held Together by the Thinnest Thread
Way In
In the country of the dragonflies
a yellow kayak steers
around small ceremonies
of gift and wingbeat,
its sides scratching the husks
of summer.
It encroaches. It’s a voice
calling out
on a quiet Sunday, unbidden,
unwelcome. It follows what little
water there is,
breaking what’s fragile, the blade’s
careless swipes working deeper
into the cluttered reeds.
On the other side of the world,
in the country of the luminous,
your face emerges
softer
and more perfect
than I remember,
an open watercourse
moving
with quickwater sureness.
Nothing I say,
nothing I do
will disturb what’s already unkempt
and free. What’s already
a little bit
reckless .
Wilderness – (how your hair
catches the
half-light!) –
we bow to each other
and enter
swiftly.
Lost Limb
The snap split the silence of sleep
as the limb crashed down
weighed heavy with snow and ice
landing with a thump on the roof
In daylight, the damage done
is less than expected
No puncture to the roof
Only the lost limb lying
limp in the arms of arborvitae
Cracked, Fractured – Finally, Broken
First, only the fingers of fate and felicity
Can pull apart the crevasse
So slight is sanity’s shredding seam
As her mind begins to unravel
One day it’s a word heard or overheard
The next it’s less than that
Something indiscernible that not only widens
The fissure but starts hairline cracks
Radiating out in all directions
Before she quite knows what’s happened
There is pain beyond all measure
And no amount of holding her head
Alleviates the howling as more fault lines
Snap – not cleanly – no never cleanly
But broken through and through and through
She tries to hold onto the knowledge
That shattered minds do mend – they do
She has witnessed this countless times
Still – each time, she can’t help wondering …
If this is the time there will be no
Repairing the damage
The time the seam will be too frayed
To with-stand restitching
She has witnessed this before as well
Quail: a Metaphor
A perspicacious eye
assessing the clutter on my dresser top
might well spy
lost in the velvety dust, a ceramic quail.
Some forty years old
it survives, rescued long years since:
shards then cradled
in my hands, each shattered piece.
For Mother’s day
this gift from my nine-year-old son
he’d hidden away
but it slipped from his careful grip.
If you had seen
those tears on that little boy’s face
you’d have been
hard-pushed to keep adult eyes dry.
“Never you mind,”
I promised. “I’m sure we can mend it
Just run and find
our brand new bottle of Elmer’s glue.”
I no longer recall
how long it took, each fragile sliver
from that fated fall
remolded with the help of tweezers.
Unintended metaphor
some might say for his future life
requiring a reservoir
of faith that someone can fix breaks.
A gauzy dust veil
hides the old glue, opaque over gaps
in the ceramic quail,
the way love’s lens softens my son.
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Behind the smiles,
Reality spins a different tale,
On-lookers wonder, while
Keen eyes smile with understanding,
Enough stories live within stories,
No matter how long you keep silent.
Disengaged
my heart’s not broken
just bruised around the edges
tender to the touch
I know I’m a day – okay two days – behind. But I figure if I keep posting it will push me to keep this up.
THE ROOM IS SILENT NOW
I am not used to silence
My friends are still out there
Dr Oz telling us how to get well, stay well
Cooks cooking something very fast -
I’m amazed that no one has food poisoning;
Designers designing clothes that only models dare to wear
Dancers dancing impossible dances in impossible costumes
Bones and Castle and Gibbs still hunt down
The killer of someone killed
So we can have the pleasure of watching
Our heroes catch the bad guys
Perky morning hosts catch us up on yesterday’s news
So we have something share around the coffeemaker
But I have none of that
Even this typing machine can only talk to itself
The cable guy is coming today
A part of me still hopes he might be young and cute
But mainly I want him connect all the boxes in my house
To the source
So that I don’t have to go out and live the life
I sit at home and watch.
***
inamorato
***
the itch
in the casted
arm
the boy
in the highest
tree
Aftermath
lace curtains flutter
pink garden tub tops the heap
cadaver dog climbs
Forsaken Haunts
The mind is in turmoil
all the way home
struggling
striving
fighting
to make the right decision
and as the car approaches the town
a right turn signal is given
the road to the pub avoided
straight home
to poem
an early supper
an early night…
…and night after night
the pattern is repeated
the favoured haunts are forsaken
and at last
the habit is broken!
Iain
Broken
Winds rise sand
Swings open empty doors
Dunes fill broken dreams
Broken
Broken dreams
Lie scattered
It seems
That broken dreams
Flow in endless streams
Discarded battered
Broken dreams
Lie scattered
Tricky Time
I’ve replaced the battery on this clock three times
Cleaned out all the dust
Polished the face
But the constant ticking is silent
the hands unmoving at 11:23
All I can think is
Hey, the Fibonacci sequence
As opposed to the fact that
it chose to stop working
on the day you chose to leave
Broken
Broken pieces fall to the floor
Hearts stop, tears over flow
Broken promises hit like a bat
Hearts stop, tears overflow
Broken dreams lye abandoned in the trash
Herats stop, tears over flow
Broken lives falls victim to the war
Hearts stops, tears over flow
Broken pieces fall to the floor
Nightmares come, love never more
Broken sight, blinded to the core
Nightmares come, love never more
Broken, beaten, battered, bruised
Nightmares come, love never more
Broken love, left holding stone
Nightmares come, love never more
Broken pieces fall to the floor
Hearts stop, tears over flow
Broken pieces fall to the floor
Nightmares come, love never more
Broken me, left here alone
You took my heart, left me only with pieces
Nightmares of love lost
Shattered glassed left scattered over battered parts
Railroad Salvage (by Michelle McEwen)
The biggest luggage I’ve ever seen, ma bought
at Railroad Salvage—a flea market/furniture store
daddy took us to on the weekend. She got her stockings
there, too. But it is the gigantic luggage she always brings
up whenever somebody says, “Remember Railroad Salvage?”
She tells them how she found it in the middle of the store
as if someone had wanted it— then, remembering how
it wouldn’t fit in their trunk, left it there. It fit
in our station wagon, though, and next summer
when Daddy drove from central Connecticut to the middle
of Alabama, ma packed her four daughters’ clothes and
and underclothes, too, in that luggage and the zipper worked—
wasn’t broken like the ones you find on the luggage
at the Salvation Army. “And there was still room left
over,” ma says. Enough room to fit, on our way back,
the buttered-colored towels she stole from daddy’s mama.
the book of juana
by juanita lewison-snyder
she takes in strays
despite the ban
she mends the broken
because she can
neighbor castoffs
two-legged and four
the sick, the hungry
the abused, the poor
the addict, the loner
the orphan, the insane
the disabled, the dreamer
the empty, the vain
she nurtures minds
broken hearts
helps lost spirits
find new starts
it’s who she is
her greatest wrath
her nature’s calling
her chosen path
she takes in strays
despite the ban
she mends the broken
because she can.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Never To Find (villanelle)
Lost in the haze of time
I roam, ever to seek,
never to find.
Wanting all that is mine,
my lover unique,
lost in the mist of time.
I reach far out, climb
the stars until weak,
never to find.
In my heart, a rhyme
always to seek,
lost in the mist of time.
Riding with time
to the heavens, I speak,
never to find.
In darkness I creep,
with sorrow I weep,
lost in the mist of time
never to . . . .
villanelle … so close to the word ‘villain’ when I go to write them…
I was carried forward, a lolloping gait, as I was just lost in the mists here, outside my house, the imagery is particularly prescient. I find that I want you (speaker in the poem) to find your way home…
arrhythmia
for no good reason, its
breaking again
ticktock tick
niceword break! unexpected.
The way sunlight breaks
across ocean waves
into liquid light confetti
around my wife’s feet,
there’s a celebration of simplicity,
a rippling assurance in the whispers
of water against sand that says,
“this is all there is, accept it.”
The melted crystal sea sparkles
around us, every winking reflection
a camera flash from another plane,
a star exploding in a parallel universe,
a prismatic exchange between
the darkest of blues and the lightest
of whites, erupting like two dimensional
fireworks across a plate glass window,
that begs to be lifted up into the heavens,
so I gather some of the sea into my palms,
where the stillness kills the light,
and throw it into the air, each droplet
becoming a bead of fire
filled with unquenchable freedom
against the backdrop of clouds and blue,
for just an instant soaring,
a thousand diamonds torn from the rings
on mother nature’s hands,
then falling back to the blanket
of endless kisses washing to the shore,
waiting to be turned into rain.
i like the way the light seems to dash across the page, like lightening. I almost see jagged thread of light moving across the lines, changing from form to form, and still light. There are word pairs throughout that are unexpected and exciting: ‘unquenchable freedom’ ‘stillness kills’ ‘celebration of simplicity’ ‘rippling assurance’..
My Thanks
This is my “Thank you” to helpers and healers,
menders and fixers of things that are
broken, (but not beyond repair);
linemen and tree men, roofers, technicians
plumbers and builders, and all electricians.
Gratitude too, to all the care-givers: the doctors and nurses,
family and friends, neighbors and strangers, huggers,
hand holders, laughers and smilers, and all of the ones
(who would wave or would wink, or just drive by and honk)
letting us know we are not alone.
nice. I like the rhythm of the list. someone — was it annie dillard? someone talked about all lists being a form of prayer… ‘laughers’, the parenthetical ‘but not beyond repair’.
thank you for this one!
Printer Jam
I sent a print job to the printer queue
but nothing ended up in the output tray.
I said, “Hey Printer! What’s the matter with you?”
The printer just sat there, but it didn’t say.
But… an LED error message appeared which read, “Pull out paper tray.”
I did this and saw a piece of paper which was stuck
on some cog, but since my boss was approaching, I didn’t say
what was really on my mind. (*Sigh*) Of all the luck!
So I wiggled and jiggled some ‘things’ to try and get the paper unstuck.
My boss shook his head, then laughed. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m glad you find this funny,” I replied, “But it’s just bad luck
that your ‘RUSH’ report caused a printer jam – and right on cue.”
###
Note: Form is Pantoum.
hee! this was fun! I’m inspired to try a pantoum! this was fun. today I’ll stick to haiku…
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restoring order
her mouth drops open
vacant eyes protect what’s left
not system failure
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