For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem that focuses on or discusses a tiny detail. It could be a tiny detail that is often overlooked, and you’d like to call attention to it. The detail could be one that if overlooked can cause good or bad things to happen.
Here’s my attempt for the day:
“Shirts”
Not all werewolves wear shirts,
and those that do don’t always rip them,
though sometimes they do.
And the same goes for their pants,
with some wearing ‘em and others not.
Of course, it’s a minor detail, but that’s why
I always kind of preferred the Wolf Man,
because he had a nice buttoned-up shirt
tucked into his pants. A gentle, though feral,
man who had a penchant for strangulation.
As the full moon peaks from behind dark clouds,
the gentleman grows hair, claws and sharp teeth–
his clenched fists open and search for a victim.
Dandelion Trivia
To coax guffaws and giggles out
of 8-year old boys and girls
tell them the French name for dandelion
is pis-en-lit, wet-the-bed in English.
When the laughter dies down,
explain that herbalists use this
plant as a diuretic. Young children
in France are cautioned not to eat
dandelion salads with their evening meal
XII. Shuffling a Groove in the Floor
As he hovered between life and death,
His heart, lungs and kidneys
Functioning thanks only to
Machines and pharmaceuticals,
My own organs kicked into overdrive.
As if mine compensating for his,
They pounded to anxiety’s beat
And an irresistible urge
Drew my feet to the ICU dance floor.
As I walked that cursed hallway—
Down which they’d wheeled my lifeless dad—
Back and forth, up and bottomward,
I burned the linoleum pattern on my brain.
Mauve and turquoise tiles
Catty-cornering dingy cream,
I’d come to abhor a color
Combination I’d once yenned.
“You’re still pacing,” he observed.
“I’ve been pacing for three days.”
This underfooting and my soles
Are now best friends.
I’m getting a grip–skipping the reading–will return later for a proper perusal
day # 12 often overlooked detail
Red wine, fish and whole grain
have no chance against
a random gene
your Grandpa dumped in the pool.
FOOTPRINTS
We walk on other people’s all the time,
not imagining those folks might need them,
after they’ve passed on. As useless
as their shadows, you might say.
But look at those folks in orange shirts,
down on hands and knees, staring
at the dirt in a vacant lot. And look across
the fence at a homeowner who’s just called
the police to investigate this suspicious
behavior. The patrol car pulls up, one
of the orange-shirts tries to explain:
a search-and-rescue exercise, mantracking,
following a set of scuffs in sand. Just a tiny
clue, that might lead step-by-step
one day to a missing hunter – a man
who needs his footprint like a shadow.
The welcome mat sits
Waiting to welcome us home
in any weather.
Day 12:
Prolific mints
sprawl out of bounds; over the rock
border of the garden wall
Creeping into the lawn
growing their way
across the backyard
out of control
Roots uncontained travel
on forever. Pots of mints
for all the needs
offer freely their
bounty within the compass.
Like King Arthur
Like King Arthur
who gathered
knights from all
the great kingdoms,
because they believed
he could unite the land
and bring together
in peace
adversaries
Obama gathers knights
and knightesses
from all the great
factions
I’ve found my calling…er topic…somebody stop me! (attempt #3) –spideyLOL
poetry is
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
poetry is slipping off your socks
just to take a chance and see
how the floor feels
against you,
in spite the risk of
slivers,
stains,
bruises,
dust,
temperature.
well, well….seems like I’m on a roll! –spidey
the memory of dust
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
the funny thing about
dust is
no matter how many times
you chase it from around corners,
push it off shelves and desktops,
or wipe it off the face of the earth,
it has the memory of a galapagos sea tortise
and continues to remember
all its former residences,
before the can of Pledge and Endust,
feathers and dust cloths,
mops and vacuums,
filters and static cling,
before dander and climate,
the EPA and even
the Big Bang himself
can dare take
full credit.
fair showgirls
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
blondes
redheads
brunettes
lovely dappled faces
pressed together in
gossip and concentration,
staving off nerves
between bites of
carnie food
and other no-no’s.
bottles of nail polish &
show sheen line shelves
just before show time.
long colorful ribbons
chase pesky flies,
becoming entangled
about hair & shoulders,
bouncing amid giggles
and side glances at
the stud just across the aisle,
hoping to be the one
that finally gets noticed,
(or at least the blue ribbon)
this time,
my northwest equine beauty.
Killing in the Name of Hollywood
Camera’s flashing
Hollywood smiles glistening
T-shirt slogans bilboarding
Across silicone breasts
Of love for earth and
Saving her life
5% of film profits
Going to re-plant
Native bushland
With new genetically modified
Silicone plants that
Never die and need no care
Adderbolt leans down and whispers
In Gaia’s ear
"I think
They forgot
The tiny detail
About the lights, camera and action
Causing your death."
Gaia nods wearily.
Details
Man – Woman
Girl – Boy
Married, Single,
Widowed, Gay
Dressed – Naked
Black – White
Is it wrong?
Who can say?
Deitistic – Atheistic
Headscarf – Flowing hair
If the Devil’s in the details
Why are they lurking there?
To fuss about the minor points
To nitpick and to yelp
Never dawning upon them
To get off their ass and help.
Vanessa O’Dwyer
The Line
He stored the jar on a shelf
oh, so many years ago
year after year
gathering dust it sat there
though he’d forgot himself
Then one day
there was but a minor quake
many would say
it was naught but a quiver
to call it a quake was a mistake
During the shake
the jar developed a sliver
though some might call it a crack
it mattered not
for it’s contents it began to deliver
At first there was just an ooze
odorless, it foamed at the edge
he ignored it,
thinking he had nothing to loose
The liquid fell to the can on the floor
burned right through
though he never knew
from the other side of the door
Forgetting the acid,
ignoring the crack
the little he did
time he could never have back
all led to flames and the fire
He suffered serious burns that night
he rebuilt, something you have to admire
that he learned from his insight
that was something not even he could desire.. .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/14/08 Single detail poem.
Gustave Corbet, French (1819-77)
The Silent River, 1868
A Small Thing
No focus.
The scene divides in half,
a rocky bluff one side of the river,
a tall graceful tree on the other,
the tree shaped like a sheaf
of cotton candy.
Perhaps there’s no focus,
but what the observer observes
is the bluff,
overtaken with greenery
on its top, tip, and sides,
the trees and undergrowth mingle
until someone can’t distinguish
one from the other.
Overtaken, with what appears
all the same green.
Yet up close, myriad greens
make up the tangle.
A small thing,
but nonetheless important
in some way,
or the artist wouldn’t have
captured it
forever on canvas.
In One Second
In one second life can forever change;
someone becomes pregnant, falls
downstairs, opens the door to the
intruder, hears it’s cancer, it’s over,
it’s too late, sees a look she was not
meant to see, speaks words without
thought, cannot pull them back, pulls
the trigger, encounters black ice, skids
can’t stop. All it takes is one second
for life to twist down an unforeseen path
and directions to the former path are lost.
The website wouldn’t let me on last night for some reason, so here’s my poem a little late.
A six year old wielding his power
You wouldn’t think
there’d be much to choose
between one teaspoon
and another,
but if I give him
the one with embossed petals
or elegant curlicues
on the handle
he’ll make a fuss,
he wants the plain one
although it won’t change the taste
of his yoghurt.
Smiles Went Missing
Such a sweet, bright child
Once
Full of color and light
An artist from the start
Preschool portraits
Meticulously depicting
Eyes with irises, pupils and lashes
Bewhiskered pets,
Fish with fins and gills,
All loved ones –
Ubiquitous smiles
Later
Outgrowing crayons
You turned to tempera,
Acrylics, watercolors and oils –
Still stippling in
Color and light –
Splashing smiles
Everywhere
Now,
I wander your room
A visitor at the museum
Seeking enlightenment
Scrutinizing each canvas
Struggling to discern
Exactly when
Smiles went
missing
All day the sun and clouds have fought
To dominate the sky
The sun marched, a juggernaut
Sweeping clouds aside to dry
The grass and trees
Drenched by a cloud careering
By, rumbling as it flees
To the East, leering
Back with lurid flashes.
But the sun shoulders itself ahead
Shrugging off the thunderous crashes
Promising to return from its Western bed.
And as the night folds itself around me again
I think of you. And ask the stars yet again. When?
Sorry I posted this last one on the wrong day. Can’t navigate the internet. Bruce, I love the one on the Messiah! nice touch.
In Five Minutes
One alone at the
lunch table
trying to look
busy behind a book
Two pass by, balancing
lunch trays, their
daily dose of chicken
fingers and Coke.
Three empty chairs
sit as
silent accusations:
Who’d want to sit
by you?
Four strangers crane
their necks, looking
for an open spot and ask
“Are these seats taken?
Five words—stuck in
her throat—finally
escape: Feel free to
join me.
For the first time
this school year,
she won’t eat
alone.
A second later
she realizes, they’re
eyeing her chair
too.
With third lunch
packed to capacity,
no one simply sits
and reads.
Do they?
Back and forth she
scans the room for one more
chair, a peace offering,
buying time
in company.
A fifth wheel, she
finally blushes, marks
her page, and rising,
heads to the hallway
to wait for the bell.
Nancy Posey
You can not see me
I am something that people take for granted most days of there lives.It is a feeling you have for a child, friend,husband or wife. You can not see me, but I am there. I can be sitting with the remote in an easy chair. I’m in a smile and a laugh, I may even be in a cup of coffee. I can make you scream and cry your head off when I have done you wrong, or I am lost. For love comes in many different forms, love of someone is the most precious of all. But when lost, you pay the cost. I am overlooked by many and just assumed by some. Make sure you share me with someone.
I know this was suppose to be about a tiny detail that might be overlooked. I think this is something that is tiny in many lives for they just assume it will always be there.
Patti, Laurie, Lori, Rachel, Heather, Bruce, Ian some of my favoirites today.
Lol Ian, thanks
And thanks Laurie
Change
Walking along Silverbell in Tucson,
I found a twenty-dollar bill laying
in the gravel off to the side of the road.
It might have been a ten, or even a five
but it was definitely Silverbell and
I was headed to the store to get a coke.
I think it was a coke, but maybe it was
the time I went for fatback for my mother
so we could season the hard white beans
we got along with potted meat, cheese,
corn meal and really good peanut butter
when my dad was unemployed in 1967
during the strike, when I walked to the store
with nothing and ended up getting something.
Everyone’s work is stunning. I don’t feel quite up to snuff tonight but here goes anyway.
Eldest
The distance between us, the sum of its parts
measured by miles or molecules or time zones
or years, you are lucid enough tonight though
you admit to some degree of confusion about
exactly where you are, you’ve been moved so
often in the last two months. When my brother
called last night you were hysterical, they’re plotting
in the halls you said, I hear moaning and crying all
around me, I know what they’re doing in those other
rooms, they haven’t hurt me yet but I know they will,
I need to pack, will you come get me? Yet tonight
you are calm and rational, you recall it all, the fall,
the surgery, the wheelchair, metal pins in your elbow.
My sister is there now reading you a story about a cat
abandoned in the returns slot of a library; she holds
the cell phone up to your ear as you describe the view
outside your window: a crimson maple aflame in the
yellow cone of the streetlamp. You enjoyed the flowers
I sent; they were all shades of blue and purple, a bouquet
of wildflowers. Tonight you still sound like my mother
and tonight I still feel like your child. "Goodnight,” I say,
“I’m sending you a hug through the wires,” I hear your
whispered answer “I feel it in every fiber of my being.”
Kate Berne Miller
Change
Walking along Silverbell in Tucson,
I found a twenty-dollar bill laying
in the gravel off to the side of the road.
It might have been a ten, or even a five
but it was definitely Silverbell and
I was headed to the store to get a coke.
I think it was a coke, but maybe it was
the time I went for fatback for my mother
so we could season the hard white beans
we got along with potted meat, cheese,
corn meal and really good peanut butter
when my dad was on unemployed in 1967
during the strike, when I walked to the store
for nothing and ended up getting something.
His plans are dastardly,
sometimes stupid and campy-kitsch,
but there’s always a point,
a lesson to be learned –
a moral to the unhappy ending
that happens thrice over.
With each life he takes,
he imparts a little value
on each survivor, the untouched
citizens gaining an appreciation
of his organized chaos;
the way in which he chooses
his victims at random
allows all those left alone
to appreciate the life
they’re allowed to live without
interference of happy-gases,
stupid gags, or crudely
concocted death traps.
He’s helping others to see
what they might have missed before,
that just because their friends
may die, they should be happy
that it was not them.
I must say I agree with Patti tonight, there are just too many great poems today to comment! I enjoyed them all!! I love seeing what everyone is doing with their themes too – it’s great!
I really struggled with this because there are so many details with vertigo, the things people take for granted that are now risky for me, that I didn’t know where to go. I finally focused on the ubiquitous label one finds on nearly every bottle of medicine, whether OTC or prescription.
May Cause Dizziness
If I move too quickly,
Toss my hair out of my face
Shake my head “no” with vigor
Or look both ways before I cross
It triggers the spinning in my head.
The traffic helicopter flying low
Overhead, the rhythm of the trance
That dances from my son’s bedroom,
And the unexpected ring of my phone
Or knock on the door will cause
The ground to shift and slip away.
Crane shots in movies, zooming
Aerial visions of director’s zeal
A bird’s eye view of a village
And walking down the dimly lit
Stairs of a theater after the closing credits
Keep me nauseous and at home.
The weather changes—with rain
Comes a heaviness in my head
That makes reading a chore
And wind can make a simple walk
A tightrope balancing act where I
Stretch out my arms to keep erect.
The list seems endless and I refuse
To not test the limits of myself.
Practically every prescription says
May cause dizziness
Which, for me, is redundant
I keep hoping I’ll find a pill
That makes everyone else dizzy
And returns some balance into my life.
And here is my big offering…I decided to try a Sestina again (for practice before Robert requests we do one).
“Water Drop”
It has a tempo
This little droplet of water
It falls gently down to earth
Giving life to all living creatures
And nourishing the weak
Fulfilling a promise of things to come
You must come
And dance to this tempo
Do not be weak
For I can give you a drink of water
And we can watch the earth’s creatures
Roam this planet earth
On this green and blue earth
People from all around come
To see all of God’s creatures
Groove to their’ own beat
Drinking from the lake, the nourishing water
So they are never weak
My plant looks weak
I refresh its earth
And give it a drink of water
And you can watch in come
Back into rhythm
Rejoining all gods creations
The stomping feet of small creatures
Defeat any thoughts of being weak
And I am driven to march to the tempo
Of this beating earth
So come
And bless this water
Rising up out of the water
Are all manner of creatures
Dolphins and whales are coming
My knees grow weak
My heart trembles with the earth
A strange and exhilarating tempo
Droplets of water, give life to the weak
Creatures that roam our planet earth,
Coming to our souls in its own unique tempo.
Okay here is my little offering…
“Snowflake”
Snowflake
Little and white
Falling gently to earth
I am consumed with peaceful thoughts
Crystal
Not satisfied, so the only thing to do is write another …
The Tornado ripped through the
Land then passed as quickly as it came.
The people came back to search
Through the rubble
For the leftovers of their lives.
Small things mattered
Now that the big things
Were gone, blown away all the way
To OZ and back.
A teacup from her grandmother,
The framed photo of their son in Iraq.
She found her husband’s guitar in a tree
Unscathed but cried hard when she
Came across her jewelry box,
Still closed, nestled in a lone bush
Next door. The contents still as
Organized as she remembered
The night before when she placed
Their rings into the same red
Velvety spots she always kept
Them in at night when she
Dreamed he was still beside her.
She was sure he must have had something
To do with
The miracle of
Saving the little things that
Mattered so much now that
The big things were all gone,
Blown away by the storms that
Plagued the living.
Thanks, Victoria!
Connie- loved your floor poem. The domino theme is excellent.
Judy- I feel your pain.
Great poems everyone!
Laurie K.
Neal Buys a Cat
It’s a tabby for all he knows, striped
and centered on all fours, calm
fastidious in its cleaning. Neal has not
yet determined its sex figuring it would ruin
the mystery of it all, the equation
to the feminine. He’s calling her Sphynx
and negating the need to peek between
her thighs. She sits and perches
watchful and waiting for his next move.
He feels an affinity, a feeling as if the women
he’s loved in his life, all three, are bound
up in that red ball of yarn spinning its way
across the floor. Sphynx watches, ready
to pounce as if she knows what it’ll do
but the minute there’s a pause she turns
and stares at Neal, expectant and waiting.
Too many kudos to list today – just now posting my own feeble attempt – I have been busy with work thank goodness! Really though, good writing. I think this blog is oozing with talent …
Empty
Just before I fall asleep
I feel my gut contract
one little shot of pain
my payment for a night’s sleep.
Early on I thought it felt
like having contractions.
Loosing a child even when
he is twenty-three
is a miscarriage to my body.
found love poem
my first
love fell
in love
again
this time
it stuck
like a post
it to a foot-
note glued
to a love
poem
like a baby
clings
to the womb
of a fair-haired
mother
like words
attach
themselves
to meaning
like runners
keeping close
to the wind
like numbers
reliantly
maintaining
their order
and chaos
you will
always love
that girl
When she was weak
He brushed her hair
When she ached
He rubbed her back
When she couldn’t stand
He let her lean into him.
All through her battle
He gave her tiny bits of
Strength
She needed in her fight to
Survive.
sorry – typo – flare should be flair.
Dark Shadow
Today is cool and gray
Much like that July day
Back then in that other time
Before there had been a crime
My leaving without a word
Your watching that yellow bird,
Eating at the feeder, unaware
Of my wandering flare.
Everyone wrote such lovely poems! I’m impressed. Unfortunately, I’m also tired, so here’s my less than luminous contribution.
The Art of Goose Capture
Orange, bony
Leathery, large
Look quite sturdy
Right?
But when you think
About it
Those feet only support
Organs and a few hundred feathers
Turns out those legs
Are easily broken
So,if you don’t want
A gimpy goose
Got to grab its neck
And
Carotene
A magic little molecule
Holding hands with all the others
In the process of photosynthesis
So when you take a tiny dropper
Of a concentrated chemical
That cuts carotene production
Lush green leaves turn white
Then brown and noxious
All because a little molecule
Was left out of the process
Hobo’s Lament
Walk into the station,
try to find the train.
Don’t care where I’m going,
need to stop the pain.
Wander to the platform,
train comes rolling in,
headed for St. Louis.
Take a swig of gin,
climb into the boxcar,
find I’m lying down.
Head keeps right on spinning.
Still I want to drown
all my lies in liquor.
Just want to forget.
Lost my wife and children,
found myself in debt.
Don’t know why I’m crying.
Nothing I can do.
Wish my life was over,
wish it wasn’t true.
Train has started moving,
clatters down the track.
Push the car door open.
Curtain. Fade to black.
Went into the station,
waited for the train.
Knew where I was going,
had to stop the pain.
I don’t know if this is a "tiny detail" or not, but it’s where I went with the prompt:
Count Your Hallelujahs
I’m no chorister, but I have some advice
for you student and amateur choirs
about to tackle the Messiah this season:
Count your Hallelujahs.
It’s easy to get swept up in the ecstasy
of the most jubilant choral piece ever written.
But as you roll through “King of Kings,
and Lord of Lords”, remember that it’s
four “hallelujahs” before that pause.
I’ve seen too many red-faced tenors or altos
who just blurted out half a fifth “hallelujah”
after everyone else came to full stop.
Spare yourself the agony: four hallelujahs,
pause, then the final one. Let that last
exaltation burst forth and ring the rafters!
Then I’ll come watch your choir this Christmas,
and I’ll marvel at how well you can,
even for a second or two, contain your joy.
Zenkutsu dachi
mind body stance
Without the knee
at the proper angle
over the toe
the leg
cannot uphold it’s
anatomical space.
Prompt: Write about a small detail
Just Not a Choice
It was a small thing
that detail, the fear that
nagged her always
in her heart. It lived there
never large or raging
holding cobweb threads
the soft sounds of moths
hitting dark windows but
living just the same. Mostly
it didn’t matter, walked
her children a block closer
to the school, kept all
the doors locked, threw
out food left more than
a day, a good mother.
Until her brother came
with the Jewish child
said please hide him
the Nazis took his parents
we’re hiding his sister.
She said, no, it wasn’t
a choice she could make.
Nov. 12, 2008
Fabulous everyone. I am finding this quite challenging. Just a few . . .
Iain – Armistice Day, Bruce – Savage Breast, Victoria – It Matter, and Billy Angel -
When Parents Argue and Halloween. Congrats to all of you.
Probing Purple
A scientist states that
the earliest life on our
earth was of a purple
hue – before chlorophyll.
Ancient microbes used
a molecule, name of retinal,
to harness rays of sun, casting
organisms in violet. Eons
before Elizabeth Taylor’s
eyes, purple prose, or the
strange creature known
as the Purple People eater.
If you want balance,
you must align the
Crown chakra, center
of the body, source
of connection for
harnessing universal
energy, enabling your
imagination, removing
all obstacles in your
path, freeing you to
be an entity unto
yourself, expanding
your mind, allowing
fantasy . . .hmm
sounds suspiciously
like a certain forbidden
drug–L for lavender,
S for scented, and
D for deodorant.
Mount your horses
you riders of the
purple sage.
Dandelions
There are litte yellow suns in a sea of green
There’s only one thing this could mean
Spring has come calling once again
With her warm sun and growing rain.
Some call them weeds, I call them treasures
They’re one of nature’s beautiful pleasures
A free gift to us after all the snow
Some are in a hurry to see them go.
They bring out the mowers and chop them down
But they make me smile instead of frown
They’re bright little reminders that all is new
When the cold winter winds are through.
So go ahead if you must
Grind them into the dust
But I will enjoy them while I can
Painted by Mother Nature’s own hand.
No, no – not detail!
Left
too long
to one’s own
thoughts leads one to
think.
Black
Black is not black;
it cannot match itself
in shade or shadow
in the absence of light:
The tip of a borrowed tie
against a reversible belt
is revealed as imposter
with every deep breath
and shift in my seat
my formality
is found to be fraud. . .
not black.
And every pallbearer
is betrayed by their own sense
of black –
like they have known
the black she saw,
fumbling through the dark
her own hands hidden
manifest only by the wall
she tried to read like drywall Braille –
instead every shade
at the end of each arm
is some degree
of ashes to ashes –
the remains after smoldering. . .
not black.
My black wingtip
strikes the wet pavement,
and my sole
denies itself against
what I find
to be cobbles of charcoal. . .
not black.
Can we find our way out of grief
when all says, “Shade, shade, shade. . .”
is death holding an umbrella of ebony. . .
not black?
Chord
My ears still perk up like Pavlov’s
dog at that first chord, remembering
when I turned eight and thought
they’d bought me the soundtrack from
Oklahoma, claiming the Beatles
were all sold out.
I wept, burying my face in Mama’s
skirt while Daddy assured me I’d
like it if I’d listen. Placing the vinyl
disk on the turntable, he swung
the tone arm into place, producing
scratchy static, then that chord,
that unmistakable first chord
of “Hard Day’s Night.”
Nancy Posey
Oh and Rachel – I do think your ending works – meant to put that in my first comment with poem
Thanks again Robert – Writing to prompts on a theme is much more inspiring than I expected. I’m loving today’s poems. The lesson is as usual chilling, Heather – and Billy Angel, I’ve read yours after halloween six times already – chilling and strong. "Valentine’s Day in Jail" stands out too, especially the last terrible line.
Here’s mine.
How Matters
It matters how I open the door.
Fling it open, wild, wide, fast,
send papers flying, trip over feet,
break cup, let lurking flies in.
Open hesitantly, just a crack,
let hand on knob shake, steps falter,
leave my present outside, un given.
Enter mindfully, firm hand on knob.
Push gently, bring what was out, in.
Bring my present. Become present.
It matters how I open the door.
It matters how I shut the door.
Slam and shake shells on shelf,
slosh tea in fragile cup,
shiver even baby unborn.
Close incompletely, too quick
forget to listen for the click,
Leave crack in safe shell.
Close mindfully, firm hand on knob,
pull gently, separate in from out,
enfold room in welcome peace.
It matters how I shut the door.
nice poems today
One One Might Miss
The rolling river of mist slows,
settles in to disguise the berry tree,
its naked twigs like the faint lines
fading on the pages of last season’s diary.
Forty-nine sparrows, fruit in the branches,
all talk at once, then they are silent.
Like flittering leaves, they all look at once,
first left, then right, left,
some fly down, pick up mud,
some, a short stack of straw.
They fly down, then up, down,
one goes away, straw stack like a rudder
turns him, an expert in correction,
he avoids every branch.
Another stirs a small puddle of mud,
straw in her beak as if mixing a bird soup.
After the mist rise, disappearance,
all around that tree now empty
but for one flattened bird that remains
near the trunk, half hidden by dirt,
a few damp leaves; its exit from sight
slowed by the bitter change of seasons.
oratory dreamer
people speak.
dreams speak.
people speak
in dreams.
words
can define a person,
can wake a person
to real, profound
intent
and motivate both
the orating dreamer
and any witness.
its revelation
shouts
beyond control
when irrefutable truths
become unmasked.
~ Ronda Eller 2008
Communication Credit
Before-class conversation
as the students take their seats
comparison of schedules
and questions about
the subject at hand
jokes
insults
stories
complaints
swapping of emails
texting
The teacher enters
unaware of all the communication
already taken place.
Tears in a Bottle
One tiny drop
Just one small drip
Two molecules of hydrogen
One molecule of oxygen
Now put them together
In one tiny drop
And they can make a tear
That falls in sorrow
According to the Torah
God stores our tears
In a bottle for us
Drop by tiny drop.
Love your two themes Earl. And the second one… great point. I would do well to dwell on that.
Hi guys… here is my poem for the day. What do you think? Is the ending ok or too abrupt? What picture does it paint? Thanks…
The Northeaster
The glorious ship from Egypt
the Alexandrian,
loaded with grain and hundreds of sailors,
was my caravan of trade and commerce
headed to Italy, to make lots of money.
Along the way we met
Julius the centurian,
carting some prisoners
over to stand trial before Caesar,
so I took them aboard.
Why not?
Among them was Paul,
who could have been set free, I was told,
if he hadn’t prematurely made his appeal.
What a fool.
It was getting late in the season,
but I knew my ship – she was hardy.
The Romans they used to say,
"To sail after mid September is doubtful,
and after mid-November -
suicide,"
but what did they know?
We had a bit of rough going, sure,
but I found what I was looking for,
the gentle southwind…
…and we set sail along the coast,
(against Paul’s warnings
and religious ramblings)
seeking the harbour that would protect my
beautiful Alexandrian
until March, the end of winter.
Julius was on board.
But that precious southwind was
an adulterous liar,
enticing me soothingly
while she slept with the Northeaster,
the Northeaster
whose rage fell upon us as a jealous husband
whose territory had been violated.
We had no business in those waters,
for he came sweeping down from the island of Crete,
a typhoon with hurricane force,
and we lost all hope of standing our ground
being driven along
in terror.
We sailed with all our might
tossing the cargo overboard,
dragging the sea anchor beneath the ship’s tackle
which I flung over the side with my own hands,
my precious mainsail becoming
another hopeful brake for my Alexandrian.
The sun and the stars hid for many days
until we gave up all hope of being saved.
In desperation
we had passed ropes under the ship
to hold her together,
not knowing that
the smallest detail
would keep her afloat:
that we had Paul,
and Paul had God.
Fourteen days and nights
we did not eat,
but lived on adreniline and suspense
praying for daylight.
Who was I praying to?
Finally we sensed we were nearing land,
and the soundings confirmed it.
Some sailors tried to escape on the lifeboat
we had nearly lost to the storm,
but Paul,
who claimed to have angels speaking to him,
warned Julius,
"unless they stay, you die."
Julius was on board,
and the soldiers cut the ropes.
And then Paul did the craziest thing…
he opened the remaining grain,
the lifeblood of the Alexandrian,
and drained her to the ravenous men,
urging them to eat,
while giving thanks to God.
And my Alexandrian died,
dashed to pieces by the pounding surf
on a sandbar when daylight came.
But every disoriented sailor
survived
because we had Paul,
and Paul had God.
The Day After Halloween
I find the sleek, half-a-heart
corpse of a robin on the porch,
beak lying in a pool of black
blood. I leave it, go to work.
In the road a jack-o-lantern
sacrificed by trick-or-treaters,
the smile, cut to last, shriveled
into a yellow frown. I park my
car, a crow sneers, flies away.
Laurie K., thank you, thank you, thank you
Valentine’s Day in Jail
The smell of chocolate chip cookies
filled the air that Valentine’s Day.
Their first as huband and wife,
she planned to celebrate a special way.
The sound of the phone ringing
broke her train of thought suddenly.
A policeman’s voice at the other end
broke the news- she must come quickly.
The people waiting with the newlywed
told her stories of why they came.
In jail people were from all walks of life,
but she didn’t even know their name.
She waited and waited, and then posted bail,
an experience humbling to herself.
Not knowing whether she should be happy or mad,
she put her emotions on a back shelf.
So when her groom finally got out of jail that night,
the good wife simply said, "That’s all-right."
Laurie K.
Day 12 for LL&L:
Wrong
Some think I stand in the shadows
Some think I’ve walked away
Some think I’m not the only God
Some think I don’t even exist
Some think I really don’t love you
Some think I have too many rules
Some think I’m cruel to unbelievers
Some think I’m unfair to My own
So many are so wrong about Me
Day 12 for SS:
I Miss Nothing
Dot your ‘i’s
Cross your ‘t’s
Put down the seat
Finish your spinach
Set your alarm
Be there 5 minutes early
Don’t forget to pick up dinner
Where are your keys?
What’s that guy’s name?
Why are you in this room?
Is today trash day?
Why are you so human?
If you relied on me
You wouldn’t feel so stupid
Because I miss nothing
Dear Moosehead,
Ringo asked me to drop you a note.
So I am. Now I just got into town and I’m
not sure I’m totally diggin’ this antagonist
thing you guys got going on. Your sister
seems quite a nice girl to me and as for your
Mother, well she’s sweet. Could it be that
my cousin, your great friend, is just a miserable
asshole who is never ever satisfied with his
life and enjoys taking it out on his nearest
and dearest? Oh! And as for baseball, sure I’m
Braves all the way but after all it’s only a game!
Still, like I said I just got here. What do I know?
Yours probably missing the point
Jimmy the Greek
p.s. I nearly forgot… Ringo says pickya up at seven.
Connie – Excellent! Reminds me of Dudley Moore who once said that you can be anything you want but don’t be a carpet, being a carpet gets you nowhere (except upstairs at the Ritz for free) except walked all over. Nice one!
Iain
Floors
No one pays much attention to floors
We just walk all over them
Wood, cement, linoleum, tile
Carpet in an array of depth, color, and material
Old, new, expensive, cheap, dirty, clean
Given a cursory glance
Just as long as they keep us from falling into the basement
No one pays much attention to floors
Unless you are a domino builder.
Surface is essential.
The cracks, the slant, the texture can make or break a set up.
Formica, cement, basketball courts are perfect.
Definitely not carpet
Floors to domino builders are much like a canvas to a painter.
Even the color of the floor makes a difference in the design.
Some builders paint the floors to produce a different effect.
No one pays much attention to floors
Except domino builders.
Cats, Poetry & Death #15
…my point exactly!
Whenever the Muse refuses to comply
with desires to write in prose or verse
or rhyme, all poets will at some stage
resort, to inspiration of a sort known
to quickly cure this malady and though
a sort of parody, they look upon familiar
themes to find inspiration and it seems
that throughout the ages in different
tongues the Poet has become quite used
to following three simple muses. They
are found in works by all the greats though
some used one more than another states.
Without fail each will return to this sainted
trilogy of themes, replacing love and thoughts
of dreams. When nought else serves to stir
the pen, we write and write again and again
in free verse, rhyme and prose, to that which
the reader knows is always sure to affect the
heart (at least a little, for its part). We’ll scribble
hasty lines with rapid breath, or calmly thought
out stanzas of Cats, Poetry and Death.
Iain
I really like what you’re doing Heather! Great job- I love seeing what you come up with next.
Laurie K.
Hi, just a note to say that I finally posted for yesterday (migraine wouldn’t let me before). Also read all the poems and thought they were wonderful. Judy- I as a parent I can’t imagine your pain & It made me cry, it was beautifully written as well as so sad.
Back later I with some poems…
Iain
Lesson # 12: Beauty
She says she hates her body from the
Forehead down
She’d like
An eye lift,
A nose job,
One of her ear lobes is ripped,
She has “no upper lip”
“Nice double chin!”
She’d like to get that fixed
She had a doctor look at her profile
He says they need to break her lower jaw
Her breasts are “too small,”
She’s not leaving the house
Without her
Falsies in
She REALLY wants a “boob” job,
And if she ever gets the money,
They are number one on her list
Her thighs have hit
The high-water mark as far as she’s concerned
She says she has “saddlebags,”
“Can’t you see them?”
I say, “NO!!
“They look fine to me”
But, she’s wrapping them,
With ace bandages,
“It takes an inch off,”
She swears to God
The minute she can afford liposuction,
She’s getting it done
She’s so beautiful,
She really is
The prettiest she’s ever been
I wish she could just
Be happy
With what she’s been given
But,
That’s not up to me
Lesson #12: Beauty Is In the Eye of the Beholder