And so it begins! Today is the first day of the 5th annual April PAD (Poem-A-Day) Challenge on Poetic Asides. I can’t believe we’re turning five!
For today’s prompt, write a communication poem. The communication could be dialogue between two (or more people); a postcard correspondence; a letter; a voicemail; a text message; a series of tweets; or whatever. Heck, I guess a poem is a form of communication–so there’s really no way to screw up today’s prompt (outside of writing nothing at all). Let’s get this party started!
Here’s my attempt:
“An Urgent Message”
Respond now or we’ll send murderous
marauders to your house at midnight
who will kill you–leaving your children
and parents with nothing. All will be
lost. Cunning cats will prowl alleyways
as your grieving (and groveling) leftovers
wander the earth wondering why you could
do so little to protect them. You, who
received urgent messages and important
notices and special offers, threw
every correspondence into the garbage
can as if all we tried to offer were junk.
*****
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A Glass Full of Empty
Hold me now
Please don’t leave the room
Another step and I might just break
The panic consumes me
Don’t turn off the lights
Leave them on just for tonight
I lack the reason to move on
I’m terrified of what I’m not
A life of regrets
Is all I’ve ever known
I’m so ashamed of who I am
Up until now it’s all been a lie
Tell me once
It’s gonna be okay
Wipe the doubt off my mind
Promise me and I won’t ask
Show me the good I’ve done
Because I can’t find it alone
I lack the reason to move on
I’m terrified of what I’m not
A life of regrets
Is all I’ve ever known
I’m so ashamed of who I am
Up until now it’s all been a lie
Hold me now
Please don’t leave me
I can’t face myself anymore
No matter the reason
I am drowning
I’ll suffocate in the world
Just once more
If it gets rid of my despair
I beg you
Get rid of my despair
TELEGRAM
The message came on a yellow piece of paper,
letters bold and black, piercing like a Samurai sword.
He carried it in his hand, his face a mountain crag,
Eyes gone blank, he looked at us but didn’t see
our fear, for yellow was the color of death, we knew.
We knew but didn’t want to know. We took the missive
from his hand and learned an acronym–M I A .
Pat Carroll Marcantel
We English don’t need
to learn foreign languages:
Let them learn ours!
Hello, Randy is that you?
Randy who?
Randy, stop playing games!
Excuse me Miss, Randy is not my name.
So this is how it is?
You forgot about me, now that you are married with kids
Lady listen, there is no Randy that lives in this home
So I suggest you hang up and leave me alone
Now you listen to me, I dialed your number 780 745 7753
So you see Randy, I know this is you!
Please lady that just isn’t true, you see because you dialed 780 745 7733 actually
And my name is TIM not Randy
Communicate!
Communicate, he says
and I want to scream
but I just did! Didn’t
he notice all those
tweets
blogs
facebook and linkedin
comments
(not to mention
my monitoring of
and responses to
all my email notes)?
Enough said!
Freedom’s Mark
Her body spoke to her.
It had been communicating specifically,
With her lately, it’s noise and it’s unwieldy girth -
In locations where it had been flat before -
The sadness, anger, permutations of disbelief,
Came along in ways she was not expecting.
The hours, days of waiting to hear the next condition,
Trepidations in her liver, pancreas, colon;
Their lives having been taken up by a new visitor,
Unintentionally invited by her life’s trials and denials,
Intending to stay with her on her path towards freedom.
A Communication Twonnet (A Sonnet has 14 lines – so this Twin Sonnet – 28 lines – so called Twonnet)
The swoosh of the toilet flush
In the early morning hour
Breaks the eerie night silence
Who’s there? I ask
Only to hear footsteps
And creaking floorboards
The house is not haunted
I am assured
Then maybe just my mind
Playing nasty tricks
But the toilet flushing
Isn’t that too loud a noise?
Or maybe just my imagination
Going wild!
There is a lingering lethargy
A constant sapping of energy
The Feng-shui has gone all wrong
Perhaps, or just the mind-set
Stuck in an arroyo
Not able to let go
They say there has to be a bond
To be able to communicate
But some are just sagas
Endured, burnt and endured again
Who am I? Who is she?
None other than crafted souls
Some questions are mere ponderings
To dwell on and liberate
WHAT ELSE CAN I SAY
Did something happen in Houston,
I need to know about?
I’ve not heard a word from you since you came home;
I know we’ve had our differences,
And it’s not like you to pout,
So for goodness sake, Girl,
Just pick up the phone…
And…
(CH)
Take a minute or two,
To tell me what to do…
Gimme a clue if you want me to stay…
Is it still just me and you?
Or is there somebody new?
Should I pack up my heart and go away?
Tell me… What else can I say?
I didn’t see this comin’,
If in fact it’s here at all;
You know I tried to pay attention all along;
But I won’t ever know for sure,
Unless you just give me a call;
You’ve got to let me know where things went wrong…
So…
(CH)
Take a minute or two,
To tell me what to do…
Gimme a clue if you want me to stay…
Is it still just me and you?
Or is there somebody new?
Should I pack up my heart and go away?
Tell me… What else can I say?
BR:
If all we have are memories,
Of what it was we used to be,
Just say so…
And I’ll go…
But you’ll always go with me…
First just…
(CH)
Take a minute or two,
To tell me what to do…
Gimme a clue if you want me to stay…
Is it still just me and you?
Or is there somebody new?
Should I pack up my heart and go away?
Tell me… What else can I say?
140
A whole message in one line,
140 characters to say it all -
Communication for the modern age,
Poetry for the twenty-first century.
Words pared down to the bones,
So make them all count,
Share your poems with the world -
Post on-line and watch them fly.
Our last communique
tempestuous and writhing with the agony
of a too short message.
For within that spanse
expectations hang nigh,
floating and weaving,
sputtering and spoiling;
Words losing sight of themselves,
drifting further and further into static.
Dialogue, dear precious conversation,
confined within that delicate prison.
Pick up.
My words would truer find your ears were
your ears listening.
Pick up.
This unholy ringing in my ears leaves my breath
baited.
Pick up and speak to me.
Walking up to the checkout counter
I see the man of my dreams
My heart flutters and I have to catch my breath
as I watch that perfect smile turn to face me
My mouth opens to speak
but nothing comes out
My eyes dart all over him
taking him in
trying to find something to say
But the rest of him is just as perfect as that smile
Words continue to fail me
Fear and attraction
I pull my hair behind my ears
I adjust my purse on my shoulder
and scratch the back of one leg with the foot of the other
I open my mouth to speak to him again
but still nothing comes
You know what I’m saying?
Oh, Talking Stick! Sacred to
my Native American friend
Why? Have you withheld your
power
To teach respect and be
tolerant of my point of view
The Eagle Feather
blinds
The Owl Feather
deceives
The Deer Skin
chafes
Rabbit has
tiny ears
The Spirits of the Wind
flee
Please
tell me.
Clearly I’m off to a late start, but I’ll give it a whirl anyway
Here goes nothing:
Prayer
I speak out hollowly
Not considering that You hear.
My mind fails to conceive the distance,
Yet You birthed this infinite intimacy.
You speak from eons past
In this moment
Of days to come
Where Your presence already hovers.
The communication lapses,
My self-righteous words foolishly satisfied
To echo in their own stony corridors.
They die away, exhausted,
And still Your words remain.
To Argue
with a cat is pointless.
They thump their tail
with passion over stale
politics. And have
a religion all their own.
They chirp and purrow
and talk until you stalk
off, give up, run out the door.
To argue with a cat
is pointless because they
have a language all their own.
Don’t tolerate the chirps
and burps from their
human subordinates.
The Final Journey
I’ve followed you around the world
More times than I can count
We’ve searched through ancient ruins
And lazed on modern beaches
We’ve scaled the highest mountains
And dived to the ocean floor
We’ve crossed burning desert sands together
And even swum the English Channel
Together we’ve experienced the world
Never leaving the other behind
But now you’ve taken your final journey
You went ahead without me
For an experience I cannot share
You’ve left me here, alone
So while I wait, prepare a place
I’ll join you in a little while
04/01 – communication poem
Hi Hello!
Hi Hello!
Who’s the fellow?
It’s me, you know!
Didn’t really know how
To say it here and now
Bent like a violin bow
Flinch through my brow
Holding on the bough
Think I am gonna go
Crazy to allow
I’m the one that follow
Him through, although
I never know him, no!
How did I happen to stow
This silly phone though
How would I know?
When all look alike, for all I know
It was just mine, you know
Anyhow here we go
Quid pro quo
I’ve got to undergo
This dumb show
So, hi hello
Its me, you don’t know!
THE LETTER
I knew at once, the delicate pink space
the thin spidery lines, like living black lace
spreading across the thin parchment
Even though it had been years
I still knew the slant of her hand
I could see the touch of her fingers
I swear I could even smell her perfume
Her throaty laughter rose from the paper
And pierced my heart, like an arrow from hell
I could see the sweep of her long black hair
as it fell over her pale shoulder
the look in her dark eyes, the amusement
that fell from her full lips as she told me
she didn’t love me, had never loved me
I felt the pain anew as my trembling hands
tore open the seal on the thin envelope
she and my only brother whispered in my ear
fool, such a fool, how could you not see
what all others knew, what you knew
but would not see, could not see
Now the thin black letters rose up
and choked my throat with unshed tears
my heart shattered into a million pieces
my brother, my betrayer was dead
JANICE KUYKENDALL
APRIL 1, 2012
Beep
Please leave a message after the tone
A message is rarely left
I, as owner of this number
Promise not to disregard it
I will listen carefully
To what you tell me in a stutter
A long monologue
I can’t call you back
You’ll forget to leave a number
Makes you nervous, a recording
Or I’ll listen to your phone
Going click-beep-beep-beep
And delete the message, irritated
Why did you bother to call, then?
I am intrigued by the conversations that have never been should someone have answered. Nice use of onomatopoeia.
I tried to talk
The words just would not come.
I sent an e-mail
But it bounced.
I tried to call you
But you had changed your number.
I tried to write
But the letter came back undelivered.
So why did you turn up on my doorstep
Five days before my wedding?
COUMMICATION
MY Dear Friend, you are…
So many many miles away….
Was it yesterday or a hundred days ago
when I last felt your hand in mine,
gazed into your eyes and heard
whispered endearments?
So many many miles away….
While saturating my thoughts,
would that you inundated my space,
then the sun would shine brighter,
the birds sing sweeter and the
day be overall delicious.
So many many miles away…
Across deserts, mountains
and deep chasms.
Across missunderstandings,
regrets and tears.
Across oceans, across glacers.
Across what might have been.
So many many miles away…
If I close my eyes
and make believe,
would the miles,
could the miles,
melt away?
4/1/2012 MMT
Thanks Melissa, Misk, Sharon, and Michael for your kindness.
Silence
Silence is not golden, but black
Black as a moonless night
A cold and empty room
Echoing a lonely heartbeat
In the absence of comfort
Understanding, compassion
A disease that infects those
Once open and alive
Who broke the silence
Once too many times
And like a mirror, given
Many years bad luck
A self imposed affliction
That guards the heart and soul
When words do more to harm
Than heal
Caren E. Salas
Near Your Birthday, Grandpa, 36 Years After Your Death
To you who are an angel if angels exist.
To you whose colored pencils filled my coloring books,
whose painting of cossacks remains unfinished,
who taught me to read, who decorated my first cake
and a cake in the shape of a lamb every Easter.
You, the coconut and jelly bean eyes that weep
every color, one for each thing I learned,
one of each feeling I’ve known,
one for the shield from straps, hands, board and words
that would have undone if it weren’t for your watercolors,
brushes, crayons and feathers, your letters
and love poems, hard shells from a Philippine beach
that protected you from the Japanese,
brought you home for too short a time.
What a wonderfully sweet tribute. Nice piece.
Maria
My curb, where the dirt-road ends and a smooth
avenue begins, nature walk, where leaves hang by green
and violet threads: your branches bloom with usefulness.
You are the crackle of early life ignited by memory,
the indoor voice of childhood, the scurry of time
wiggling in the gym-shoe of adolescence, my
scholarship to the school of dreams. We grew
up, and for a while, out, like silk split from its web.
But we moved back to each other’s in, and a feathery
wind enabled a mission. The tapestry holds
its darn. Sun-kiss on my window, steady rainfall,
bonfire drawing those close at hand to listen and be
heard, today the tree of life observes the birth
of our calling as sisters, and your earthly debut.
I hope you have more love than you can carry
within the skirt of your heart.
Richly powerful and evocative….kudos!
Thank you, Juanita. I appreciate it.
Haiku: Being Back.
Kick off your shoes; flick
off your hat; tell the dead rose
you meant to come back.
I just found out about this challenge tonight, so I’m catching up. Lately my poems are sparse and simple, trying to capture a moment.
April 2, 2012.
she said she couldn’t understand me
“an accent?”
“no
“I just talk too fast”
“but your friends can understand you, right?”
I smiled
Wow… time has flown by, and I almost missed out on another PAD sorry this one is late..
Pretentious Slumber
radiating heat
skin barely touching
the brush of a knee
calves whispering
neither of us moving
trite affectations plus
caustic libations
equal pretentious slumber
minutes multiply
entropic silence
becoming deafening
defining the status
of what wouldn’t be us
- John Pupo
There once was a lady from Milay,
Who texted all night and all day.
Her cell bill so intense, she couldn’t recompense.
Now she cries all night and all day.
(Just could not be serious today)
Iris
Thx Rosemary. Glad to give you a chuckle. I’m not recognizing your name, but then I have a terrible memory for names. This is my fourth year in the PAD neighborhood, and I’m never prepared! Happy to know you.
I Mailed it in Mexico
I mailed it in Mexico,
a postcard about
the dust dry valleys, winding
mountain roads,
and a sea too rough to swim.
At sunset, we walked
in the shallows while
the surfers tossed and
twisted on the breaking waves–
you were almost sucked under
while on the sand,
women sold strings of beads
and a horse galloped by.
That wasn’t in the postcard,
which I dropped in a red mailbox
with little hope that
it would find its way home.
End of Discussion
By
Arrvada
Do it
No
Yes
No
A single syllable argument
Me myself and I make
Again and again
I argue with myself
Do I or don’t i
Does it really matter
How much is at stake?
Perhaps nothing
Perhaps everything
At least my insanity
If I don’t shut up!
And I wake myself, screaming.
The night terrors are bulls running beneath a sagging balcony
held together by paint chips and dead termites.
I huddle, balled up against the chipping brick, squealing
with the strained hinges at the throttle of hooves. But then you,
delicious as summer raspberries, indolent as a sun drunk tiger,
lean against the crumbling railing, all your bones
adjusting effortlessly to the sway like a fox trot. Deadly nimble, you smoke cigarettes
with strange and stale grandfather names like Winston, Chesterfield,
and the confidence of a film star before cancer came along.
Through the slats, cattle run in a braided rope of bodies,
A tight and desperate line of muscle and sweat, hooves compacting the sand,
grinding scattered syringes and bloodied cotton balls into shards
and a frothy tan soup of scat. I’m too scared to grab onto your
calm extended hand or your belief that my bulls are imaginary
as candy petaled roses, and nothing I can say
will draw you away from that edge, toward safety. So we stand
unmoving, trapped frozen in the glass bubble of a protracted minute
despite stampeding time. We share
a cooperative paralysis, each wishing we could hold the other
down, to protect them from their vaporous delusions
Wow, I have dreams like this too. Great imagery, great lines. Well done!
“I Offer my Broken Heart to a New Love”
Here, hold this –
do you like it? I made it
for you. I hope you like it.
Does it fit in your hand?
Funny, isn’t it, it fits
in mine, too. Roll it around in your fingers.
See the scars, the nicks? From testing, is all, no one else
but you and I
have ever even held it.
For you, it will be smooth as a promise.
I made it orange, like the sun;
I made it flash to help you
smile. Did it stop? Drop it, go ahead,
and the stars will shine inside
again. I hope you like it.
The equator is just a starting point
but if you lay your hand across that seam
you can control the world.
My heart is like a ball. Let me roll it to you.
RIVER GUITAR
Stones we had leftover
from the hike, boulder-hopping
as far as we could upstream.
Weary as a mummy –
suddenly
wide awake in the dark.
Scraps of song from somewhere
years and trails away,
wind howling things gone-by.
How many miles
from roadhead, take me back
country, forgotten fingers
on the strings of a guitar. Fingertip
voices of wind.
The voice whispering
almost human words was river,
or wind, a friend dead
in the moonlight. Midnight
making sense of darkness
translating a star.
Love this, I can totally picture the scene and I’m there.
As I sit and reflect
I decided to write this letter to you
who I use to reject.
I can admit
Its not that I doubted you
but to be honest
I didnt know much about you.
The more I searched for your meaning
The more I realized
I may be searching in vain.
Now I realize that the very window to my heart was stained
But now I have a different view
because what I have experienced the past 5 years
feels so brand new
So its to you, love, that I write this letter
and my hope is this
that I continue to experience you forever.
You look at me sadly from across the table
And tell me that you love me
Yet you ask me to change as if I were easily able
Why is it so hard to love me, for just me.
You are saying our communication needs to be better
yet here we are, talking, why can’t you see?
I listen as you share on how I could be stellar
Why is it so hard to love me, for just me.
You continue to talk and express all your concerns
Sharing the changes you need so you can be happy with me.
I nod and agree to try as my nervous stomach churns,
And sadly give up hope of ever being loved just for me.
If it’s April, it must be April PAD Challenge. Of course, I’m here late as always, but I have been looking at the array of poetry here and so happy to see so many familiar names. I’ve been devoting a lot of my time to prose this year, but I couldn’t resist doing this too.:) Here is my attempt:
Bills
They lay in their glassine envelopes
taunting me with their placid outsides
When I gather them from the tiny metal
box where they are placed I have hope
that some of those envelopes will be
a chance for happiness and not the
numbing sameness of monotonous
figures depleting my small store of
cash for the glory of corporations
Cryptic
You talk to me by throwing a bicycle down in my path
Or showing me that what I think is a shooting star
is a plane falling out of the sky.
And so I know my fear.
Past and Future.
You tell me something
by placing a harlequin jester
there in my living room.
He takes me by his velvet-gloved hand
And pulls me, gently.
I don’t know what you mean
by that
but I think
it has to do
with now.
At first I was disappointed at the format, but then I realized it is easier to read with double spacing. Maybe I can read poems without as much white space, since it is provided. Hooray! I will do what I can, but must not be careless with my “tempus”, or it will “fugit” for sure. I especially enjoyed Chorespeak. I think that was its name. Acts of service must be your love language.
Correction:
Unspoken
Dark lashes beckon
Moist lips silent – An arched brow!
Ravished heart thunders
When you do without, you look within
What is this life I’m picturing?
What is this life I’m living?
As I continue to fight in this losing battle
I remain faceless
I used to lose myself in your eyes
Now more and more I start to lose my soul
We used to be in love
I remember when we were happy
When you and me equaled us
Now all of a sudden you’ve changed into a man I hardly recognize
I used to adore you
Now I’ve come to fear you
My heart no longer beats
And I just happen to be eight months pregnant
As I stand in the mirror
Covering up another bruise
I wonder if Cover girl can conceal my frayed pride
Or my emotional scars
I wonder how many blows to the head will it take for you to kill me
I’m not afraid of dying
If anything, I’m afraid of living
Afraid of existing
Afraid of leaving
Afraid of starting over
Afraid for my son
Maybe I can be reincarnated
Maybe I can come back as a bird
And learn how to fly
Wow, powerful. I hope it’s not autobiographical.
Mirror Mirror
The mirror grabs my eyes
I see a flaw on my face,
acne at my age, “oh noooooo”.
As I look in the mirror,
I see my 14 year-old face staring back at me
acne in the same spot and a couple others.
As I stare at the mirror,
my mother’s face can be seen as she
looks into the room as she is going down the hall.
She puts down the items in her arms
and looks at me, What wrong she says?
“Mom how can I go to school looking like this?”
“We can fix this up so it is hardly noticeable”
She came back with her hands full of makeup
and brushed a little of one then another on my
face and sure enough it was hard to see.
The whole time she was fixing up my face
she talked to me. “This is exactly what models,
singers and actors do to make them look like stars.
See you are like them, they have skin problems too,
almost all teenagers do, but you will out grow this soon.
There you look fine. You have no idea how beautiful you are.
Someday soon, the guys are going to be wanting touch
and caress this face of yours.”
She gives me a hug and light kiss on my forehead.
She starts to take her make up and leave
I see her back in the mirror.
“Mom, don’t go yet, I miss you so much.
So often I wish you were here to see the kids,
share in our lives and to just talk to when I
feel overwhelmed.”
She turns and looks right at me
“When you need me just look in the mirror
and if there is no mirror handy,
look inside there are many nooks and crannies
where I reside.
Hi all! Good to be back this year! Sorry I’m a day late with this one, but I thought about it yesterday and then got busy with spring cleaning and such. Looking forward to this month! Here’s my poem for April 1st:
PERSISTENCE
Rather than struggle
Have faith
As there is always a way to push past
The obstacles
And weather the distance that you
Feel lies between you and
Finality.
You do your poem?
No, not yet–what about you?
I am still thinking…
READING POETRY IN IOWA
Iowa is green with summer.
There was a thunderstorm yesterday.
When dusk comes, the fireflies will all come out.
Now it is supper-time.
The farm-wife stands on the back-porch.
She rings a little, silver bell.
In a far-off field, her young son lies on his back.
He is drowsy and half-dreaming.
An open book has fallen from his hands to the earth.
II.
The poet said she was young and beautiful,
in a green field, when she wandered far away from her mother
to pick purple flowers, fragrant with springtime.
She pulled a beautiful one up by its roots
and a horse’s head emerged after it, then a chariot,
as she stumbled back from the pit opening before her feet.
A dark king stood in the chariot—
he seized her by the hair and dragged her away,
underground, where she could barely breathe.
The flower-girl wandered aimlessly for years, listening
to her mother weeping in her dreams,
sitting by dark rivers, always thirsty.
If ever she escaped the darkness, it seemed
she was always dragged back again in winter,
and she forgot again the sunlit upper-world.
One day, a white woman crossed the Acheron—
she’d been bitten by a snake on the heel,
and she’d died on her wedding day.
Her memories of light were faint,
but in her dreams she heard the singing
and the harp of her distant husband.
The flower-girl and the white woman held hands in the dark
and told one another not to be afraid. They fed one another
the pomegranate seeds of forgotten joy.
III.
The poet rests his face in his hands.
(This was a long time ago.)
The book is finished, but who will read it?
He is tired and does not think
he can pray. If he prays, his prayer
has no words.
His heart beats in rhythm to the memory
of a psalm he read in translation:
all my fountains are in you.
Jane Beal
Just beautiful, Jane.
Thank you so much, Sara.
Sorry I’m late.
I hit all the red lights.
There was construction on every other thought.
And I got a flat idea.
However, I’ve now abandoned my vehicle
and am ready to catch up to
the rest of the party, as I flop along
in my sparkly diphthongs
Unspoken
Dark lashes beckon
Moist lips silent – An arched brow!
My ravished heart thunders
Dear Muse,
I write to nothing and on nothing:
a memory of unattainable smile,
of the bulls I bled at the feet
of your novel conversation.
Muse, I miss your introductions.
There is nothing new, now,
everyone here reads the same words,
thinks the same thoughts.
Muse, I miss your confusion.
I am left to confuse myself,
blindly follow my own line
in and out of labyrinthine wants.
Once I thought to thank you,
send you my opus, scrawled
in your name and full
of allusions meant for us alone,
but then I realized how odd
that would seem,
out of context, perhaps
even inappropriate.
Besides, there is no opus—
but if, Muse, you write
just a shadow in return, I will
follow into the open.
Well, I was thinking about doing this challenge and the NaPoWriMo challenge this month, but found I was stuck with “write a triolet” there, so I combined that idea with the prompt here and came up with this, but obviously my trioleting skills are rusty. I will also perhaps post some of my stuff on my blog this month at quillfyre.wordpress.com.
End Notes
These words must say what there is left to say
to end this thing that changes love to hate.
At start who’d know that we would see this day
these words must say what there is left to say?
Such trite regrets and sorrow and dismay
we’ve left so little now it is too late.
These words must say what there is left to say
to end this thing that changes love to hate.
Carol A. Stephen
Here’s my Day 1 poem…pardon the late entry…I’m a weekend worker.
Memo to Myself
Did you think it would be delivered
by a person in brown clothes?
Effortless Attainment,
no heavy lifting for you.
Brown is not my best color
and beside, I’m tired.
More likely a grey-haired crone
will grace your door with
that very special package,
long overdue, forgotten
in the junk mail.
Cookies
I bake you chocolate chip cookies
despite your anti-sweet tooth. So I
lower the glycemic index with almond
flour, halve the sugar, use 72% cocoa
chips instead of semi-sweet. I remake
my favorite recipe into a bittersweet
desert to lure you in, to acknowledge
we’ve passed beyond the honeymoon
and into the hard work of marriage.
Ha! Amen!
The Call
Email
Facebook
Myspace
Twitter
Cell phone
Home phone
Fax
Letter
Telegraph
Interstate
Train
Car
Just walk over
It’s way too far
I’ve called
I’ve written
Sent emails and more
I even sent the sheriff
To knock on your door
It’s been so long
What’s wrong with your head
Why won’t you call me
It could be you’re dead
Hope not
In fact
I hope you’re okay
But, you’ve got me worried
So call me today
PS:
If it’s so
You no longer breathe air
Disregard my ranting
Just know
That I care
Wait for the Beep
Every time I hear that beep
I’m wishing it was you
“Hey, please pray for me”
That wasn’t you, but I pray for her
I pray for you
“Okie Dokie”
Reminds me of you
But it’s not you
“I’ll be ready”
I wish you were ready
To talk to see me, to make plans together
“Sweet buy!”
It’s the everyday conversation I miss
It’s knowing a little of your life
That I miss so
“Yes, have a blessed day”
Oh, to just hear from you
Would bless my day
“Okay, sounds like a go”
Nothing seems like a go for us
“Yes, I can’t wait to see you”
I think this always
I can’t wait to see you
Or hear from you
But I wait
I wait
Miss Communication
Thought he knew the answer
Left with a skinned knee
And a diamond in his pocket
Right on the money, Dr. P.
Ouch!
Great imagery in just a few lines. This one has stuck with me since reading it for the first time the other day, and I wanted to come back and tell you how much I enjoyed it.
Unopened
Communication breakdown
Occurs when
Messages, phone and email remain unopened.
Messages remain unopened because your messages buried
Under the pretense of work can go unnoticed. But
Never opened messages only multiply.
I cannot put off the inevitable. I pick up the phone to
Call, put the phone down and bury myself under bed spread and doubts.
Again and again I put off calling you, knowing the rip
tide of family will pull me out to sea and rocks that smash.
I cannot call and I cannot not call.
Only time will tell which
Notice I will answer or not.
Late with chiming in here. New to WD, but looking forward to participating.
“I know, right?!”
“Yep, for sure.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, okay, dear.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely!”
“I love you too, bunches!”
We sit staring at one another,
others stunned by our pleasurable silence.
Who needs words?
DO NOT SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD
Hauntingly flaunting there verity,
searching for clarity or at the least
finished business. A chance
to cross over unimpeded. They’ve
begged and pleaded for some relief
but your belief in the paranormal
has you talking. You are walking
through dark and abandoned places
seeing faces in the woodwork,
being a jerk to ambivalent apparitions
under the strangest conditions.
There are footsteps down the hall,
a distant call from beyond
the next room. There is no doom
in death that the living can’t provide.
There is a little voice inside your head.
Is it the voice of the dead?
Just don’t talk back, or they’ll be back.
The ball of fur hit me hard
It was full of memories
Left in a shed of the past
Where all we had was smiles
Snuggled in embraces we loved
And the body fragrances we lost
The coffee ring mingles in mind
Questions left unanswered hurt
Like the reasons in fake gel
Even if you moved on, I stand
Seeking the person I was
When you were my only reality
Today I send you these words
Wanting you to drain me away
In troubles or smiles I gather
With memories you left in basket
Filled with emotions only mine.
Love this!
Dear Moosehead,
Who the hell are you to
talk to me about communication?
Like you ever write back! Numbskull!
Do me a favour communicate with your
Harpies – they are giving me a rash!
Talking of communication – somebody
speak to that bullpen, will they? This win one –
lose one season start is giving another rash!
Games on at the sports bar – see you at seven.
Bring money for wings.
Scratchily yours
Ringo the Howler
YES!
ringO! ringO! ringO!
Yea!!! He’s back, and communicatin’ as well as ever!
THE MINISTER’S WIFE WRITES A SERMON
You call this timbered space
a church, yourselves
congregants communing
as one to find a One
but behind your crooked
smiles, your hoary handshakes
stand adultered hearts
and gluttonous envies
and this—
this I would utter to you,
Judas friends: before
you throw words my way
peer into your chalice,
find what reflects
what shines brightest
and name it: opposite.
But here I am impotent,
here I stay, stultified,
made small
under the bell jar.
***
Happy PAD everyone! Looking forward to poeming with all, and happy to see so many familiar folks. Thank you Robert, and congratulations on 5 years! Peace, Linda S-W
Nothing Left to Say
The muse was caught
The muse was boxed
The muse was buried
deep in the Earth
and forgotten…
…it struggled for a while
but finally lay still
and quiet…
…mulling
pondering,
contemplating.
It had come as a complete surprise
that it was no longer required
almost as much of a surprise
as the fact that it had nothing left to say.
So it lay there still
dormant
waiting
to wake in spring
and burst forth
like a fresh new bloom
stretch to the sky
and try
try
try
once more.
Iain
What is this “posting too quickly” nonsense? HMMM already feeling put off…
I’m so glad you’re participating, Iain. The “posting too quickly” only happens at busy times, but to be safe, I always copy my comment/message before hitting the button.
This is really enjoyable to read.
He’s back! I’m lovin’ it!
My Day 1, though I’m delayed a tad. I hope to be on time from Day 2.
Born in me, by Leo.
I’m new here and marvelling at the beauty of everyone’s poems!
Posting again because yesterday it said awaiting moderation, and today it’s disappeared.
Untitled
I used to be articulate, lucid, precise.
I conjured burning metaphors, my mouth bursting spice.
I split your hairs so carefully, rebraiding very fine.
My castles towered in the air, straight in every line.
Now words falter from my teeth
Paler than my thought
Like the dress delivered from the online catalogue
They fall short
My treadmilled brain can’t lift its head
I’ve covered many miles but my soul is bled.
The rust I’ll scrape off from my tools
Polish to a shine
And the first words that I need to speak
Are mine to me.
I loved, “my mouth bursting spice”, “castles towered in the air” “words falter” “the dress delivered from online..” “my treadmilled brain” Good job
I love the line “Like the dress delivered from the online catalogue
They fall short.” How often my words fall short recently.
Day 1 – a communication poem
He drops in unexpectedly.
To cheer me up? Keep me posted?
To tell me he and the missus
are doing just fine?
My heart skips as
in his jewelled blue suit
he bounces on the cream brick
paving, tail like a wagging finger.
I can’t help myself:
Hullo Mr Wren! I call through
the window.
At which he hop-steps-and jumps
off human territory
onto the low branches of a gum tree.
I love sharing this joyous scene.
A sweet visitor — sure to make me smile! I like this Jaywig!
I know that you dream of travel
Of seeing the ocean, of feeling hot
Sand between your toes, of camping in the forest
Underneath 100 year old redwoods, their lush
Green canopies yearning to the sky, of seeing Paris
From the top of the Eiffel Tower, of walking across
The golden gate bridge, watching sea lions sunbathing
Of walking down the streets in Barbados
Eating roasted corn and drinking Guiness
But there are Zombies out there and
you are as safe as you can be within the Enclave
Okay I was not expecting that. Love it.
Ditto!
By his fetid breath
heavy with petulance
and the unfulfilled hunt
i know my cat sits next to me
I have cats
and have sat
where you sat.
Smell and
presence are powerful communicators.
http://lanijo.com/poetry/leave-message
Hello, you’ve reached me
Well, not me, just a part of me
My voice on the phone
Your heart on the line and
I’m sorry I can’t take your call.
I’m not in, or I’m in and not
answering because, well
the reasons are too
numerous to mention
but I’m glad you called
I’m glad we’ve connected
If only for a moment
If only in my dreams
so please leave a message
after the beep.
Oh so many ways to communicate and as you said reasons/seasons to talk or not.
Good job.
Unformed
Heavenly Father,
In this new month
habits could trump thinking,
and days whiz past
without conscious thought.
Former of the once-
formless earth, help me
form this month’s actions
with your priorities mind.
Sheryl Kay Oder
we sing and yell
say never tell but always
do we can’t compel
ourselves to hush
to not say much is
out of touch with
who we are
we facebook, tweet
and update all
for all must know
our daily doings
a fascination
with our lives
ourselves we delve
into the details
like staring at entrails
as though they hold
the secrets coldly
we are just immune to
world around
outside means nothing
when you’re social
bound to laptop, cellphone
tablet, players
take your pick of any flavor
you be the star
of your own little drama
just have a look
it’s a me-orama
Well Said
Communication
I could whisper from far, far away
but you might think I’m trying to trick you
What trick is this, you’d ask,
but couched as a whisper I can’t hear
I could shine a light on my point
or I could just point at the string
of conversations we’ve had and trust you
to find the light’s shine all on your own
Or I could string you along
so that you’d wish for a truth
that you could smell or taste,
or pet or paw as if it were a shape
to be held, when you know the smell
of subterfuge and the taste of bitterness,
angry that I’ve treated you as a pet,
smacked your paw with a rolled newspaper
And then I light a cigarette from my pack,
blowing smoke signals at you,
trying to pack as much information
in every motion that I make,
the shape of every syllable and sound,
the wish I breathe as I shape this poem
I understand this one very well!
Wonderful, Richard.
Dear Mr. Frost, or may I call you Jack . . .
Where’ve you been hanging these past few months?
I only had to fire up the snow blower once. It coughed
miserably, neglected and forlorn, before turning over
and throwing some slush onto the brown lawn.
Where was your wind, keen as new razor blades?
Where were your white-out blizzards? Black ice?
Your snow banks shouldering up to the eaves?
Your crystal clear sleeves on twigs and branches?
Were you maybe tending glaciers, making sure
they didn’t calve icebergs into the shipping lanes.
Or traffic-cop shepherding migratory birds, addled
by strangely warm winds, the slipping magnetic field.
That weird cold snap in the Azores in February,
temps dropping down into the 60s, was that you?
Catching rays on a sandy beach, trading white sand
for white snow, your magenta Aloha shirt freezing
to your frigid back and sternum. Listen up, Jack.
Come your 4 billionth birthday, 23 December 2012,
you better be back on the job. Ringing the moon with ice.
Scissoring each and every snowflake into glittery lace.
Robert, sorry. Posted an old version. Will do again. –V.
A Voicemail to My Muse
I’ve been trying to reach you all day,
and you haven’t returned my calls.
You’d think it’d be easier for us to connect
but sometimes you’re so far out of reach
you might as well be on another planet.
Call me back. I really need to speak with you.
Dear Mr. Frost, or may I call you Jack . . .
Where’ve you been hanging these past few months?
I only had to fire up the snow blower once. It coughed
miserably, neglected and forlorn, before turning over
and throwing some slush onto the brown lawn.
Where was your wind, keen as new razor blades?
Where were your white-out blizzards? Black ice?
Your snow banks shouldering up to the eaves?
Your crystal clear sleeves on twigs and branches?
Were you maybe tending glaciers, making sure
they didn’t calve icebergs into the shipping lanes.
Or traffic-cop shepherding migratory birds, addled
by strangely warm winds, the slipping magnetic field.
That weird cold snap in the Azores in February,
temps dropping down into the 60s, was that you?
Catching rays on a sandy beach, trading white sand
for white snow, your magenta Aloha shirt freezing
to your frigid back and sternum. Listen up, Jack.
Come your 4 billionth birthday, 23 December 2012,
you better be back on the job. Circling the moon with ice.
Scissoring each and every snowflake into shimmery lace.
by Vince Gotera
Hello everyone, I know it’s been a couple years now that I have participated here, but recently the muse has began calling again and I never refuse her to write, so I’m hoping to get these gears turning once more to enjoy another awesome April of poeming, great to hear so many familiar voices here, Thanks for the opportunity and all the effort that makes this possible Rob!
Epidermal Truths
Anguish is an easy word
to utter through the mouth,
but becomes more difficult
to pronounce in mechanical
tongues of tightening knuckles
and spasming muscles beneath,
and resonates longer with closed
eye lids and the contracting brows
that devastate diaphrams in breadth.
ON THE WINDOW
Bleary eyed and straining to see
through
rivulets of rainwater around fingerprints
left
The five fingertip window press steamy
lingering
a love farewell imprinted slowly washing
away
when exactly did your kiss become perfunctory
leaving
me yearning for the deeper connect of old song filled
times
I waited by the window in the dusky evenings watching for your headlights
curving
into the gravel drive, light skimming over my fresh scrubbed face you
striding
up the walk not down and away, knuckles rapped playfully in
those
times of old when I had my nose pressed against the pane
breathing
heavily when verbal communication failed
touch
no longer ignited passion you became aloof
unreachable
your notes, further and fewer between void of passion
you have no key now and I stopped lighting candles
a smudged fingerprint taped
rumpled
piece of scrap paper, ink running in the
rain
“sorry I missed you”
Gathered in my tiny fist
balled tightly I lay on my pillow
waiting
for sounds of the crunching gravel
lights
to shine over my bedroom wall
pinging
pebbles to bounce off my window beckoning
me
to come and play and dance and sing with you
again
in the rain what are you trying to say to
me
I’ve become lost in the translation.
I gave up posting comments because of them landing in the wrong place and getting the message about posting too quickly. So I was going to write a list of my favorites but that proved useless too since everyone is writing my favorites today. So great job, everyone!
Understand completely, Connie!
Today’s News about Tori Stafford
You read too far
you knew
you should have looked away
and now it plays
over and over
in your head
so loud
you cannot hear
to think
buzzing, ringing, crashing
over and over
a loop
innocence
violence
described in detail
combine
to create a
sick
pit
in your gut
turn the page
quickly now
now
THE DAY SHE LEFT
the day she left
she woke to his lips on her neck
his love tracing
wordless shivers
that she recognized even through the
mask of sleep
he danced his love in slow motion
leaving all words
for another to sing
as his body guided hers through
their closing time
she lay across from his eyes
saw the beginning
and the end there
and all the in-betweens that had
brought them to now
fear built a dam behind her heart
but his encircling arms
communicated
a universe of possibilities
that spoke loudly of hope
even then,
the day she left
Crazy Love
You said you didn’t
Want to talk about it dear
And yet if we didn’t
How would you ever hear
The very thing I need
So awfully much to say.
If you think to hide from me
On this our wedding day.
This dialogue from 30 years ago
Still rings the empty knell
Of words left unspoken
A dully thumping bell.
And yet our lives have been
Full and joyous too,
Your silences never kept me
From crazily loving you.
hey dave
It’s been too many dead ringers since
serious words puddled in my throat
seeking your ear way north of Richmond
while I fretted about whether spilling
selected personal details down your shirt
makes sense.
Everything important starts
in common circumstance, then slips slopes
to land seat-first in a steady boat-
the point being thinking about
just talking with you
grounds me most days
Wonderful!
Good one!
If you take a tick away
from the clock, then you’re
left with a tock with no
rhyme nor reason to go
on with a time
who turned its hands
from healing to reminding
that there is no one to
click to anymore.
the sinking sun
signals
suppertime
for a chattery
chipmunk.
slowly but soulfully
he seeks
a fallen acorn
or better–
a slight spill
from the feeder
of a sweet songbird,
who notices
a striped stranger
surveying
the scene.
she shimmies and
at once, a shower
of seed decorates the
soil below.
one savory surprise,
after all,
could be the beginning
of a spicy,
spring
fling.
Your last message
revised and sent @ 10pm April 1
was garbled.
Something about
lost keys; misplaced sermon notes
Your tone
tired, clear
found me,
wanting to retrieve them
and you.
But where
to begin…
sweet ..
tone says lot more than words at times…
Meaning
If I say spring think of falling
twigs, the winter kill we’ll rake in April.
If you say April think of pulling
off your shirt and making love all night.
If I say night think of seeing
stars and moonlight in the harbor.
If you say harbor think of holding
back a river from the ocean.
If you say ocean think of waiting
for an answer to a question.
If you say question think of telling
me how hard and that it’s final.
If I say final think of nothing
and that silence says it all.
Each week, you return to me
with no new words or messages,
each week I welcome still
with open arms,smiling
at the god’s gift
even for time being.
I tell my fears and secrets
in details,shamelessly
to you alone and spaces
that your kisses leave
between my curses
to you,myself and living,
struggling to be free
of either you or the habit
to need, regularly.
The News
(for Carlo)
If we read the news as Dr. Seuss
Some awful whimsy might break loose
Hard to talk of war and crime
In splat foot rhythm and free form rhyme
China, Iraq and then Iran
What rhymes with Afghanistan?
Empty words and fake decorum
Gingrich, Romney and Santorum
Let’s have a night where nightly news is
Read by budding Dr. Seusses
The weather map and traffic jam
Brought to you by Green Eggs and Ham
“Venus & Mars”
She was from Venus;
He was from some other place.
She asked questions and prompted responses.
He stuck to the basics and issued orders.
“It’s getting cool outside, right? Should you maybe take a coat, you think?”
“It’s cold. Take a coat.”
Yep, you got it.
Love the “Venus & Mars” idea with this theme! There is no communication quite like that between a man and woman! Great job Nikki!
I wonder why my posts are going straight to “awaiting moderation.” I posted at 7pm.
Are they sorted out now?
Yes! I posted this before I talked to you. Thanks again for recommending this to me! I have no idea how to write a poem, so tips are welcome!
In order to only post once (since my computer is soooo not communicating quickly enough with the site), I’m going back to the old way of commenting.
It’s great to be together again for another April! Unfortunately, I’m afraid my time will be quite limited for reading/commenting as I love doing. Bummer. But I’m going to try to keep up as best I can.
Today’s favorites are:
Hannah’s “Close Talking”
Immaginealchemy’s “Confession” (I don’t believe I’ve seen your work before. Hoping to see much more!)
Sara McNulty’s “I know just how you feel.”
Kendall A. Bell’s “Dissection.”
JanetRuth’s untitled piece. (Live for the love of it makes another appearance!)
Sharon Ingraham’s untitled piece (how adorable is that!)
Marian V’s “Hands”
Buddah’s “Tips”
Euphrates’ “Things we take for granted”
Walt Wojtanik’s “Whisper Something”
Clauds’s “Five Star” (Wow … so different from you, my friend!)
Everything Jackson!
I must say that I much prefer commenting as you’ve done. The new just creates so many messages!
Your last message
sent @ 10pm April 1
was garbled.
Something about
lost keys; misplaced sermon notes
Your tone
tired, clear
found me,
wanting to retrieve them
and you.
But, alas
where do I
begin.
Frank Faine
UNTOUCHABLE
Dear Dad,
I regret the fact that I missed your passing…
March 20, 2012– 5:20 am
Even though I endured a long and hardy 31 hour trek,
1800 miles non-stop across 8 states without sleep–
I still missed you by three hours.
You were so close, yet so far away,
so untouchable, unreachable.
and now this moment would be unforgettable,
indelibly etched, engraved on my heart
cracked and riven.
You had already made your departure from
“Heaven on earth” as you called it, Arizona.
the moment I received that text and
those words flashed across my cell:
“Dad passed this morning,” was nothing less than Hell on Earth.
Down the 17, through the San Francisco peaks,
across Happy Valley road without a smile,
it seemed like it would never end–
skirting mountain after mountain, I envied their stability,
jealous over their steadfastness,
while I toppled over in anguished tearful tyranny
hemmed in by desert lands parched and deprived
while I lie soused in a sea of hapless emotion…
But I knew it was your time to go.
my only regret is that I wish we could’ve connected more.
Anyways, I love you, Dad.
Wow…
Benjamin, this is so touching, and it touched me deeply. My father passed away when I lived halfway around the earth, and I wasn’t told until after he died. It’s a heartache that shakes a person to the core. Bless, and I hope you find peace.
~ Misky
The pain of loss is a journey still traveled. Well expressed.
Oh, Benjamin, so sorry about this. We know not of the day nor the hour… only that it is inevitable. God Bless You and your family.
Truly Yours
Sincerely meant
Each time we leave
and always exchange
Just a few words:
“We’ll be in touch”
“Oh – for sure”
“Don’t forget – you too”
“Don’t be a stranger”
The best of intentions
fall into disarray
as time slips by
The interconnected
web becomes less so
every day.
S.E.Ingraham
Yes. True. Keeping friendships takes work. Nice poem, S.
So exciting to be n our 5th year! Who woulda thunk it?
Was drawing a blank and then had a coversation with myself…
Compost comfort
The recipe called for a cup of basil
I cut the whole plant
Washing dark green stems
Still fragrant from being
Sliced from their life source
A pang in my chest
Who am I, what gives me the right
To end it’s solar stretch, and
Budding future?
Life is not infinite
I consoled myself
Some day I’ll be great
Compost
Feeding future sprouts
Of green
Primary Lateral Discussion
How do you talk
about something
that moves at the speed
of decay? What about
all those missing
neurons? I’ve caught
a touch of death –
but not to worry, it will
probably be a slow one – I just try
to remember that emptiness
always keeps a few
secrets.
Here is one: I am
losing the use of my legs.
But I’m not complaining;
everyone
is losing something …
What I hate
is that our conversation
revolves around what
is disappearing into dust
as much as what is coming
into being: All
those wobbly things
rolling out
like new horses, eager,
unsteady -
yet ready to outrun
us, like little Secretariats.
Love that last stanza, Dan.
The Kool-aid House On the Block (A doditsu)
If the garage door is down,
My kids cannot play right now.
If the garage door is up,
Bring your smile on in!
Yay, Kool-aid!
Anything with Kool-aid in it and Janet Planet is in . . . garage or not!
And any Janet Planet day is a good day!
Hi Benjamin! *wave, wave, wave*
Pointed Questions
I’d known her for five minutes
and had already seen her breasts—
bare nipples pointed at a sunlit window
as she sat on the floor
mending her shirt.
In that communal house
where every nook bleeds art and the
bookshelves are arranged by color,
I should have known the usual
rules would not apply.
“So what do you do?” I ask.
“Can you ask a more pointed question?” she requests.
And so the game begins.
“Do you work, or…?”
“Can you ask an even more pointed question?”
Her blue eyes appraise me.
“Um, do you have a job?” I flounder.
“More pointed still?”
When I don’t respond, she finally relents:
“Are you asking what I do to make money?”
“Yes,” I say, but what I should have said was
Never mind.
I’ll roll my rounded question away,
bounce it down the pretty steps,
go where people are kind enough
to gently toss it back
instead of puncturing it.
“The Answer to the Question:
Why would you stay up all night to read that book?”
These words on paper
open holes
in the universe.
Allowing me to see
what I never have a hope
of seeing.
Allowing me to believe
that
we are well
and good
and smart enough
to not cause
our own end.
I’m reposting again because I don’t know what it means with the message on the previous post: message is awaiting mediaton. ???
IMPORTANT NOTICE
This may not come as a
surprise to you and by all
appearances it doesn’t but
a burner has been left unattended
one in which if not used may leave one
trying to cook longer than usual and
be left dismayed at the results of
such effort. It is imperative that you
utilize the fourth burner as the results
of not doing so will end all further
processes and will leave us no
other option than to outsource whereby
you will not be involved in the
consumption thereof.
(c) Carolyn Red Bear 2012 all rights reserved
awaiting moderation… sorry… and there it is again.
Communicate
Communicate,
Don’t hesitate,
There’s no debate,
The consequence is too great.
Communicate,
Don’t make me wait,
Set me straight,
Not much longer will I wait.
Communicate,
Opinionate,
Motivate,
Your words alone can penetrate.
Communicate,
Don’t exaggerate,
Just illuminate
The path I should take.
Communicate,
Now –
I’m listening.
Loved this! Straight and to the point and fun!
Thank you – comments appreciated!
You lie
You lie,you lie
the truth about you,you hide
your guilt,your guilt
eats you up inside
you hurt,you hurt
everyone around you
you lie,you lie
till the truth is no longer real to you.
Your such a fool,have no clue
of what you’ve done
or maybe you just don’t care
cause that’s how you’ve won
The games you play,the hearts you break
from your lustful ways.
You just a boy,wantin’ to be a man
but you can’t, cause you lie.
Don’t you hate that teacher
That’s like, “I still have 24 seconds”
Don’t put your stuff away.
My English teacher does that…
#bitchbetrippin
Like I care about Atticus Finch,
Boo Radley, or some other shit.
“Do I have to read this for homework?”
Damn…I got other things to do.
Like spend time on Twitter
Actin’ like I’m bigger, older than I am…
#imgrown
#dontneedtoread
#smokedenoughweed
#bechillin
“What?” “I failed the test?”
Damn…my mom’s gonna kick my ass
#screwed
I like how you incorporate Twitter into the poem, and I think you (unfortunately) capture the way many kids think about their teachers.
Thanks Brian. I actually wrote that poem because of what a student said about me (I am the English teacher) – he actually tweeted the line “Don’t you hate that teacher that’s like we have 24 seconds” #bitchesbetrippin. (Other students told me about it – they tell on each other like crazy!) Rather than get upset, I decided to use it to my advantage
. Glad you enjoyed the poem!
-Cresta
Miscommunication on the Subway
Running late, A jumped onto the train,
the sliding doors closing shut a moment later.
Reading quietly, B stood with his newspaper,
bracing himself against a pole as the train lurched ahead.
A’s arm brushed against B’s newspaper
as he wedged himself into what space there was.
B stretched his foot to the side just enough
so that A stumbled over it.
A muttered %@*^! under his breath.
B shot right back with *#!@&.
A scowled and shoved B backwards.
B snarled and kicked A’s shin.
A spit at B’s face.
B took a bite out of A’s arm.
A pulled out a knife
and plunged it into B’s heart.
And all along, C said nothing.
Hollow
I didn’t understand the meaning
of the sound at first,
the ratta-tat-twack
of beak against wood,
until suddenly I did.
A pileated woodpecker
assaulting a dying branch,
announcing his intention to the bugs inside:
“I’m gonna get you!
I’m gonna get you!”
Uneasily I remember
my father in law’s last email,
announcing to the family
a similar intent.
My hand reaches for the camera,
but the red headed joker eludes my lens,
darting between branch and bud
back to his mate, leaving behind
only his wild laughter.
Closing my eyes
I imagine them, bird and bride,
twining necks over this year’s nest,
crests ruffling one more time.
I wonder,
will there be time for the doctors
to dig out the cancer lingering
in the hollow places of his bones?
Prayer (A dodoitsu)
Communicating through prayer
Is as music to my ears,
Only when I am in tune
With the Still Small Voice.
There she is! Gorgeous, Marie.
Jujitsu! Hi-YA! Wait…what’s it?
LOL!! Wanting more time to not only write, but really read and comment. Hong-Kong Phooey!!
Amen!
“Scenes in Super 8″
Mind if I call you later?
You see, I don’t always know
what to say when you’re here.
But later, when my mind replays
this moment, this dialogue,
casting famous actors in our roles
and shooting scenes in Super 8,
I will know my lines.
Let me practice in front of my
large vanity mirror, timing myself,
perfecting my inflection.
But I can’t call you later, can I?
Now is the only now we have.
Later, we’ll no longer be the two
we are sitting here, captured only
in the constant thread of time.
My makeup will never be perfect,
just as the light will always miss
your face. We’ll never be a movie.
I will never be Clark Gable.
Your thumb stroked the back of my hand
your brown eyes met mine without flinching
and years went by
until
one day I noticed that your hand no longer
reached for mine;
and when did it happen that those brown eyes
began to look quickly away, around, or over my head?
I reach my hand
I look to your eyes
and too late, realize what I have lost.
So poignant! You squeezed my heart.
Incommunicado
Say it, I plead.
Your eyes mist as you stare wordlessly at me then
desperately search the floor for a diversion.
No luck there.
Resigned and with one quick tug,
the band of gold vacates your finger.
Like a silent tear splashes
wastefully on a pair of jeans,
the ring quietly drops to the carpet and
rolls under the couch.
A marriage ends in a whisper of spun gold.
Beautiful and sad!
(I’m posting this again, sorry if it creates multiples. My original post is “awaiting moderation,” yet all these other posts are showing up after I posted mine. I’m still new at this, so let me know if I did something wrong or if that is normal).
This is my first poem ever (at least since writing in grade school when all the lines had to rhyme). But I’m hoping that writing will help me deal with the death of my mentor and best friend. He was the man I used to call every day, share my triumphs and sorrows with. I watched him die slowly as his health faded away. I wrote this just moments ago befor reading what the poem was supposed to be about (I’m new to this, so I wasn’t aware there was a theme when a friend challenged me to write a poem a day), but I think it fits the theme nicely.
It’s about time, something I took for granted before his death and something I feel like stole those daily phone calls from me… The words that often kept me going.
So…. Here goes. My first poem. Please be gentle.
Time.
It’s always fleeting
Yet always increasing.
It takes its toll on our bodies
While it adds and subtracts,
Making us older as the clock runs out.
Time.
It makes a problem worse
But can heal all wounds.
It divides generations,
Brings new ideas to light,
All while repeating the lessons of our past.
Time.
It ticks away in truth and contradiction,
Each passing moment a friend and enemy.
It is both a gift and a curse,
Something we treasure and waste,
A right that is not guaranteed.
Time.
It can change everything or nothing at all,
But only we can decide its fate.
Forms of Communication: Challenge/Response
“You got a problem?”
…dead silence…
BANG. “Not anymore.”
Forms of Communication: PC…sort of
Beep beep squeek blip beep
Squeak beep skreeeeech.
R2 says “hello”
Missing the Note
listening but not hearing
as the the cantor sings, our choir swings
I am striving to make the perfect sound
my ears flll, my nose twitches,
and right before we start the descant
I sneeze
It was the day I moved you noticed me
The day , that day such miles away
I knew then that our love would be
But only if, that I could stay
I write you now as I’ve wrote you then
Near we were , yet far apart it seems
Of hearts that held our love to mend
Now we will only have the others dreams
When you see my note, my last hurrah
Don’t think of tears just remain strong
Though even as the line was drawn
My heart held out for just so long
Pleasantries
Hi how are you?
(please make this brief, I am very busy and I don’t have time for you)
Fine, How are you?
(Really? We’re going to have a conversation about this? How fine we both are?)
Fine
(Happy now? I politely answered your question. Can I get on with my day?)
Goodbye
(Alone. I hear the echo of the ocean)
Wow! 254 entries already! Well, welcome everyone! Once again, I doing something demented and combining two prompts for one poem. I will also be following this site: http://www.napowrimo.net/, whose first prompt of the month is to write a triolet. So here’s my triolet on communication:
Incommunicado
I do not have a Facebook page.
My friends think I live in a cave.
I know we’re in the Info Age
but I don’t have a Facebook page.
Why do I spurn this social gauge?
Well, I think that I’m rather brave.
I do not have a Facebook page.
My friends think I live in a cave.
Love it — combining both prompts – clever!
Ha! You just don’t ever visit the Facebook cave but you seem to keep busy hopping around various other poetry caves… I like the double prompt combo but I am not that brave.
Take pride in your stance! This triolet is spunky
I like this. My husband doesn’t have one either and never will, he says.
LOLOLOLOLOLOL!
Not really sure what happened there, except that I am “posting comments too quickly.” Ha.
This unbridled laughter was supposed to go up under Sharon’s brilliant “dere mama.”
April 1, 2012 – Write a communication poem
I Know Just How You Feel
In our twilight
years of marriage
we are comfortable
with silence, needing
slightest movements
of the body– a turn
of head, a rapid
blinking of the eyes,
wriggling toes,
repositioning
of seated legs,
or sighs softly
escaping in tone
of sounds, known
only to each other–
to determine
the other’s mood
or thought, and when
words are needed
with careful choosing,
or better left unsaid.
Love this, Sara. Thankful to live in this quiet, peaceful place, also. Beautifully written.
Such a lovely rhythm. So true: or better left unsaid
Yeah!
Thanks so much, sisters!
Simple, comfortable, sweet, honest — a long marriage is… all of that.
Casual Convo
”Et cetera.” ”Et cetera? The end
is rarely that expected.” ”Which is why
one says so after.” ”‘Too late,’ you imply?”
”‘Assume’ is what, but since I’m still your friend
in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?” ”Depend
on it.” ”I used to. I might even try
to once again.” ”Oh?” ”Yeah, or not.” ”No lie,
that’s what makes it so easy to pretend.”
”‘Whatever,’ right?” ”‘Whatever.’ Choose your word.
I’m not responsible.” ”By that you mean
you hold against me what you think gets heard
or doesn’t get that close.” ”Don’t make a scene.”
”A scene? A life was more what I’d preferred,
as if one word made sense beyond this screen.”
April 1, 2012
A “Communication” poem
Happy April Everybody! It’s day one and I’m already behind and swamped under. So here’s a dash-off that needs a lot of work, but oh well. When I’m stressed I go for silliness. It’s gotta get better as the month goes along. Right? I’m excited to “see” you all here again. How am I ever going to read all these marvelous poems?
Jargon
It wasn’t my usual station, the step-down from ICU,
Unfamiliar with their protocols, I did the best that I could do.
A nurse monitored the monitors, and I answered the phone;
Suddenly she jumped up and ran to room 301.
And then to my amazement a doctor ran up too,
Something I had never seen – a doctor on the move.
And as he trotted by me he said over his shoulder
“Call a code”, that’s what I heard, and I obeyed his order.
Response was swift and there was quite a large convergence
Of respiratory, cardiac, and pharmacy – in urgence.
The doctor was just sitting there, calm until perturbed
By the sudden conglomeration – “Who called a code?” he yelled.
He’d said “Be Prepared to call” sighed my supervisor;
And you’d think that over time I grew somewhat wiser,
But mistakes, not quite so serious, and at which now I can laugh
Were not so funny to some people, my silly little gaffes.
“This computer keeps asking for the patient’s ID number,
I’ve given it the info but I’m getting nowhere except swamped under.”
“Just because you’re in a hospital don’t forget computer lingo:
It’s saying the numbers are inVAlid, not INvalid!” Bingo.
Then there was the day with an irritated youth,
“I am NOT an SOB!” he wheezed, but I insisted it was truth,
He was SOB, ‘Short Of Breath,’ I clarified,
Then I wrote that he clearly also denied
Using drugs or ETOH. He thought I thought he was lying.
But ‘deny” just means answering ‘no.’ And still I kept on trying.
Then there was the time a patient returned from a test,
I told the nurse “Your patient’s on the floor” and nearly gave her an arrest.
A doctor once asked me who had done something I didn’t do.
“Not I,” I blithely answered, not noticing his face turn blue.
The stricken looks on all the nurses made me pause and ask
“What? What did I say?” “He wondered who WOULD assist him, not who DID,” they gasped.
I left the medical environment eventually,
For something more dramatic, with acceptable hyperbole.
For now I am a writer, and I write anything I choose,
And when I get it all screwed up I blame it on my muse.
Marcia Gaye
A much safer bet! LOL I enjoyed the tale of your medical misadventures.
This is my first poem ever (at least since writing in grade school when all the lines had to rhyme). But I’m hoping that writing will help me deal with the death of my mentor and best friend. He was the man I used to call every day, share my triumphs and sorrows with. I watched him die slowly as his health faded away. I wrote this just moments ago befor reading what the poem was supposed to be about (I’m new to this, so I wasn’t aware there was a theme when a friend challenged me to write a poem a day), but I think it fits the theme nicely.
It’s about time, something I took for granted before his death and something I feel like stole those daily phone calls from me… The words that often kept me going.
So…. Here goes. My first poem. Please be gentle.
Time.
It’s always fleeting
Yet always increasing.
It takes its toll on our bodies
While it adds and subtracts,
Making us older as the clock runs out.
Time.
It makes a problem worse
But can heal all wounds.
It divides generations,
Brings new ideas to light,
All while repeating the lessons of our past.
Time.
It ticks away in truth and contradiction,
Each passing moment a friend and enemy.
It is both a gift and a curse,
Something we treasure and waste,
A right that is not guaranteed.
Time.
It can change everything or nothing at all,
But only we can decide its fate.
Welcome aboard. It is touchingly beautiful. Keep writing!
Thank you so much! Any tips are greatly appreciated!
I will be popping in for prompts, and posting at my blog here: http://henwithpen.com/blog/?m=201204
Happy April!
I like your ravens!
I am posting this again, as I have no idea why my first post of it in “awaiting moderation”. Maybe this one will be again, as well.
A dissection
(after Adrienne Rich)
I know you are reading this poem
in the late hours of a gray morning,
your legs twisted around an uncomfortable
chair, a mug of something hot trailing
small streams of steam off towards the ceiling.
I know you are reading this poem and thinking
it is about you, as you pick apart the nouns,
look for the slightest hint of your habits in
the verbs, and tap your pen feverishly on the
varnished wood of your dining room table.
I know you are reading this poem, eager to
draw lines through stanzas, call something
cliche and tell me that the title is crap.
I know you are reading this poem in bitter
disappointment, knowing that I am being evasive
on purpose, just to throw you off the scent,
to keep you from all that my fingers have held
back while writing it.
I know you are reading this poem and have already
buried its words into brain storage, to use against
me at a later date, when you are standing in the doorway,
screaming frustrations and pointed accusations.
I know you are reading this poem, as it is the only
thing I’ve left behind after the crisp, early April
air has taken my breathing.
Oh! Kendall! I did one of these, too, for Poetry Mixtape. LOVED Adrienne Rich’s poem, and love your take on it!
Love this:
to keep you from all that my fingers have held
back while writing it.
And that last line.
And the title. Perfect. I copped out and called mine “Dedications” like the original.
I love this.
Yes, what a wonderful piece. And good that our first day includes a tribute to this great poet.
The cats blink. They arch their backs.
contentment curls their tails around themselves,
and lashing tails say ‘ I am danger’.
A throaty purr, with half-closed eyes,
or feral growl with flattened ears,
it’s all the same to me, my dears,
I watch you speak your attitudes
of moves and sounds of ancient years.
S.O.S.
She is in deep and dire distress,
She sends out a frantic S.O.S.
Doesn’t know what to do,
Frankly she has no clue –
She just ruined her best party dress!
Three Dots, Three Dashes, Three Dots
With every breath
longing for your touch,
your caress –
Dreaming
you were here
next to me –
Waking
confused until
reality squeezes –
Never
coming back…
alone.
I feel your longing here, Michelle.
Open
An open book
has nothing to hide,
and neither does
an open heart.
<3 I love this thought.
Finally got home today from a road trip. Got the prompt! Ready for the month! Hi Y’all!!
Here is my attempt.
Communication
Having spent the weekend
with my sister
and my niece
I learned that
I needed an
interpreter.
I haven’t decided yet
if I am just that
much
removed
from teenagerhood
or if moms
are the only ones
who really understand
their children’s
utterances.
And I wondered if
I had trouble
maybe
because
my children were all
boys
and they
seemed to have
no trouble being
understood.
(Except that one time
when Jon was getting
ice at a drive thru
liquor store
in North Carolina
and they didn’t know what
on
earth
he meant
until he said,
“Dja got aaihss?”
at which point they said,
“Oh, ICE! Shore!”)
So maybe it’s just
teenage-girl-speak
I am too far removed from.
At least she knows
I love her.
Diana Terrill Clark
That is nice that you find a way to communicate with this little girl it is hard if you only have one or the other i have both 2 girls and 1 boy well young man he is 20yrs of age. My 2 girls are 14 and 9. children are brillant so straight forward with their words
Wonderful, and such fun.
Casual Convo
”Et cetera.” ”Et cetera? The end
is rarely that expected.” ”Which is why
one says so after.” ”‘Too late,’ you imply?”
”‘Assume’ is what, but since I’m still your friend
in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?” ”Depend
on it.” ”I used to. I might even try
to once again.” ”Oh?” ”Yeah, or not.” ”No lie,
that’s what makes it so easy to pretend.”
”‘Whatever,’ right?” ”‘Whatever.’ Choose your word.
I’m not responsible.” ”By that you mean
you’ll hold against me what you think gets heard
or doesn’t get that close.” ”Don’t make a scene.”
”A scene? A life was more what I’d preferred,
as if one word made sense beyond this screen.”
The Letter
I received your letter today and found
myself utterly at sea. My first thought
was to run directly to you, but flights
are erratic and I get nosebleeds so easily.
What exactly is it you want from me? Perhaps
if you had phoned I could have read your tone
but a letter, handwritten, with a postage stamp—
the quaintness of it all enchanted me.
I held the letter in my hand for minutes, reflecting
on the days you met me at the door
and danced me off to bed before the evening meal
you had prepared so carefully.
I read the letter once again and realized
you hadn’t said a word about wanting me
or missing me and that reminded me
of all the empty words you scattered
through the house believing words
were everything And I would
(blind, deceived) pretend to be
the woman in the letter, the one who loved
obliviously.
Hey you
Yes, you
there in the mirror
STOP, taking yourself
so seriously
and just
live for the love of it.
Does the sun grumble
because it is too hot
or the sky long for substance
that it is not
Or does the dandelion covet
a shade other than gold
Or, does the oak tree sigh
because it is gnarled and old
I think not!
But they live fully
in their own skin
and never beyond
the moment they’re in
Oh, THIS:
But they live fully
in their own skin
and never beyond
the moment they’re in
Yes.
Love this, Janet!
In other words
It was just a metaphor darling
Too subtle to see with the naked eye
How could you know
My affection was burned
On every line
So use it up
Spread it out as far
As it will take you
I don’t mind not getting
my way
More vital that you
Know
What you know now
Should you tire of
The beautiful people
When the joke turns stale
I’ll remind you
Of who you are.
Communicating Perfectly
I don’t care what you say, my dear
But just stay
Here,
With your breath on my hair
and your lips ‘gainst my ear
It’s not so much the words you speak
as the rush of your scent and such
While wild crazy nothings brush my cheek
I melt beneath their touch
Did I?
As I walk the dog beneath the pines,
I engage in fierce conversation
with my boss, my friend, my father,
my dead husband, all the people
to whom I want to explain.
Music plays in the background,
something from the radio, a song
I just performed at church,
a phrase that keeps repeating,
as if I’m trying to get it right.
The words keep coming until,
behind me, a car approaches.
Hushing, I raise a hand to wave,
wondering: Did I say all that out loud?
The dog, pausing to sniff a leaf,
looks up, does not reply.
Speaking to a Dead Poet
for Robert Kroetsch, 1927-2011
If I were to talk to you
about how I feel
and what I write,
as if we were peers
and had some deep connection
to the written word
and the world around us,
and we saw things
in the same light
and could laugh as
well as cry because
we understood exactly
what the other was thinking,
I would say to you,
Robert,
your insightful poetry
has lingered in my heart
and crept into my soul through the
texture of lemons, complex
mathematics, seed catalogue
lists, and other innumerable
happenings that you have
embraced and re-worded
so that I could
re-think my own
re-lationship with the
word and continue
to dream about writing
something as significant
as your body.
The Difference Between East and West
The host told the Dalai Lama a joke
Which he didn’t get,
But he laughed anyway,
So it wasn’t awkward.
PARDON MY BROGUE
My English has a certain flair
a sound that’s not gentile.
A Scot is not the kind of sot
you want singing for his meal.
A piper man would sound quite grand,
without his dialect,
but a burly Scot could beat the band
if he didn’t sound like Shrek
Girlfriends
late nights
and coffee conversations
fears and dreams
that are not our own
believing, crying, laughing, praying
stocks not measured on the S&P 500
IMPORTANT NOTICE
This may not come as a
surprise to you and by all
appearances it doesn’t but
a burner has been left unattended
one in which if not used may leave one
trying to cook longer than usual and
be left dismayed at the results of
such effort. It is imperative that you
utilize the fourth burner as the results
of not doing so will end all further
processes and will leave us no
other option than to outsource whereby
you will not be involved in the
consumption thereof.
(c) Carolyn Red Bear 2012 all rights reserved
Silent Words
He watched the back of her head, her side profile, and occasionally even a glimpse of her face, quiet and framed by long mahogany tresses. Almost daily, she read, wrote, or just daydreamed over a steaming cup of tea on the worn beach nestled beneath the street front windows of his bookstore.
Each day he saw her he transposed exactly what he would say to her. Sometimes he rolled them over and over in his head. Sometimes the words came swiftly as he scratched them on loose parchment in rows of Indian ink. But she never heard these words. She never read them either.
For she never crossed his threshold, and he never ventured beyond the shop’s battered door. And so day after day, with all the words in the world hanging between them, the only thing they shared, was silence.
Wow, how sad to never take a chance.
Silent Words
He watched the back of her head, her side profile, and occasionally even a glimpse of her face, quiet and framed by long mahogany tresses. Almost daily, she read, wrote, or just daydreamed over a steaming cup of tea on the worn beach nestled beneath the streetfront windows of his bookstore.
Each day he saw her he transposed exactly what he would say to her. Sometimes he rolled them over and over in his head. Sometimes the words came swiftly as he scratched them on loose parchment in rows of Indian ink. But she never heard these words. She never read them either.
For she never crossed his threshold, and he never ventured beyond the shop’s battered door. And so day after day, with all the words in the world hanging between them, the only thing they shared, was silence.
Dashes and Dots
Mr. Morse lived by the code,
speaking in this archaic mode.
Tapping out a sad distress
Save Our Souls; or SOS
(· · · — — — · · ·)
DINNER WITH PAUL
Itadakimasu!
What does that mean?
Thank you for the food.
You’re welcome, but what does that mean?
Itadakimasu?
Yes.
Thanks for the food.
I thought we went over this; it’s fine. What does that word mean?
That’s what it means.
What?
Thanks for the food!
Oh!
Gerald the Herald
“Gents ‘n Ladies,
I commute from Comunion
to communicate to this community
the coming-up of the eleventh commandment.
As per the Commander’s command,
I shall commence the communication
with common sense and camaraderie.
Communes and commoners,
comrades and comedians,
compadres and con men,
collect your chimeras and commodities
combine them all, also the commodes
and all the countless conflicts.
Compromise and commit to common sense
come out of your coma!
What else do you need? A coach or a combustion?
Creatures of consumerism,
Stay conscious, c’mon!
Stop and think, consume less, conceive better.
Common sense is the commandment!
Comments or commendations,
convey to commander@communication.com ”
___________
Note: Comunion is a small town in Álava, Northern Spain.
SPEAKING TO THE PAST
We’ve come from somewhere,
we belong to someone.
Where we stand today
is a representation of
those who have gone before us.
Reacquainting ourselves
with those places, and faces
that bear your smile
or have given you a penchant
for your artistic abilities. You
are a student of your ancestry,
an unheralded heraldry.
Every seventy-two years
new relatives emerge; a surge
of excitement abounds and
surrounds your heart as family should.
Communicating through the years,
a genealogical find binds
one discovery at a time.
Tomorrow is the day the 1940 census is released. Bringing us closer to our origins and telling us a little bit about where we’ve been. And giving us a road map to where we are.
Walt,
I really enjoyed this poem. esp.
‘You are a student of your ancestry,
an unheralded heraldry.’
Communication
Talk to me.
I need to know what you are thinking.
I need to know how you feel.
I need you in my life.
You say life’s been hard on you
But I got news, its hard on me too
We seem to face the same old issues
Some at the surface but others are buried in the tissue.
And I know they don’t like to see us together
But it’s not going to stop me from loving you.
They say that our love goes against anything God could imagine.
But God brought you to me and me to you.
God doesn’t make mistakes.
I love you.
Talk to me.
I could care less what anyone else has to say
Let your words express your love
Tell me how you really feel.
I promise I will always love you.
Will you love me?
Lets make a deal.
I used to be articulate, lucid, precise.
I conjured burning metaphors, my mouth bursting spice.
I split your hairs so carefully, rebraiding very fine.
My castles towered in the air, straight in every line.
Now words falter from my teeth
Paler than my thought
Like the dress delivered from the online catalogue
They fall short
My treadmilled brain can’t lift its head
I’ve covered many miles but my soul is bled.
The rust I’ll scrape off from my tools
Polish to a shine
And the first words that I need to speak
Are to mine.
Communication IS the key
Spouses are NOT paper cups
You can’t just toss one and grab another
Talk it out, IF you give a crap
Spouses are NOT paper cups
Respect your vows, liven things up
Remember how much you once loved each other…
Spouses are NOT paper cups
You can’t just toss one and grab another
April PAD it is! Onward and Up Word to us all, precious poets! Ok, muse . . . time to fly!
UNBROKEN BOND
Yes, I get it,
At 23, you are a collage grad,
With a steady girlfriend,
And a career just beginning,
To go and grow and so,
You don’t need Mom,
And her old ways,
Of seeing you!
Tying you to the past!
I get it!
You barely let us celebrate,
Your birthday!
Yet, as you opened your gift,
I saw that sincere, red cheeked smile,
You never could hide from me,
Glancing through my words,
In the fresh new picture book of just us!
A collection of favorite photos and poem,
Crafting our moments,
From your birth,
To Disneyland and all things grand,
Missing teeth, birthday parties, graduations,
Proms and family celebrations,
Collecting bugs to offering hugs!
Twenty three years together,
Ages and stages of intimate connection,
To expanded growth for us both!
A mother and son relationship,
Spoken today,
Partly in memory to a present now,
Reflecting the passion and beauty,
Framing our cherished time together!
Snapshots and words weaving a poetic portrait,
Of an evolving and enduring love!
I left it open ended at the end, saying,
“Through time, do remember each other!
A continual story unfolding,
For this son and his mother!”
I could feel,
What I had wanted to express . . .
Touched your heart,
Tenderly uniting us again,
As if it had never disappeared!
A mutual beam of joy,
Spoke again of a never ending love,
Throughout a lifetime,
A bond unbroken!
Point made . . .
Let’s have dessert!
Enjoy all that you are,
And truly isn’t life grand?
Oh and . . . Happy Birthday!
I love how it flows
So sweet… and sad.
Thank you, WordWeaver and Laurie! Life is beautiful as it flows with both the sweet and the sad! Appreciate the comments!
dere mama
I am leven heer cuz u hert mi feleins
luv yor sun
bs – don b sad i tuk sum oreeos 4 super
Oh oh oh! For me, this takes the prize.
LOL thanks!
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!
glad to get some giggles … it was an experiment in communication …
lol- a good one, too…
Hilarious and poignant both.
Drunk Dial
Delivered 2:12 AM
You should know
I went on a date tonight
I kissed him against
my car and let his
hand go
up my shirt in the
parking lot while
people yelled to get
a room. The closest
you came
to saying you love
me was when you
said, I love your tits
I felt him harden.
I considered
the back seat
because I love you
and that’s the only
reason I went
on a date tonight.
Delivered 10:10 AM
Sorry about the text. I
was drunk.
Delivered at 10:12 AM
Ok
This was hilarious and depressing at the same time!
Hands…
Her Words
When I rested my hand
On top of the table
And you covered it with your own,
I marveled at your broad and sturdy fingers
How they spread outward like a tree .
I thought I will be safe
From all kinds of danger
As long as you stay close to me.
His Words
When I saw your hand resting
Quietly on the table top
I thought “Such a soft and fragile hand
Must be protected.”
I knew you could stand up for yourself
But I wanted to be sure that each one of your
Delicate fingers would never come to harm
As long as I could be there to protect you.
And so great-grandfather and great grandmother
Set off into the wilderness where they raised
A family and farmed good land.
Beautiful!
I like this – both of their thoughts of that one moment – I read it twice!
Wow! This is such a neat and economically pictured story.
OK, that was weird. Between “posting to fast” or mysterious “duplicate postings” we’re surely off and running. Just separating the pieces:
I LOVE YOUS
Tenderness expressed
in the passion of a
closerthanthisclose embrace,
face-to-face the give and take
of used to bes, becomes
the give and give of here and now.
Boomerang kisses never touching ground
go around and around and find
their soulful connection. A life of
love’s true affection is offered
filling our coffers with golden memories.
I love you with heart full thoughts.
I love you with precious dreams.
I love you without words being said.
A tenderness expressed in three words
ALL THUMBS
Thumbs talking;
finger walking across
a keyboard. Lost
in brevity; devoid of levity
short and to the point
Good grammar through
opposable thumbs!
Communication
Snuggling up.
Laughing together.
Exchanging a look.
Needing only half-sentences.
We still have days like that.
I settle into this fond old age,
treasuring the sweetness
of time with you. Your hands
are eloquent —
holding my shoulder,
stroking my hair.
At other times
you disappear.
A hostile stranger
swears at me, yells orders,
asks the same question
over and over,
regardless of answer.
I am learning that this too
is communication —
an indirect message
of pain and fear.
Nevertheless,
at the end of the day I snap
and communicate wordlessly
in tears.
Yes. I know these conversations. I had them with someone I loved, grandmom. And now they are gone, and now I know, what only those conversations could have told.
I love that phrase “half-sentences.”
And what a heart-wrenching poem with a touch of love and things bittersweet. I can relate to your last stanza when working with some of my patients. I can only imagine what it’s like to have the same experience with loved ones.
Wow – this is SO good – really resonated with me. Even made me tear up a little.
Ah, Rosemary, how intimate your life is, and the way you share it always inspires me.
Thank you both. xx
I’m delighted to rendezvous here with all of you this April. Feels like a welcome home.
The wonderful dilemma? Too many poems to comment on. So for today, I love Buddah’s offering,
“Tips for New Writers.” Yes, Buddah, I can relate.
I LOVE YOUS
Tenderness expressed
in the passion of a
closerthanthisclose embrace,
face-to-face the give and take
of used to bes, becomes
the give and give of here and now.
Boomerang kisses never touching ground
go around and around and find
their soulful connection. A life of
love’s true affection is offered
filling our coffers with golden memories.
I love you with heart full thoughts.
I love you with precious dreams.
I love you without words being said.
A tenderness expressed in three wordsWHISPER SOMETHING
Mystic memories; haunting and still,
willing my heart to beat when life
does not wish to be interrupted to hear.
Here am I in your shadow wondering
how my blundering ways stay
one step ahead of your wanting.
Wanting nothing more than to hear you
reverberate in my head as a shout,
or a trill or a whisper. Telling me your feelings
feeling full of you love. Shouting upon the rooftops
that your love never stops it goes on
to whisper something only I would hear
here in my heart is where it starts.
Whisper to me. Whisper sweet nothings.
Whisper something..
Finger Tips
Speak to me through the tips
of my fingers in words that chase
through spiral mazes of coiled fingerprints.
Sounds lost in the topiary, irrigated
words diverted through deep channels,
words falling on my deafness like dust
on fragile gold-gilt bound books.
Save your breath.
Speak to me through my fingertips.
This is really beautiful – thanks for making me smile!
Day 1
4-1-2012
Write a communication poem.
Talk with a Vine
You appeal to me,
your star-shaped throat open crimson,
your lips a yellow starburst,
inner edges stained.
You play for my attention,
at the roadside,
insist I admire your handsome red and yellow trumpet.
Why have I not noticed you before,
clinging wild to the trees?
Tell me, bright star that bugles blood,
are you called the Cross Vine
and bloom at Eastertime
for a reason?
This was so vivid. Nice!
Oh, this is gorgeous in every way.
This is just beautiful.
Hinting Glimpses
Slow exhale
Dry swallow
Crackling toes
Swift or slow
Slamming a book
or ruffling pages
Lingering finger
or rushed shoulder
brush behind the
slam of a door
My insight into
what you think, feel
How you sense me:
sensational
or prosaic
Your opacity
softens you
Intriguing!
Tips for New Writers
Be honest
and be clear,
there’s no point in doing this
if you’re just going to lie
or write so you
won’t be understood.
If you’re looking for
giant ego strokes
then you
probably want to invest
in liposuction,
breast augmentation,
or hair plugs.
No,
if you’re in this
then you either communicate
something of value
or nothing at all.
If you don’t illuminate,
then why are you
trying to shine?
If you don’t know nature
don’t write about it,
and if you don’t know about love
don’t write about it.
Write about what you know
and if you think
you don’t know anything,
then start writing about anything
and fling it onstage
before the masses,
and then you’ll learn
failure and rejection,
and then write about those;
they are subjects
to which we all
can relate.
Good job!! excellent thoughts.
Oh, perfect. PERFECT.
Just right!
Ouch! I love that you always tell it like it is.
powerful and to the point, as always
Excellent.
You tell them! I had to laugh at this:
then start writing about anything
and fling it onstage
before the masses
wonderful advice
Jac! Love this! What fun! Are you triolet-ing all month long? Can’t wait!
Yeah, I just hope I can get at least 5 decent ones out of this whole month to submit. I wrote this one to warn you guys. lol ;0)
I am swimming
in the crystal clear waters of the Georgian Bay.
I am happy
listening to the shouts and splashes and laughter
of my family on the deck behind me.]
I swim slowly past the point
The ancient rock determining my path
I look up at the wind-gnarled trees
finding precarious toehold in every crack of rock.
The water holds me.
The sounds behind me dim.
I am alone with the water, rocks, trees, sun and sky.
The me of myself vanishes.
I am disolved.
l am as all around me is,
One.
We are all one, created of the same matter,
by the same life force.
I give thanks for this gift of this knowing.
and swim back to my family
A new light in my eye.
Ultimatum
I stand before you all today
friend and foe
to remind you of the agreement made
long ago with your forefathers forefathers,
the earliest ones
and the giants who walk on two legs
to maintain peace and harmony.
Ancients, adults, parents, teens and wee ones
be here reminded
and remind each other.
If any creature is caught
crawling on, nibbling, chewing on
any sprout, herb, or vegetable.
there will be no mercy on that one found
harming my little children.
You may live here and eat
weeds, grass, even flowers
or feel free to cross the border
into any neighboring village to eat as you wish.
All spiders, lady flies, lace wings, bees, dragon flies,
and praying mantis’s are welcomed and will be cared for.
This is a binding contract
to be enforce hence forth
each day during growing season.
This public statement will be proclaimed daily
prior to nurturing the seeds, sprouts and plants.
If any insect is caught munching on a child,
there will be no trials
not questions, no mercy
sentencing and execution will be on the spot.
Communication Poem
Poppy insists on hearing my voice
But I do not speak unless I must and I never sing
And so, in the quiet spaces of this old apartment,
I begin to read old fairy tales out loud.
“In the olden times, when wishing was having ” and
“Once upon a time there lived” (of course)
and “they lived contentedly and happily” and
“beg as he might they had no mercy, but cut off his head.”
My words must be formed for me,
gathered from the scraps of mythical delusions
because even the most violent of these tales
is safer than my real story bouncing off these white walls
One day, I’ll tell Poppy a mostly true story,
cloaked in the language of folkloric fantasy, and
it will start “Once upon a time a woman lived alone in the desert,”
and when I get to the end, I will say that she lived happily ever after.
incommunicado
thirty triolets plus one
are keeping me incommunicado
do not call me on the phone
thirty triolets plus one
are keeping me from the sun
i’m just a poetry aficionado
thirty triolets plus one
are keeping me incommunicado
Cute one… and I can relate to being incommunicado this month.
I wrote this for Poetic Bloomings. It kind of fits the prompt so I’ll post it here, too.
If I Had a Super Cape
Hey! If I had a super cape
Like a bird, I’d be free
I’d sale away to Mozambique
And I’d be home by tea
I’d stomp grand grapes in Sicily
I’d see the Louvre in France
I’d twirl with whirling dervishes
And with “where’s Matt” I’d dance
But with a cape I couldn’t go
One moment back in time
To dine with lords and ladies fair
In castles on the Rhine
Neither could I see future worlds
Or meet strange aliens
Or skip along with Dorothy
And greet her three odd friends
I couldn’t eat cheese with Heidi
Meet Fagin and his crooks
And so forget the super cape
I’d rather have my books
Very clever, and you’ve managed a 2-for-1!
A wise decision, lol.
Ha ha ha, most enjoyable romp!
Transmissions
“Prayer is talking; meditation is listening.” Golas
We sit together across a room and read,
our brains mouthing words before our eyes
reacting with smile and sigh, puff and laugh,
together across a room, we sit and need
knowledge of the other’s presence that belies
our breaths’ communication, our loving half
reaches across to pet a naked toe
or squeeze fingers as they turn a page,
the thought of this contentment still and sweet.
We sit together across a room and know
that thoughts are heard in silence, a message
to each other, loved, sent, received, complete.
I like this a lot – I can see my relationship in your words.
Ahhhh!
Carolyn and Rosemary, thanks for the comments.
The Things We Take For Granted
PAD 4/1/2012
I got a phone call from my niece today.
We talked about riding her bike
And about her new friends.
She asked about why I left my job
and I explained that I want to be a nurse.
And then she was off to play and the phone call ended.
Five minutes of miracle, if that.
But still a miracle.
Because phone calls are miracles when you’re deaf like my niece.
Phone calls, and closed captioning and interpreted performances…
So many miracles
So many bits of daily life that we take for granted.
Never thinking of the people who can’t hear what we hear
Or see what we see
What miracles have you missed today?
Good question, and a nice build-up to it, Euphrates.
Lullaby
Each word you speak falls
like a pebble at my feet,
where I gather them in cairns—
whisper prayers for understanding.
Eventually the silence between us
becomes just as palpable,
heavy anchored breaths
bleating out a code of brokenness
denying every fiber
of what we truly feel.
Won’t you remember
the dulcet tones of lullabies
before I was old enough to know them?
Singing back began this crevice—
knowing, then, my voice
could be as strong as yours.
Remembering, too, my first word
was “no” and not “momma.” Rebellion
began at birth—the first cries of life
filtering out your breath, your silent tears,
each one falling with the definitive
ring of love, love, love.
Finger and Thumb
Neighbors. Shouting
across a void that seems
impossible to bridge.
Thumb, so different
from the others — it is
opposable, contrary.
Finger and thumb
together; now we have
the pincer grasp, a feat
so important, it is in all the
baby guidebooks. Now baby
can feed herself Cheerios;
soon she will use a pencil or
a hammer to build herself a story,
a house outside your heart.
Finger curling down; thumb
reaching up. The circle they make
tells us everything is OK.
“opposable, contrary.” PERFECT. Loved this.
Oh, what a delightful interpretation!
Congratulations on your this poem, it’s a great beginning!
Clever — I’m a sucker for a poem that manages to include a bit of science!
This is so good. I especially loved “build herself a story, a house outside your heart.”
Lovely progression of images.
Thanks, everyone! I am distant this week — grabbing a few minutes while visiting family — but look forward to participating more fully and reading everyone’s efforts once I’m back home.
When the Words Won’t Come
Words are my passion.
They float on silvery wisps
Through my subconscious,
Swirling whispers waiting
To be plucked from the air,
Shaped and molded
Into snippets of emotion
Released into the wilds.
Even after years
Of practicing my craft,
I still find at moments like this,
When loss reaches
Into my world yet again
The words just disappear,
No consoling phrase to tender
A soothing balm for a mournful soul.
All I can do is offer a hug
And a prayer directed heavenward,
Asking for some sense
Of comfort for the bereaved.
Ah yes, it is at such times the words are hardest to find.
Social Anxiety
Should I email – Is there a weigh in today
There is but you haven’t participated in weeks, so you are not welcome
Should I text – Is there a weigh in today
Wow you woke me up. Why are you texting so early? Come if you want.
Should I just show up – Isn’t there a weigh in today?
No we are on our way out. I’m sorry you drove all this way.
I’ll pretend I didn’t know about the weigh in today.
What I missed it! Did you send out an invitation? I didn’t receive it.
I’ll wait till later and check for a message. Then I’ll call and say I can’t make it.
Speaking Softly
Lean in closer,
let your hair fall
around me
as I whisper,
for you alone to hear,
words of affection
like butterfly breath
upon your ear.
Listen closer
to the meaning
I intend,
for mere words
will fail again to
impart the depths
of the love
I feel.
A perfect love poem!
So sweet i like the gentle details and softy spoken words well done
Messages
When did we grow to doubt our dreams’
veracity, suspicious that sleeping visions
are brought on by too much spice or wine,
dream warp and weft mirrored in
whatever we ignore in us,
whatever our waking worries,
woven of fear and longing?
The ancients’ gods reached out in dreams
of heroes, kings, and godly folk,
creating a market for interpreters,
wise men, advisors, and consultants
to decipher images and step down
divine wisdom to very human intellects,
uneasy with contact from above.
When humans believed in gods that spoke
in dreams, we still did not credit truth
from one another, as Cassandra,
poor troubled girl, spoke loud and plain
of what the surly gods communicated,
of futures scorched with fire and stained
with blood and trickery, of chances to turn
back and redeem ourselves, her words
as clear as writing on walls to the illiterate,
while all around her, people hearing
their own divine messages, developed
a habit of forgetfulness or misapprehension,
gods’ missives misdirected, lost in grace,
and determined that she was mad.
… “as clear as writing on walls to the illiterate…” Great line. Nice work.
I love the story of Cassandra. This is well told, and one can’t miss the universalities you point out.
Thanks for the encouragement, MM and Rosemary.
CAPE COD
The rain beat against the window,
a stone flew up and hit the windshield.
The sky was emerald with a
narrow strip of white showing
through in the distance.
The string that held us together snapped.
I rushed to grab your end
but my hands were shaking
and I missed.
I didn’t expect that ending. I really loved this!
I too loved the surprise, and also the lack of explanation, leaving me with the experience.
Here’s my attempt:
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/130917.html
Different, and lovely.
Oh my! Thank you dear Rosemary.
Yeah, it’s different for me too. It’s been a while since I’ve written free verse. 
I’m with Rosemary. Particularly like the bit about the moon.
RETURN CALL FORGOTTEN
The message had been left -
as messages are -
in haste and with just enough
displeasure for the person to whom
the call was made
to realize that not being at the
beck and call of the caller
was more than likely a mistake
Yet, it had been ignored
passed over, like an old piece
of cheese laying forsaken on the
hors d’oeuvres plate, until
hard and dry, it no long makes sense
to keep it.
“Passed over like an old piece of cheese …” I like that image.
Read My Lips
I join the huddled masses
At the Macy’s makeup counter,
That Ellis Island of womanhood
Where it is still legal
To sort flesh by shades of skin
I am warm, I am cool,
But never neutral, never safe
From the sterile homogeny
Of Plum Perfect , Mauve-ulous
Coral Crush, and Peach Fuzz
The sweetness is a luscious lie
As if I my lips could ever taste
Like Butterscotch and Rum Spice
Instead of salty sweat
The only things remaining
At the bottom of my drain
Are all the stains that I have scrubbed
Raw and red and nude
Oh, Catherine. How I have missed you. Such sassy poignance. There is just too much to love here, from the title (perfect) to “Where it is still legal/To sort flesh by shades of skin”…to the names of the lipsticks, and the longing within. Just gorgeous.
This is great!! Just delightful.
I love your vivid imagery and will think of this poem when I walk by the the make up counters in the mall.
Irreverent delight! Loved!
really enjoyed this!
Walking in Winter
Mounded snow
Rounds the edges
Of stones sleeping in the field,
Softens the prickled carpet
Of fall grasses
With its crust;
The underfoot steady crunch
Absorbs all other sounds
In a hush I can hear
If I’m willing to notice
The cold season’s
Song
A song that both needs and rewards your listening! Beautiful take on the prompt.
Subtle, and deep. Kudos!
So lyrical, and beautifully succinct.
REACHING
I stood on a stool on my back porch
Trying to hang a wind chime.
I leaned across the fence to reach the rusted nail above the window
And for a moment
My wind chime sounded like random cries of broken glass.
Lively woods behind the house went suddenly silent,
Disturbed by my clumsy attempt to invite the wind to play.
My balance became iffy,
And the stool I was standing on did a quick
Tic, tic, tic.
Somewhere from the woods, a woodpecker answered,
With the same beat,
Effortlessly.
I never thought of it that way, but how aptly put – “invite the wind to play” -so pretty! I love your poem.
Little victories.
There was a time I wondered
if we would ever communicate?
So much stood in our way:
the absence of a palate
to move your tongue against
was the least of it
though I didn’t realise that
at first which was just as well.
Each new problem had its own timetable
of shock, grief, acceptance and after a long time
and many struggles,
eventual circumvention.
Now when we talk together
I know exactly who you are
and you know exactly who I am.
It is as if there had never been
any problems at all.
“How lucky you are to have such
an easy relationship together!”
exclaims a new acquaintance and
your eyes meet mine and we smile
and I just say, “Yes.”
Michele (I still think of you as Banana
, this is wonderful. Such quiet contentment, wisdom here.
Yes, I echo everything De said!
DFTBA
When two brothers got tired
Of their only communication being
Quick texts shot through busy days
They decided to start a year-long conversation
Of daily videos posted to YouTube
At first they were awkward,
Unsure of themselves
But as they began to find their voice
People began to listen.
They listened to them develop inside jokes;
Listened to them ponder questions of life, nerdiness and stuff on heads;
And listened to them challenge each other to live better lives.
As the year came to an end their audience had not only grown
They had become a community of self proclaimed nerds
With constant communication going on
In forums, YouTube comments and video responses
Reminding each other “Don’t Forget To Be Awesome”
Together they staged a Project to promote charities
For one day the entire front page of YouTube was flooded with videos
Made by nerds who decided to stand for something
Because two brothers wanted to get to know each other a little better.
(Note: This is a true story. And five years later this community is still going strong- promoting activism, raising money and generally making the world a better place.)
Here’s my communication.
The background: When the clock struck 12 midnight on March 31, 2012, I updated my relationship status to “engaged” on Facebook. Throughout the day April 1, “likes”, comments and congratulatory messages poured in. Finally, at night, this was my “communication” to those that I pulled a prank on. Please do visit my blog – http://rhythmicredemption.blogspot.in/2012/04/fyi.html
- FYI -
I don’t regret to bring to your kind attention,
that you, gullible lady and sir, worthy of mention,
are the fortuitous victims of a guile April day prank.
No. I haven’t yet walked the proverbial marital plank.
It is my pleasure to inform that, of you, I made a fool,
and all through the day, as you fell, I kept my cool.
As I revel in the fruition of my false marital communique,
I regret to inform, I will be apathetic to any adverse critique.
Yes, it is another case of the unwed boy who cried out “wolf”,
with lies, treachery and masquerade, did he, you, engulf.
But, let it be known, that I seek not the fruit of marital bliss,
Singledom suits me just fine, nothing at all, seems amiss.
It is only for the blissful purpose of comedic poetry, did I mock,
on my binary mending wall, this business of pretend wedlock.
I shall kiss and make up, and seek atonement in poetic verse,
with that in mind, you have my kind permission now, to disperse.
Here’s wishing a wonderful PAD to everyone who is taking part! See you on the other side!
Excellent prank. I trust the witty confession appeased your friends.
Thanks, and thankfully no one seems pissed.
TALKY-TALK
You ramble with your high-falutin’ words
psychological bullshit meant for ones
in search of a way out of their own dilemmas.
Self-inflicted clap-trap used as excuses
for the abuses to which you subject yourself.
Bootstraps are meant to be pulled up with
force and conviction. Your dereliction your duty
is a beauty your can’t see. were it up to me
your advice would go nice for a sob sister or two.
But between me and you? It’s all just talk.
Talky-talk. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Blah!
“When there is a prophet among you, I, the LORD, reveal myself to them in visions, I speak to them in dreams. But this is not true of my servant Moses; he is faithful in all my house. With him I speak face to face, clearly and not in riddles; he sees the form of the LORD.” Numbers 20: 6-8
He mothers so many, carries them on the back,
feeds them and trains them in patience
to follow the path to the land where grapes
in vines are abundant, meat fills their stomachs.
The Lord leads him at every step, offers a hand
when he stumbles in the heat of the desert.
How is Lord’s touch, is it a balm that cools the skin?
How is Lord’s voice? Does it sound like a rumble?
They see the Lord as a column of smoke, not unlike
smoke from chimneys in their homes in Egypt;
but when they prayed, placed trust Lord appeared in dreams,
left traces on sand, sprayed stars in the night sky
But to him Lord sat across the table, spoke
in a mesmerizing voice, cupped his hands in warmth,
held his gaze in love. And always Lord gave him post-it notes
where instructions were written in a clear legible hand.
Interesting take on it. It’s all beautifully said, and I particularly love the ending.
Thanks, Rosemary!
I love the image of the post-it notes at the end.
Hello everyone, I know it’s been a couple years now that I have participated here, but recently the muse has began calling again and I never refuse her to write, so I’m hoping to get these gears turning once more to enjoy another awesome April of poeming, great to hear so many familiar voices here, Thanks for the opportunity and all the effort that makes this possible Rob!
Epidermal Truths
Anguish is an easy word
to utter through the mouth,
but becomes more difficult
to pronounce in mechanical
tongues of tightening knuckles
and spasming muscles beneath,
and resonates longer with closed
eye lids and the contracting brows
that devastate diaphrams in breadth.
WHISPER SOMETHING
Mystic memories; haunting and still,
willing my heart to beat when life
does not wish to be interrupted to hear.
Here am I in your shadow wondering
how my blundering ways stay
one step ahead of your wanting.
Wanting nothing more than to hear you
reverberate in my head as a shout,
or a trill or a whisper. Telling me your feelings
feeling full of you love. Shouting upon the rooftops
that your love never stops it goes on
to whisper something only I would hear
here in my heart is where it starts.
Whisper to me. Whisper sweet nothings.
Whisper something.
Aww – heartbreaking and sweet. xx
Stunning
By: Meena Rose
I look up and there you are
Smiling at me, your eyes
Inviting me to the dance floor.
Between one heartbeat
And the next, I am
In your embrace.
I gaze up as you whisper
Sweet nothings in my ear,
I melt into you.
Two hearts beating
As one, joyous
Resonance throughout.
I close my eyes as a
Tear threatens to fall,
Savoring the moment.
Lovely, Meena. A peek into a moment of bliss.
My heart aches, reading this. I feel like the other shoe will drop soon.
@ claudsy: thank you.
@ Sara: the other shoe indeed dropped… in the earlier piece “Stunned”
“RE: Happy Birthday”
“Dear Mom, Thanks. I had the perfect Alex day…….”
…long run in the morning” down palm-lined San Diego streets, out to Shelter Island where the early morning marine layer blankets the slumbering homeless men, past the marina where fishing boat captains sip their morning lattes. Adjust the sunnies, retie the shoes, two forward lunges to stretch the calf muscles. Ready. Start off slow, get into rhythm, and hit the Shoreline Park trail.
“…Extraordinary Desserts lunch” at the restaurant where showcases of napoleons, soufflés, tarts, cheesecakes, and éclairs beckon seductively as diners find a table, admire the modern wall sculptures, and sip lemoned water. Order the Mediterranean Peasant Plate of bread, olives, and cheese, then cruise over to do some dessert research. “A truly amazing Passion Fruit Napolean – wow.”
…special sports treatment” at the massage spa where expert hands knead quads, hamstrings, calves, and Achilles tendons to the faint sound of Tibetan flute music. Plan nothing, just drift.
“… late afternoon bike ride” around San Diego Bay where tropical flowers etch green park landscaping, picnicking tourists grab for shady tables, bikinied 30-Somethings play at sand volley ball, coffee-colored Arizonians orient themselves to catch the last strong rays, skate boarders weave in and out among children dripping ice cream. Take the ferry ride back, lean on the rail, watch the wind ruffle the hitchhiking gulls’ feathers.
“….watch basketball game” on the couch where Sophie the cat takes a luxurious stretch, daintily washes a speck of lint off a front paw, circles three times around, then plunks down on the pillow. Arrange feet, get remote, close eyes.
“Talk soon, Love, Alex”
2800 miles away, he becomes the little blond boy, arms wrapped around my waist, riding behind me in his bicycle seat smiling as he waves at birds.
Part of the Family
It has changed
the way we communicate
dog to human, me to you
15 years of trying to make room and make sense to each other
But you’re deaf now and yes, a little senile, no offense
and frustrated with your new formed limitation
but more demanding, doing the rounds to sniff at blankets, make sure bowls are filled on time, and all is business as usual
I’ve come to clapping behind you, stamping feet and slamming doors to get your attention
I try to ease that lost look in your eyes in the only ways I know how
I’ll be here for you. I hope you hear me.
I loved this piece. Well done!
Beautiful, I love it.
Your amber eyes hold my heart
I caress your neck
your hummmmm
vibrates my pelvis
as you curl up
your warmth becomes mine.
No words are necessary.
Rose Anna Hines
Ode to White and Strunk
I sat at the table of contents
feasting on serial commas
and mixed metaphors that went
straight to my head
periodic sentences came at the
beginning and stayed
to the end
but happily,
needless words were omitted
from the guest list
the vowels were late, having
stopped at the Glottal Café
for tea
the tenses and the participles
were present, but
the tenses kept shifting and
the participles
merely
dangled
all the while, overdressed
adverbs
ate awkwardly
in the end,
the infinitives
split
Clever! Loved this!
Miss Communication
“Wanda, I want to tell you something.
Something important.”
“Really? First, let me show you
my new shoes.”
“I, I think . . .”
“Aren’t they just the cat’s meow?
They’ll just match my new outfit,
don’t you think?”
“They’re nice. Listen, I . . .”
“I found them on the sale rack
at Nordstrom’s. Only ninety-nine dollars!
Fred. Are you listening?
Fred. Where did you go?”
When surface removes depth from view and exploration, all that is left is reflection.
Good job on this one, Sally.
Agreed, Very well done.
Thanks, Michael. Appreciate your comment.
Very profound observation, Claudsy. Thanks for the comment.
LOL
Rosemary, glad I could give you a laugh. Blessings.
I borrowed from Bob’s other challenge, the platform challenge. He challenged followers to define who they are. I am defining myself in a poem. Consider yourself informed.
I Am
I am too nice to others
I always help when I can,
never refusing to lend a hand,
I won’t let you down.
I love ideas and thinking
Sometimes I like rain,
I know I don’t like pain.
I like to find the truth.
I fight an illness daily.
I stick myself and cry
and monitor the why.
Why can’t I be like you?
I like to be outdoors.
I like to feel my feet
walking down the street.
Sometimes I stop and listen.
Saturday is for hockey.
Sunday is for football.
I’ve given up on baseball,
but I follow the Olympics.
I vote from afar,
but I live in the middle.
I never use a griddle.
Save the world, eat a vegan!
My brain sees patterns,
and it crafts fancy tales.
I like to watch whales,
I like to ride the ocean.
My reading is eclectic.
I drink coffee all the day,
I never get my way.
My kids take all my money.
I can fix your computer,
or help you save money.
I love you honey.
This is who I am.
Very cool use of communication!
Today’s News
You read too far
you knew
you should have looked away
and now it plays
over and over
in your head
so loud
you cannot hear
to think
buzzing, ringing, crashing
over and over
a loop
innocence
violence
described in detail
combine
to create a
sick
pit
in your gut
turn the page
quickly now
now
Stunned
By: Meena Rose
Shocked and stunned at my wit’s end,
My eyes glaze over at your words
“This marriage must come to an end.”
*I just had to post my first draft, before I screw it’s raw emotion up with revisions.
FREEDOM REIGNS
I forbid entrance into here
You shadow of darkness
An all-consuming fire
Always seeking to destroy
With a life eternal
You agent of death
Lover of evil
Take now yourself
And be gone from my place
Forever be cast away
Fallen from on high
Wreathed in flames
Seen by us, an apple
Life-giving, an illusion
Expelled from the grace
Leading astray with promise
Hopes of new life
Expectations destroyed
With the illusion of gain
Fallen from on high (I see you lurking in the depths)
Wreathed in flames (I hear the hiss of your lies)
Seen by us, an apple (The fruit of decay)
Life-giving, an illusion (You cannot entrap me)
((freedom reigns. forever))
**Michaela Vanden Bosch
WHEN IS THE DEADLINE? DID I MAKE IT?
What better way to begin the month than with communication.
Five-Star Dining
“Did you eat?”
“Some hours ago.”
“Oh? Disappointing?”
“I hate dining out now.”
“And why is that? Please tell me.”
“I get no satisfaction now.”
“In what way?”
“Salivation.”
“Oh. Did you get bored?”
“My server had no taste.”
“Do you need help finding new foods?”
He shook his head as he drew her near,
Nuzzling close.
“You’ve got me spoiled.”
She threw back her head,
Laughing with abandon.
Power came with submission.
“Drink, darling, of my vintage wine.”
He drank deep,
Her essence warm,
Her love new again.
“You’re intoxicating.”
His bloody mouth left her throat.
“You’ve never learned. Home cooking’s best.”
Wow, Claudsy… what a take on home cooking
I like the exchange and the vampirish tone to the ending. Yes, home cooking’s best but the best line here is “Power came with submission.” Well done Claudsy.
Thanks, Michael. I admit this isn’t usually my form or my perspective, but it was fun.
Oh, good one! I love the way you left clues, but only at the end revealed the truth. And such a sweet truth (in more ways than one).
You’re kind, Rosemary. It’s funny how this was the first thing that pupped into my head this morning when I read the prompt. It came complete in vision and with some of the dialogue. I jsut had to make it work. I don’t usually have it that easy.
I’m glad you liked it.
Very sultry and seductive i like the dark side the way it flows lets your mind wonder along through the story well done thats the thing about starting a poem or story you dont know where it will take you and the audience bravo
Thank you, Ber. I’m glad you liked it.
Wonderful and intoxicating!! Loved it!
Wow! Quite a twist on this one. I loved it.
NO REPOSE
in silence I sit
in silence I ponder
my mind drifts endlessly
my thoughts now wander
escape is my goal
the pen is my friend
do you hear me now?
will the reticence end?
silence is needed
in order to compose
to hear my own thoughts
to write my own prose
I yearn to share
do you dare to hear?
do wish to know
what I deem dear?
confined within walls
behind the screen
no one to hear
the deafening screams.
a countryboy can survive and another man tells his lies, but as long as we get along, or at the very least try, when a feather whether stales and dies, by the day that a ledbetter cries, you can tell by the stripes in his eyes, the stench that draws in the flys, can’t get a wetter sweater if the squirrels don’t get her, but these are the bonds that tie.
I just thought of letting you know
That I love being back home!
To wake up in the morning
Hear you sniffling
And leafing through the newspaper
To prepare you corn cakes
For breakfast
And hear and pleasure in your voice
As you take a first bite
Into the maple syrup drenched cake
To hear you talk about plans for the day
Rushing through the door
As I sit in front of the computer to finish
Yet another essay for my unending classes
I’ll Carry You
Let me spend a moment on my knees.
I have truly opened up my heart.
I have so many things to ask of you.
I don’t even know where to start.
Can you love me as I am?
Please, don’t ever leave me.
Forgive me for the wrong I’ve done.
Open up my eyes and let me see.
“I’ll love you always as you are.”
“I won’t ever leave you.”
“You are forgiven, blessed and saved.”
“You’ll now see all that’s true.”
Can you heal and give me strength?
“I’ll comfort you and care.”
Will you walk along the trail beside me?
“I’ll carry you and always be right there.”
By Michael Grove
Appropriate in so many ways, Michael.
Perfect, Michael.
Speech Therapy
He thrusts
his words out
into the world
like shotgun shells
bares
his fists
his soul with
every statement
every s-s-syllable
a two-ton weight
against the posts
inside his tired lungs
tongue tied in knots;
but he has things
he wants to say,
and still insists
these tangled terms
these stumbled, tumbled
phrases hold worlds of their own
and in their spaces
he sees the ghosts.
he hears himself,
loud and clear.
Wonderful! Another winner, De.
Powerful like shotgun shells De
I noticed that this poem and PMWanken’s At a Loss have a similar form. I really like both poems and think the form is so effective. Does it have an official name?
Not that I know of, Genevieve. I have loved this device for years, first introduced to me by Stephen King (the novelist). I swallowed his books whole, and was always fascinated by his ability to say the things in between the things. Paula’s poem did a beautiful job of this.
And thank you, to both of you.
Beautifully done as always, De.
Geez, woman! I really felt this one, the weight of words struggling for air. I might have just had a heart attack.
A dissection
(after Adrienne Rich)
I know you are reading this poem
in the late hours of a gray morning,
your legs twisted around an uncomfortable
chair, a mug of something hot trailing
small streams of steam off towards the ceiling.
I know you are reading this poem and thinking
it is about you, as you pick apart the nouns,
look for the slightest hint of your habits in
the verbs, and tap your pen feverishly on the
varnished wood of your dining room table.
I know you are reading this poem, eager to
draw lines through stanzas, call something
cliche and tell me that the title is crap.
I know you are reading this poem in bitter
disappointment, knowing that I am being evasive
on purpose, just to throw you off the scent,
to keep you from all that my fingers have held
back while writing it.
I know you are reading this poem and have already
buried its words into brain storage, to use against
me at a later date, when you are standing in the doorway,
screaming frustrations and pointed accusations.
I know you are reading this poem, as it is the only
thing I’ve left behind after the crisp, early April
air has taken my breathing.
Twice Shy
I don’t talk to boys at clubs, anymore:
too many tacky pick-up lines like “where’s your
ex-boyfriend?” and “let’s go, it’s too loud in here
to hear you moan.” Those are the ones
who taste like puddles bobbing with cigarettes,
juniper needles and syrup starting to turn:
hot messes on a desperate Saturday night.
Those aren’t the ones that you have to
watch out for. It’s the quiet ones,
speaking with ten fingertips of subtle pressure
and uncut hair. The ones who gyrate their hips
into question marks, add bold underlines:
the ones that end up tutoring you in their own
dialect of body language. (All of it force
and suspension, and stained sheets.) The ones
who make their excuses the morning after:
and you head home with your teapot heart
brewed, steeped, poured out again. That’s how
we become slowly, silently cruel. I don’t talk
to boys at clubs: but nowadays I think,
maybe I should.
“taste like puddles bobbing with cigarettes”–that stays with me. I think the lastline should be “we become slowly, silently cruel.” That hits hard. I don’t know why the speaker would want to go through such pain again.
Hard-hitting and sticks with the reader. I agree with Brian about the puddles line. Unforgettable for a number of reasons. “…tutoring you in their own
dialect of body language.” also has great quality and double meaning.
Like this a lot, Joseph.
This reminded me of Brighton Rock for some reason, same atmosphere I think.
Wow!
I think the ending is perfect, because without risk, there is no hope for love.
wonderful, as usual, Mr. Harker…..
Great imagery in “gyrate their hips / into question marks” and “teapot heart.” The “silently cruel” really stings at the end. Good work, Joseph!
Got all my senses wrapped up in this one. Love the title too.
Joseph, Incredible imagery, and sad undertones.
Note to Myself
Hello you
You may not know me now but you will really soon
In some distant time you will be me
Or I will be you
Changes will come and circumstances switch
Things that you knew right now
Will morph into mysteries unexplained
The place we will get to
May not be the places you planned to go
The place where I am right now
Is indescribable from the knowledge I have of you
The things that you will do
The direction from the forks in myriad roads
I know what bought you to this place
Your naiveté makes me smile
I do remember the days when nothing was forbidden
The horizon was so wide
Turmoil will come and failures will cause such pain
In-between the heartache, glimmering moments of success
Acts like the best sedative to put the mind at ease
Don’t tarry, don’t worry, just move
We will be just fine
Just want to give you a vote of confidence
What you do will create a beautiful life
From me
Interesting perspective. I liked it.
When I was a journaling teen, I used to write to my future self. It is kind of eerie to read those journals now. Well done!
Language Lessons
In the end
she still isn’t sure
if it was the conjugation
(we love, she loves, he loves)
she misunderstood
or the tense
(I love you, I loved you)
or the meaning itself
(please stay, please stay away),
but the final word comes easy:
Adios.
You know I’m a sucker for grammatical poetry, especially when it has an emotional core. Short and (bitter)sweet.
Hi De! Nice job! Good punch.
Does language really have much to do with true meaning, when eyes and touch carry the only message that matters? Enjoyed this immensely, De.
Me too. Been there, done that, and was glad for the reminder, if only because we’ve come so far.
really like this, de!
Another good one, De. You combined a clever concept with an emotional punch!
Very clever, and packs a punch.
Coda
He’s actually dying now,
in ICU, wires and hoses his mechanical friends,
so what’s left to say.
All the clichés were used up long ago,
first when the diagnosis came,
then after the chemo,
and, finally, the burning.
He was dying back then as well.
We meant well, his long-time, human friends,
saying what was right to say
All the bromides were well-intended,
First when the fear struck,
then when hope was treasured,
and, finally, reality.
He’ll die soon,
In a white room, surrounded by friends.
No one will say anything
that is not the truth.
First we’ll thank him for his friendship,
then how much he’s loved,
and, finally, our hope to see him soon.
Ely, you encapsulated so much in this poem, pooling emotions with visuals, explanation with intent. You could not have voiced this any better. Thank you.
Very moving.
Absolutely, especially because this is going on with someone in my life right now.
Beautifully said.
so powerful…
Claudsy, Rosemary, Nikki, Banana…thank you for your kindness
very powerful, wonderfully quiet, captures the tone perfectly.
So moving.
What Do I Take From This?
Head dropping against the wheel
his shoulders heaving
his little boy pulling
but the mother had nothing to say
as she pried her child’s fingers
off his door handle.
Through his slammed car door
I watched him from across the lot
head dropping against the wheel
his shoulders heaving
and huddling over my take-out food
I feel a sting of salty tears
dropping to season my fries
on our regular Friday exchange.
Patricia, this says so much, communicates its sadness and heartbreak in vivid, simple images. You captured a moment in time in the lives of 4 people in two stanzas. Kudos!
I like the repetition used to get the point across. A sad state of affairs brings us to this exchange and seasons our take-out.
You do a wonderful job of showing-not-telling, to convey – and indeed, impart – the raw pain.
Exactly so. Lovely and heartbreaking.
“KILL YOUR TELEVISION”
is sprayed on the wall
of the abandoned
garment plant on
Poinsett Highway,
and each time I fly
past, I imagine how
I’ll do the deed:
perhaps launched
out the upper window
so I can see it dis-
assemble in the
driveway, or take
an iron to it in the
middle of a Master’s
telecast, or run a
chord out to the yard
and bury it alive,
all those sitcoms,
talk shows, and
infomercials gasping
for eyes, and me
close by, crying on
the remote, staring
at a screen of dirt.
But in the end, it wouldn’t be so bad.
Nice images here; now, what about the computer?
Been there, done that. Ours committed slow suicide and we simply didn’t replace it. The quiet was nice, the extra time productive. The feelings revealed here are vivid and echo ones I remember so well from the past 18 months.
Computer–NO WAY!!!! Enjoyed this one so much.
No jury would find you guilty: “take an iron to it in the middle of a Master’s telecast,” is self defense.
I enjoyed this, especially “gasping / for eyes” and “screen of dirt.” Nice!
imaginative, creative and refreshing.
love the ending.
Thought-provoking, Brian.
Shopping List
==========
Milk (2%)
Eggs (not the X-large)
Bread (white, not whole wheat)
Mayonnaise (regular)
and if you have time
on your way back from
whatever keeps you out
late on a Tuesday night,
try finding these:
dozen roses, or just one perfect blossom
chocolate hearts
pepper (black, Habanero)
passion fruit (juicy)
sparkling wine
and no cheese
I’ve gotta say, she definitely communicated her desires, intentions, and her frustration with the list bearer. Good one!
Dang! This is good.
Succinct and perfectly stated!!
love it!
trenchant and poetic, excellent poem.
Perfect!
(I know. I shouldn’t have to explain, but The Frist is an art center here in Nashville. One of their current exhibits is “Fairy Tales, Monsters, and the Genetic Imagination”. It seemed the sort of thing he’d want to check out.)
Can’t remember if this comment form will give me italics or not.
Nostradamus at the Frist
First of April, Twenty-twelve:
spinning wheelies in his over-powered chair,
Nostradamus is in Nashville,
and playing the Fool. Gouty toe bare to the world
and monkish robes exchanged
for rhinestones, he’s searched for new material
in hockey rinks and honkytonks
and twenty Baptist churches.
Now he’s come up to the gallery, and unamused
by Henry’s wives’ untimely triumph, or much else,
he speeds along, arrested only by a sculpture:
naked mother, baboon butt and parasitic son.
“Denique annus,” he intones to the room. “Annus unus.”
“The end of the world, the world’s beginning.
“The wheel is loosed from the peddler’s cart
“and the globe swaps poles not a moment too soon.”
After which jest, escorted outside,
he rolls back to the tourists at Tootsies,
grandly faking his wisdom, unaware
that he’s not the first fool to pull that one.
You always pick the perfect details to showcase exactly what kind of character you’re sketching. In this one, it’s a little eerie how easily he would fit right in…
I could easily picture this story line, Barbara Y. I especially liked the description of “naked mother, baboon butt and parasitic son.” That was vivid and unforgettable.
This one created a great visual effect for me Barbara. Well worded communication here.
This is fantastic!
Wonderful, Barbara! My favorite of the day!
Take My Hand
Would you take the world
if I could give it to you?
Could you hold the flame
of sacred fire?
Would you take my hand
if we could see the future?
come on take a stand
for your desire
I would take you there
if we could only find it
down a certain path
so many feet have roamed
it’s only as far
as your imagination
or just as close
as the next train station
~ Randy Bell ~
Good one, Randy.
Love this one, Randy.
Eavesdropping
They sit just to our left, forks in crinkled
age-dappled hands
food before them
and in the 40 minutes
we have been here, they have spoken
not
one
single
word
to each other.
Is one of them hearing impaired?
I watch for the poignant flutter of hands, but see nothing.
Maybe they’ve been married 65 years,
and simply run out of things to say?
Perhaps they have 7 children, and 28 grandchildren, and
the life has been slowly sucked out of them, with nothing
left for each other, just two empty shells sitting here eating
their manicotti.
Or have they just met? Is this some octogenarian blind date,
and they have already figured out they have nothing in common?
Are they in the midst of a yearlong silent treatment,
fiery anger having long boiled away into steamy indifference?
They look civil enough, though their smiles
are as small as their dinner portions.
Maybe everything is more easily satisfied with age.
And then I glance across at you
and your eyes light up in that way they do
and the corner of your smile pulls my heart
and there are no words.
Niceely painted, De. My sweetie and I are in that picture, now in our 42nd year, and, believe me, when everything has been said more than twice, just being is all the communication one – or two – might need.
<3 Lovely.
I love this, De. You’ve captured so much in this story of love, questioned and answered.
So well conveyed – and then that beautiful last verse.
Absolutely beautiful, De, especially, “age-dappled hands.” One of the best parts of PAD is reading your work.
I really like the conversational tone of this, it’s a nice change. You bring your usual sharp eye to this. wonderful.
I love “their smiles … as small as their dinner portions” and the portraiture. feel like I know these people now, and you.
It’s been three months since you have left
So I’m writing this letter as a close attempt
No matter what I love you still
Thinking about you makes me ill
Wherever I go I see your face
I must be God’s worst case
But someone told me I’ll be okay
It’s grandma wishing me a better day.
I Love You
I Miss You!
I miss you too.
I Miss Us!
I miss us too.
I Love You!
I know.
Told You So
Noah said it would rain last night.
I should have listened.
He really does
talk to God.
Too good, Nancy J. I laughed for five minuets over this true confession.
Ha ha ha!
I loved this – so much humor in so few words.
PAD for April 1, 2012. Topic : Communication
“Love Letters”
Words;
fiery,
ribbon-wrapped,
haunt my attic
realm.
AT A LOSS
suitcase, open,
ready to be filled
with shoes and clothes
and travel supplies
I need to pack…
he stares pointedly
into its emptiness,
seeing the shape
of memories
I wish time stood still…
the smells, tastes, and
sights of home
paw at his thoughts,
tug at his heart strings
You were always there…
his eyes shine,
pooling with tears,
as his mind tricks him
into feeling like a kid again
I can’t believe you’re gone…
hearing nothing
but his own whispers,
he pets the dog
sitting at his feet
I don’t know how I’ll say goodbye.
2012-04-01
P. Wanken
This touches on places I didn’t want to go to today, Paula, yet I went anyway. Thank you.
OK, tears now, time to wipe them away. This moved me Paula,
Oh, gosh. This one caught right in my heartstrings.
lovely, Paula….
Very powerful, great use of structure.
Thank you to claudsy, Mike, Misky, Nikki and Mosk…I had only time to post yesterday and haven’t read any other offerings…peeked back here today and am blessed by your feedback. Hopefully I’ll catch a few minutes later today to read before I get too many days behind! ~Paula
Paula, this works so well. It touched me.
TRYING TIMES*
“I’m so sorry last week
It was so worrisome, first this, then
that, no time, no time . . .,” “I know,
I know, with me it’s the telephone. There I am
sitting by the keyboard ready and armed
with a real thought. Now get this—oh, the cell phone.
It’s very important.” “You’re so right, people begin
a train of thought, two words, just two, wouldn’t
ya’ know somebody chimes in with a question, or–” “Only
last week my sister
was on her way to my aunt, texting on the cell phone some kid
next to her on the bus there asked to use it.” “You’d think
more people would have them.” “Maybe the battery was out,”
“Good to hear from you. My brother-in-law tells me . . . I smell something
burning in the kitchen, gotta go.” “As I wanted to say, people
don’t realize the value of what they
have anymore” “Good friends, for example.” “Right you
are. I see my daughter walking up the to the house . . .” “We
have to get together sometime, all of us
in one place to
talk about the important things in life.” “Yes, yes . . .”
“Have a good day” “You, too”.
Zev Davis
This is so 21st Century in its representation. People have begun to talk in Twitter speak. We don’t use time for communicating real thought anymore, just surface non-consequenials. (Is that a word?) See what I mean?
Love it!
Nice
Oh, too true!
Perfectly captures the chaos of modern communication.
What I’m Not
I am not your pet; get your paw off of me
I am not a kite stuck with string in a tree
Nor am I a taste of a honey lemon drop
In the shape of a sucker who knows-not-when-to-stop
A whisper in the dark when you’re in the mood?
No, I’m not your little trick to be eaten like soul food
I am not something you smell like homemade pie
I’d rather point my middle finger in your lying eye
I wish you’d just go away, pack your bags and leave
Shine your pseudo-light on another up your sleeve
I like the fierceness in this, and the choice of metaphors. Each couplet is its own balanced little Z-snap, and it works.
This has power, Laurie. It tells so many tales, balanced and riveting. Excellent!
Sometimes “What You’re Not / What I’m Not” helps us to define “What You Are / What I am” I like the form and the powerful punch.
I like this one mostly because it surprised me from one line to the next.
That’s telling ‘em!
Thank you… I appreciate your kind words.
Very fierce and visceral, great job.
Laurie, this fits perfectly for this prompt and the Wordle. wonderful work.
Silence
fills the void where your voice once lived
If you love me as you claim
Why do you make me cry?
If I could make you change I would
But the question is if I should
It’s easier to lay down and die
But I wonder if I could
This say a lot, exposes that side of love that no longer nourishes, but erodes instead. Good job!
I like the mood this sets. Wonderful poem.
The Title
I send and reply to your request
I do my best to beat the rest
I pick my brains to find deep inside of me
A Title that is worthy of me
So as I sit here wondering what it is you look for
What is your genre of skill?
What is your looking for?
Sitting here my mind stands still
At last it comes into my thoughts
It hits me like a flash of light
Even tough the night closes in
I try and give it my own little spin
I send this idea of mine to you
Hoping it will catch your attention and approval
When I wake in the morn to read your wonderful comment
You feel like it is suitable
You tell me you had something similar in mind
I know my idea was not anything
That I got it right I didn’t jump in blind
I hope it inspires you
Your words are very kind
This expresses much of a writer’s life or a poet’s frequent uncertainty.
Yes, it really does.
It surely does enjoy what you do that so important thanks you for taking the time to comment
Watching My Child Sleep
I gaze at you while you’re asleep.
I wonder where your dreams might keep
but judging by your face, I know
I want to go where you now go.
You murmur softly, words that I
don’t understand, I can’t deny,
but still, I feel connected, so
I want to go where you now go.
While quests of legend fill your mind,
subconscious dreamscapes are designed
where you’re the hero. O tableau!
I want to go where you now go.
Perhaps come morn, you’ll fill me in
on what you dreamt; where you have been.
For now, I’ll watch your magic flow.
I want to go where you now go.
###
I love this catching your child dreaming and imaging what it is they are thinking of ? lovely
Delightful!
I agree.
A mother’s reflection and desire. Sweet, RJ.
This one made me smile, and reminded me of watching my grandchildren sleep. What form is this one? I love the repetition.
Lovely indeed! And how sweetly you use the form, with such apparent ease.
Beautiful.
Calling My Love
Pressing number 2
Anxiously awaiting rings
His voice and I breathe
Deafening Silence
You called me
received only
You emailed me
not one word in response
You Facebooked me
one last desperate attempt
I saw the writing on my wall
I said “congratulations”
You called me
met only with
My
speaks volumes
mschied
Spring Poets
Like spring peepers we start
our early morning calling
collective subconscious
soft solo whispers in the mist
poetic sunrise synchronicity
trill and warble growing louder
each building upon another’s song
adrenaline rush ever adding voices
until everyone is singing
in harmonious cacophony
Good one, PSC!
The call of April 1st here at Poetic Asides. Very Nice!
!! Yes, everyone IS singing in harmonious cacophony!!
An inspiring conceit – I love it.
I love this for its imagery, particularly, how we build upon another’s song. Beautiful.
Thanks, everyone! This is just exactly how it feels to me when the PAD energy kicks. Everyone’s ideas ebbing & flowing in the ether and all the muses telepathically connected.
)
EMAIL CHAIN LETTER POEM
The pictures will melt you
The animals, the scenery, the soldiers
The lines will tickle you
The jokes, the quips, the quotes
All in all it’s a message I think you
need to hear
But instead of expressing it in person
I’ll just send this to you
Now forward this to twenty people and something awesome will happen
For You
For you …. I would
cast away all I own
tread past sand and stone
romance you on the phone
you and me can’t you see
it’s the only way
let love feed our souls
each and every day
when all is said and done
darling your the one
for me ….
~ Randy Bell ~
So sweet. A valentine in April.
Chorespeak
He stokes my back by cutting
the lawn, peers into my eyes
by hauling garbage to the curb
every Thursday night and kisses
my eyelids and neck with an iron
over my cotton shirts. I know
he loves me. I can hear
the washing machine.
Linda Voit
This is adorable! Great title to tie it together.
I SOOO get that! Nicely done!
)
Excellent!
Great final line!
Terrific!
Linda, that’s my love language, too! Love it!
Acts of service is one of my favorite love languages. Lovely and so well done!
I like this one very much.
Thanks for the comments! Good to be back to PAD! Happy April! First line should be strokes, not stokes.
We knew that!
I love this. Love it!
love this!
Linda, I really enjoyed this!
Love is service, the dirtier the work, the greater the love.
Love it!
VOICES IN MY HEART
The assigned expression on my face
is filtered, edited, and replaced
often with too much consent
from the devious instrument
pumping life, thought, and emotion,
although my veins resist the ocean,
of loving too deep,
of revenge too sweet,
of lies that are true,
of doubts that disqualify you.
So, yes, when I hesitate
a conversation is taking place,
whispers of extremes:
the chaotic to the serene
are checked at the gate
and my mind then consolidates
with this polite shrug,
this placid hug,
this refined smile,
this censored child.
Isn’t that the truth? Our internal editor – always at work. Nice job, Maxie2!
“the censored child” I love it.
Maxie2, this is lovely. Great rhythm, it places a tune in the mind with its reading, a vision with its words.
“So, yes, when I hesitate
a conversation is taking place”
This is so true. I see myself in this one.
Nothing wrong with the self-censored child. Good write.
Son of Hermes
Covering eighty miles of rural roads
every day, at every home anticipated
but never asked in, he drove
from house to house, window
open in every season, one arm
tanned, the one that rhythmically
opened each mailbox door,
removing everything inside, lowering
the small red flag, sliding the mail
all the way to the back, in case
of rain, then shutting it right.
Few knew his name,
though everybody knew his car,
old rusted Plymouth they heard
before they saw. Even after waiting
all day for his arrival, they never
gave him a second thought
once they’d retrieved the letters,
bills, and flyers tucked inside
the box. Though no one voiced it,
all considered him a sign of hope,
the letters that finally arrived,
reassurance of love, handwritten
in script so family, a return address
is mere formality.
Sometimes he read the postcards,
innocent enough, just a dozen ways
to say “Wish you were here.”
He wondered most of all what lay
inside those letters, especially
the ones of such import
they waited for him by the box.
Oh, Nancy — so sweet & present. Love this!
Nice!
Charming, Nancy.
The moment where he reads the postcards is particularly poignant. That’s a poem on its own.
Marvelous, Nancy. So true of a postman’s life, especially now. I could see and feel it all, which is how it’s supposed to be, I’m told.
You never disappoint.
A fascinating story / character you bring to life.
“…reassurance of love, handwritten in script so family, a return address is mere formality.” Love that line!
family should read familiar! oops.
I read a beautiful lonliness in this poem. So nice!
A great piece that triggered my memories of posties, including my brother’s time as one. A lovely story, especially the bits between the lines!
Unique and well written.
When I couldn’t find the words
you stepped forward, grasped
my thigh with a gentle pinch
as Bach kept on playing sad
sonatas on painted parchment
stuttering thoughts gone gray
while violins chant a wailing
texture of gentle roughness
a duet of silence unhinged
Excellent sonic work, but my fav detail is “you stepped forward, grasped / my thigh with a gentle pinch.” That’s an image both visceral and recognizable.
Gotta go with Brian on this one. Lovely song.
I love visual poetry, so this one really caught my fancy.
Lovely.
Visual and sonic. Excellent combination of means of communication
“A Pen’s Confession to its Paper”
I tattoo stream of consciousness onto your fragile skin
(I pray you love the calligraphic design)
The words will make women and scholars adore you,
Even though I wish those words were mine
But know that if I could weave my own ink-stain spell
Without needing a hand to make me dance,
And tell you of my joy when my metal-tipped lips
Kiss you across your pale expanse
If only there was a sign to let me know
That you could see the beauty that I scribe
A curl, an unfurl, a ripple in your being
To show me how you feel inside
But sadly, as we run out of time and space
And I must conclude this brief affair,
The magic of the dance loses its grip
The poem is done, the love no longer there.
Ah well…on to the next page…
Love this concept – and your screen name.
Oh! Love this too, Imaginalchemy! Your “ink-stain spell” has been woven just fine!
a fine perspective.
Metal-tipped lips, indeed. Wonderful perspective and grace movement. A dance of need and acceptance.
Yes, that was what caught at my imagination. Lovely!
Love this! Great imagery!
Love it.
Totally love the voice you give the pen. And the artless rhyme, easy to read.
###
Eager to see if
Life always finds a way to
Get across to you.
#
Without it, one cannot hear the question, or answer it. Like!
I read this earlier in the day, and it’s tickled my imagination since then. Very nice!
A brief poem that conveys much meaning.
Happy April Fool’s Day, most marvelous first day of National Poetry Month and Poem-A-Day here at our
Poetic Aside’s home!! I’m so excited, I’ve gotten the hiccups!! BIG smiles to everyone!
~CLOSE-TALKING~
Oh, of the way
that wind whispers,
gently tugging
for attention
at the hemstitch
of my skirt.
Oh, swift sinking
sunset,
wordless soothing
wonder.
When you’re gone,
sunk beneath
black horizon,
I ponder
your magnificence
splendor and color,
mind’s eye still lit.
Oh, what gains
in the greenest
of grasses,
luminescent home;
knees to earth,
ear to ground,
I listen
to your heartbeat.
Oh, Sun,
rising moon,
river, rising tide,
pool of cool water,
I hunger;
slipping from form
to become
brandished by you,
wooed of your wave,
shape-shifting
to become
first person
point of view
of all that exists
in nature.
©H.G@P.A. 4/1/12
Love the imagery.
Ahhh… love this one, Hannah.
BRAVO Hannah!
I love this song of blended natures–Earth’s and human’s. Good one, Hannah.
Maxie, Patricia, Linda and Clauds, I truly appreciate your thoughts. Smiles to you all!
WOW!! You guys, Michael, Rosemary, Nikki, Buddah and Jawig!!! You’ve ALL made my heart so happy with these comments. Thank you SO much!!
The metaphorical blending of human and nature and human nature are thrilling in this piece Hannah. Bravo!
Oh, gorgeous! Love the sensuality of your words.
Just lovely….
Masterful, such a sweeping panorama of detail
I love the world that comes to life with your words.
“I PROMISE”
How often the words slide between the lips
with reasonable intent
though later shown false
fleeting futures lost in the benefit of deception
We understand and accept the possibility
and yet
We dare to move forward with a trust
forged by the love in each other’s eyes
the tender timbre of our voices while speaking the words
the pressure of fingers at this moment entwined
We say those words
ONE in the moment
Promised to each other
for as long as we are blessed
In your silence
You say more to me
Than any words
Could ever portray.
Nice!
Yes!
Exactly!
I never thought of breathing as a means of communication before, but you’re absolutely right!
SAY WHAT YOU MEAN
This dream pervades each thought
and I ought not deny it.
Do you love me, or only the thought of me?
Say what you mean; mean what you say.
I can’t be sure if you don’t know,
and I can’t know if you’re not sure.
Am I your only one and only?
Say what you mean, mean what you say,
You say I move your mountain,
You tell me I keep you alive.
You want me to have and to hold me.
You mean it? You don’t say.
You’re unstoppable, Walt! Poem on!
ah, the uncertainty. Lovely, Walt.
Keep on keepin’ on, Walt.
Understanding communication can be problematic for sure. Good start Walt!
Those things that we leave unsaid often whisper endlessly in our ear. Very good, Walt.
Ah, the art of communication is never quite certain. Great poem.
Hello everybody,
Here it gos my 1st poem.
“out of order”
In a phonebox
out of coins, full of words
to tell you before the winter.
No more hurricanes
for take away,
no more races
against the rain.
Just me with buttons
in my hands.
I’m sending to you a bottle
with no message inside.
I like very much – I like your line “out of coins, full of words”- yes, yes.
My eyes opened with the stillness of the sunrise
My ears ringing, trying their hardest to hear any sound
Then the cackle of the raven – asking for a hand-out
Tap, Tap, Tap mister woodpecker
Tap, Tap, Tap on the metal boat lift
The sun rising, stirs the air
A faint breeze whispers through the trees
Unseen the wind, but creating ripples on the water
Mother Earth coming to life in all her splendor
How fortunate I am to share this awakening of another day
Very visual, brings lovely memories.
EVERY BREATH
Deep breathing exercises
on a horizontal plane sapping
my energies and making me follow
wherever you lead. Breathing
in the closeness of night.
You’re on a roll here, Walt. You definitely tell a story.
Walt, I just love your poems! Missed reading your entries every day…glad to be back with the group!
Gives me shivers of delight!
SOUNDS OF SILENCE
I turn toward you
eyes butterfly and fail to focus.
But your smile appears,
an alluring signal that says
all it needs to say.
I pull you closer, submitting
to your will – and mine.
I find that without words
loves fire burns as fiercely.
I am warmed by your heart.
A great way to start the morning.
Beautiful, Walt.
Really “a great way to start” it!
The intimacy and the passion, so loud and palpable… Definitely felt the heat rising in my cheeks.
As always, Walt, you are the romantic. Bless you. Loved this one.
touchy. Very close.
Yes, beautiful.
Gorgeous!
Lovely poem.
Walt,
I really like your poem. It describes a familiar exchange that I can relate to. It makes me smile.
Oh how I wished we had an edit button: beaches OF occupied France.
I automatically read the ‘of’ that wasn’t there.
A Communication Poem
Pip pip pip pip pip pip
Good morning. Here is the news
and this is Alvar Liddell reading it.
Alvar who? I hear you say.
Why yes, he of the velvet tones
who soothed our nerves
in time of war
in nineteen hundred and forty-four.
“The Allies have landed
a hundred and sixty thousand
troops on the beaches occupied France,
by sea and air.
the Second Front has begun.”
Before you could say knife,
my Mum had come to life.
She seized the vanman round the waist
and waltzed him round the floor.
It might take time,
in fact it did, almost a year,
but life was about to begin again.
Good communication
a vivid picture
Excellent!
Great!
Wonderful, Viv!!
Oh, how lovely! No wonder it is so well remembered.
The Tone of Silence
She was deafened
By the silence
After she read
Her poem
Aloud.
Nice beginning, Misky!
I literally winced.
I shuddered and my stomach almost decided to empty its contents…
a primal fear
Good one! So true.
Silence never was so full of words. Nice!
Oh! Been there…done that…good poem!
Oh dear! Been there too. Commiserations (if it was indeed autobiographical) – and knock ‘em dead next time!
How wonderful to see an opening stunner by MiskMask! Great way to start us out, for sure!
Robert, it looks like things are off to a super start this year!
Ouch. Been there, MiskMask. Nicely captured
COMMUNICATION FOR FOOLS
and we’re waiting for brunch after our order ticket
was dropped out of the queue due to a server error,
talking with our friends visiting from Sacramento—
he’s a professor sick of watching grinning young faces
turned downward into their laps where their hands are
moving vigorously. Please stop texting during my class,
he says several times a semester. Through the morning,
I have made it a point to glance into my red smartphone
and run thumbs across its keypad, but now I pretend it
is vibrating and pull it out of my pocket with annoyance
and disdain. Like this thing, I cry. It never lets me be!
And I throw it into my water glass where it splashes
spray onto the table and then sits magnified through
the glass and the cold water. My smartphone is under-
water. Nobody says anything. My friends are stunned
for ten seconds at least before they begin to fish around
for a question or something appropriate to say now that
our down-with-technology mantra has come true. It is
that crux of time that’s the joy of the trickster, the joy
of the fool. A shout out to my friend Janet who is a pro
photographer and thought of me while she was getting
rid of a set of fake cell phones that are no longer being
used in ads. That thing made April 1 very special for me.
FangO
Good joke, good poem.
Posted in the wrong place. Sorry about that.
Now after the month is finally over I can spend some time reading poems
and basking in the light
smartphones, Iphones, mephones these days seemed to
develop umbilical cords.
Take the crown
I’ll concede
Clouded by my wants
Crowded by my needs
Waving my flag
I’ll retreat
My hands are weary
Calloused sore feet
Surrender my sword
I’ll fallback
Bitter, battered
Broken from combat
Knee bent, head low
Coronation for the Hero
A wel-described nightmare in five short lines.
That comment landed in the wrong place. It was for misk mask, But I like yours, too!
Wonderful, beautiful in its simplicity.
Now after the month is finally over I can spend some time reading poems
and basking in the light,
Who among us hasn’t had this experience
I prefer to look at the audience and think they are so in awe
or so moved silence is the only possible response.
Now after the month is finally over I can spend some time reading poems
and basking in the light
Who among us hasn’t had this experience
deafening silence what an oxymoron.
I prefer to look at the audience and think they are in such awe
or so moved silence is the only possible response.