Wow! As many of you have noted, I’ve been super pleased with the quality of the poems written so far. Y’all’re swinging for the fences with your efforts this month. Very, very cool!
For today’s prompt, I want you to write a “By the Numbers” poem. That is, I want you to write a poem that somehow incorporates numbers. Sure, this might’ve made more sense on 11/11 when a few of us got talking about math and numbers and such–but, hey, who says poetry has to make sense? (Or numbers for that matter?)
Make numbers a large part of the poem or small part, but make sure they get factored in somehow. With this group, I’m sure some really cool stuff will emerge.
Here’s my attempt for the day:
“Japan”
There are four oceans,
seven continents,
and hundreds of islands on this planet,
but I always return to you with my atomic breath,
my swinging tail lined with plates.
For just as there is only one Godzilla,
there is also only one Japan.
Six fan palms popped up from
the ground in an empty space
where the old oak tree had provided
shelter for wood ducks, owls, and all
manner of birds for decades. They
encircled the empty space as if in
homage to the majesty of the felled tree.
I smiled at this spectacle of nature
and reached for my camera.
As I looked through the lense,
a man came into the picture armed
with insecticide. I took only one photo
before he sprayed toxic mist on
each palm. As I wrestled with the
raison d’être of the obliteration
he moved on to the dandelions
XIII. Reality Defying
I read an article the other day.
118 days—
That’s how long one teen lived
Without a heart.
“It was like I was a fake person,
Like I didn’t really exist.
I was just here,” she said
Of the ordeal.
It kind of downgraded my dad’s
Cardiac comeback
To minor miracle.
Then again, when talking artificial living,
Time takes on
Einsteinian relativity.
Several minutes or 118 days,
You’re clinically dead.
It still defies reality.
NUMBERS
TETRAD SD51E 27th Oct 2008
1 robin
Approx 4 house sparrows heard in a hedge
Circa 40 starlings flying as a tight-packed flock
4 mistlethrush
Circa 200 corvids rise and filter:
60+ jackdaws squeaky-call towards leaf-topped oaks
100+ rooks re-group like ghouls on a skeletal tree
the crows start feeding again in the next field
12 mallard in a flooded field
1 male wigeon joining them
1 moorhen
14 lapwings in subdued hue
2 rabbits
2 buzzard and 3 kestrels hunting over sodden fields
8 woodpigeon (seen in 2’s and 3’s)
14 collared dove in a balding sycamore
1 sun-soaked rainbow well defined against a heavy grey sky.
Day #13 By the numbers
12 eggs in a dozen,
3 feet in a yard,
4 yards in a dozen?
52 weeks in a year,
7 days each,
7 years to an itch.
Poets
shouldn’t play
with numbers.
I am glad I checked each day to see if mine had posted. I remember posting in the top ten of this one and mine is not there. I have had 3 days where I have had to go back and submit again. I do not know why sometimes I send them and they go right in, and sometimes I have to "save comment" at least 3 times. Anyway I have to rewrite this one because I did not save it. I am trying to save all of them in my documents for editing and a future chapbook. Why oh why is this the one I did not save. I even researached #s. Oh well, here goes for something different
Numerical Wonder
I met you on the first,
You kissed me on the second.
Third day we stayed up talking til dawn
On the fourth day you met my son
On the fifth day you sent me flowers
Day six we stayed apart
Day seven we cooked at your apt.
Day eight we awoke late
By day nine you were mine.
" Four "
Four years, I have given my life
and still I am not his wife.
Four years, I find myself in tears
instead of cheers.
Four years, I am losting him instead
of winning and I find myself not grinning
He controls my mood 24/7 and I am not
doing this anymore.
All of these are so brilliant! Excellent jobs, everyone.
Two car garage,
one front door.
Two staircases-
one leads to the basement
the other, upstairs
to the three bedrooms.
Two and a half bathrooms
accompany the bedrooms.
Welcome home.
Day 13:
On the 21st day of April
tilling
Five days into May
planting
As days go by 10 to
germination
Water and sun connect 75 days and
harvest
(well apparently my muse thought it fitting to outfit me with no less than 2 poems for this particular excersize, so what the hell?! –spidey)
fingers
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
holding his breath
Tom carefully tugged at
the mangled left glove,
starting with the smallest digit,
who despite it’s tender young
age, decided to be a big pinky
and just suck it up.
the next one over
surprisingly hurt the least,
in spite of all the blood,
a boxer knocked silly
but still in contention.
Tom was surprised however, at
finding out just how big a baby
the middle finger turned out to be.
true, it had received a few
blood splatters from its close
proximity to finger two, but
I mean, really!
was all that screaming and
panic really that necessary?!
as the largest digit on the
bloc, he really ought to
set a much better example!
now the index hurt like a mutha
as it left the glove of the accident,
badly bruised and throbbing,
gashed open, knuckle to cuticle,
blood pumping out with every pulse.
By all reason it shoulda been out cold,
dead, sayonara, dangling by a thread,
but the way it held on, clinging bravely
to the palm of Tom’s hand for dear life
swelled him with such pride, and
when it looked up at Tom, smiled
weakly and still dared to attempt a
slight wiggle room salute in spite of
all those life-threatening injuries,
Tom became giddy and nearly fainted.
oh and Mr. Index Finger?
(or “Sarge” as Tom liked to call him)
those years of military training
were finally put to good use.
Besides thumbing rides or giving kudos,
Sarge had them sound off every morning
at reverie: one-two-three-four
and now continued to fight to keep them
calm and focused, as he waved
the medics over for Tom
now lying in the ditch.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Tsunami
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
a 3 minute blast means the sea level has changed and
you have less than 15 to move inland to higher ground!
other times a good ground-shaking may well be
the only warning you have, so choose wisely!
a wall of water can shoot up to 100 ft high in minutes
depending on locale, quake strength, and
80 years of history over Pacific waters.
tune in to NOAA weather radio for further info
and wait for the ALL CLEAR from local officials,
as mother nature didn’t get the memo about the
official national warning system buoy
a few miles out.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Right by the Numbers
I was told there are 30
Human Rights,
So I went to see
If they
Existed in fact.
And so I looked…
Which made me wonder…
Could you ever quantify
A right
To the same degree
You can
Measure its denial?
And so I wondered…
Which made me look…
Vanessa O’Dwyer
I wasn’t too thrilled with my last effort–This one is better
Wonders
Wonder
One eye peering up
From beneath tea tinted depths
One eye seeking down
Lunch is one beak away
One eye waiting
For the two food bowls
Teetering in the food lady’s hands
One eye tilted to the sky watching
Jet planes fly by
One eye blinking at the sun
After emerging from the shade
Watching for scaly competition
And doing twenty pushups
To assert first eating rights
One pair of eyes dipping up and down
Synchronized with the other pair of Ibis eyes
One bite, two bites, three bites, four
Time to take a drink before
One pair of eyes rushes the bowl
And scampers in daring any other critter
To try to take one bite
One pair of eyes watching
From behind tinted glass
And savoring the
Wonders
Of it all
I swear I pasted this and saw it on here yesterday!
16 numbers
My waiter flits between nine tables
on a Friday lunch shift, black eye
half-healed from some unknown
accident. I never worked this end
of a restaurant, so can only imagine
the panic a two top’s misplaced
credit card produces. Frantic search
until it’s discovered perched atop
a stack of menus, the black on black
indecipherable in the dim light.
Heart Over Fist
Fifty-Three Percent
or Sixty-Four Million
or Three Hundred Sixty Four
electoral votes
win the Majority
of mind over doctrin
trust over fear
heart over fist
The Numbers of Global Warming
2030 is the year
That Glacier National Park
Will have no Glaciers
Left.
40000 square kilometers
Of Arctic sea ice
Melted.
Between 15% and 37%
Of animal and plant
Species will die.
6000 species of dragonfly
250 million years of life
Outliving the plesiosaurs
Wars, and religions
But with 1 in 3
Now extinct
How long will they
Live beyond
Gaia’s death?
7-7-87
Widowed one year,
I hurled myself against
slammed shut, jammed shut
comfort of remembering
This time last year we…
Loved the two dogs poem–can totally relate!
Wonders
One body of water
A pond deep and cool
One day to count
Is it two, four or twenty
Yellow and/or orange billed wonders
Arguing over the food dish?
40 whistling wings lift off
At any noise, or human appearance
Two sable necked geese
Protecting their crumbles
Charging across the hard-packed dirt
Intimidating even the bravest bird
Two teenage ibis asserting themselves
As next in line at the feed bowl
Then roosting vultures like above
The twinkling pond
Three enormous iguanas
Shaking their skin flaps
And bobbing their heads mechanically
Clearly stating this is mine, back off
Two eyes watching in wonder
As the scene unfolds
One set of lips lifting in a smile
At the innumerable joys
Found at one pond
Time and Who
An amoeba lives a day or two
a fly, but a few
so short a life
so much to do
One must wonder
but, if they only knew
certainly, no time to ponder
with all they must do
If there was just a way
to go back, relive each day
science fiction,
some might say
Certainly, not the fly
to whom
on the seventh day must die
Facing doom
The laws of physics
he might choose to defy. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/14/08 Numbers poem
Kudos, Michelle & Nancy! Earl, your poems get better all the time.
Great prompt, Robert.
Jules Breton, French (1827-1906)
The End of the Working Day, 1886-87
Three Women
Three young women trudge in from the fields
at sunset.
Golden-pink light illuminates tall white
flowering plants and the silhouettes of
the women
as they move away from the light.
The second woman
carries a heavy burlap sack that
bends her shoulders
forward.
The woman behind her mimicks her
movement and stance,
but the woman in the rear
seems to bear
a heavier burden.
The leader looks over her
shoulder, with
a contemplative expression.
Why does she carry two shovels
and a water jug,
while the other two women
tote the heavy bags?
Behind the women,
two men remain in the work field.
One kneels,
another stands.
They continue to dig the harvest.
The beautiful light belies
the heavy labor,
glorifying the earthiness of what
these five farm workers
do with their hands
and lives
every day.
One
One day is all I have
one moment, one hour
this moment, this hour
live right now.
One life is all I have
one chance, one path,
my choice, to get it right,
live right now.
One day, one life
this moment, one path
this hour, my choice
live right now.
Waiting For Spring, November 13, 2008
The trees are black and bare,
unmoved by the cold wind.
Days of change came, left
nothing untouched. I think
of the game of statue we
played as children, running
from the person who was
it. If touched, you froze
no matter how awkward
and difficult it was
to remain in place
without moving
until someone charmed
set you free
to start the game
all over again.
Just a little one as I’ve been to the monthly spoken word nite! I read a couple in the open mic including the kids and cats poem from last weekend (day 7?)
Count
Let’s have you in the shower
by the time I count to three,
one,
two,
two and a half
two and three quarters
‘say three Mum
say three.’
I don’t want to say three
I want to see you move
I want to say hooray
well done
what a good boy,
I want to keep a hold
on my temper.
Sitka
Thousands of spawning Dog salmon have returned at once, all attempting to swim up the same small steam, so solidly packed you could walk across on their backs. Instinct drives the overflow up onto the beach to die.
Hundreds of Bald Eagles, their white heads glowing in the fog, line the banks of the stream, ripping the pungent carcasses with beak and talons.
Dozens of crows hop along the beach picking at the remains, their tracks like graffiti in the sand.
One Raven, black against the blue dome of the Russian Orthodox Church, calls out in its rolling rattle, speaking in tongues.
Kate Berne Miller
Change
Every room is deliberately staged,
as if the house is for sale, waiting
to be judged by strangers who want
angels on each shelf, fairies here
and there, rocks weighted with words
such as balance, faith, and peace.
It is more a photograph than home,
piano never played, candles still unlit
Even books are left askew by design,
titles to impress rather than illuminate,
dark woolen shawls artfully tossed,
reed diffusers of lavender and rain.
This is a place of catalogs and malls,
personality dictated by fashion, lifeless.
Total Hip Replacement
I’m hip.
I’m a cool cat hipster.
I’m a right-sided, left-brained
newly revised
souped-up
edition.
I’m hip.
I’m a dislocated
sawed-off
drilled out
titanium and cobalt-chrome
inserted and cemented
prosthesis
hipster.
I’m hip.
I wear a thirteen inch
wrap-around
Frankenstein scar
tattooed across my right hip
stapled back together
smooth as train tracks
going nowhere fast.
I’m hip.
I’m bionic.
I’ve got me one
super strong
shiny new
ball and socket
Totally Replaced Hip –
I’m hip.
Kate Berne Miller
"My favorite line from the movie clue,"
I postulate mostly to myself, putting
the pointy end of the knife blade
against my mouth in a peculiar pose
of thoughtfulness, "Has to be that one about
one plus two plus two plus one.
The numerology just tickles my proverbial
pickle." The girl on the other end
of my 1911 revolver(stolen from Two-face ironically)
didn’t quite get the joke
and it made me frown, sadness
spilling across my features before
being replaced by an effortless fallacy
of happiness as I continue to explicate,
"But it always turned out, in every ending,
for there were three, that none
of the guests can count to six. Ironic,
really, the numbers present in the movie,
but that last one is always unaccounted
for. And just because Mister Green
goes home to sleep with his fictitious
wife and Mrs. Peacock really is a cock
doesn’t make their ineptitude
any less amusing." I purr and press
the muzzle of the gun beneath her ear.
She’s not enjoying this as much as I am,
no of course not. None of them really do,
but I tarry on, carry on, something else on.
Because there’s one last bullet in my
chamber, "and I hope to God you can
count better than that Butler turned
Boddy, because darling there might
not be anything left for your brain."
But then again there’s always that
fact, that little tiddly bit of information,
that I couldn’t even pass high school
math. But she doesn’t need to know
that I think that there might
be six minus one minus two minus one
bullet left in my lifted weapon.
Love Counts
If 1 is the loneliest number,
then it takes 2 for tea.
3 times a lady saw me in the bar
and said at last, 4 strong winds
blew me your way. What are the chances?
5 to one, baby, I said, one in five.
Let’s take my car, get our kicks on Route 66,
turn down 7 Bridges Road. I know a place
we can party 8 days a week.
Who needs Love Potion #9
when we’ve got the 10 Commandments
of Love? We’ll cross the desert to Vegas,
and I’ll be cool as the dudes in Oceans 11,
all the way through the 12 days of Christmas.
13 AT THE FEEDER
Dawn. November 13th, 6:15 a.m.
Three dark-eyed juncos, one brown towhee
hunched against the chill.
A white-breasted nuthatch walking
down the deck-post – wait, here comes
another, that makes two acrobats
of bird-dom. There, a swagger –
white-crowned sparrow – and the juncos
disappear. One oak titmouse tips his tuft.
How many birds now? It’s like
tabulating daylight. Is that
a flutter in the depths of pyracantha?
Too dim to see if it’s a bird –
a spotted towhee? – to add to a
winter’s count of hunger.
HOG ISLAND GAME AND FISHERY
The hunt landed twenty seven mallards
And four bucks, and three does,
The fish and turtles number two and thirty.
Between seven men, three boys, and two porters
They catalogued the entire island’s game
Save for the wild hogs, which they didn’t shoot,
Only because the hotel keeper insisted
The beasts tasted better in deep fall
After they had eaten two weeks of onion
And wild yams. The party stayed three days.
One hundred years later the island is lost
To mosquitoes, green flies, and fowl.
The wild hogs drowned, and like the hotels
And houses can only be found in small
Polished bits, when a storm pushes hard
The water and upturns a jawbone, a board, a nail.
math class numbers under the knuckles a woody swath abraded from glossy yellow-painted number 2 number 2 pencil pressing the point until it succumbs and crumbs into a spack of silvery dust not fairy dust but like magic like subtraction taking away something a rabbit disappears into an inky hat making it not making it air o less than zero
I am really sick tonight. This is the best I can do.
One God
One God
Two of every kind of creature
Three persons of the Trinity
Four headwaters
Five will chase one hundred, one hundred a thousand
Six days
Seventh day to rest
One God
Thanks Margaret! I got a kick out of your 12 days of cleaning!
Earl – Loved Noah’s Ark
One Final Wish
Before he is about to blow,
his exhale is exaggerated,
another flustered sigh,
as if every breath he pulls
is drawn through a straw.
Inside two lungs, dwell
a hungry nest of mosquitoes,
blood pregnant females,
like a buzz swarm of furious wings
they steal the precious molecules
of oxygen to feed their breathless suck,
seventy nine bright red birthday balloons.
Friction electric, a static charge cling
holds them up to the ceiling.
His gray head hair, mixed up
standing tall from the rubbing,
still full of surf waves and contour.
Spots of light glow on their bottoms,
reflections of the fire burning below,
like the glint in his eyes sixty plus years ago.
Colorful rivers of red green orange yellow wax
rush to the edge, the cake candles are dying
smoke rise, burnt down, nearly to the base
as he is treading on the surface
in his sea of internal thought waves,
trying to remember the lost sentence,
trying to gather enough wind,
trying to figure out one damn thing
that is really worth wishing for.
Day 13 for SS:
Cranial Facts
46 ounces
10,000,000,000 neurons
Need I say more
Neal in Numbers or
Counting on Neal
The times he’s sped, unrepentant, against
the grain, like a crazed Des Esseintes
the epitome of decadence and the head
of the avant-garde, feeling the past
fin de siecle: innumerable.
The minutes Isabella would reel at the suggestion
Neal was someone special, someone with whom
to hold candle light dinners and vigils for
the linking of extraordinary language
and lineage, the offspring: minute.
The fraction and division leading Neal
to this moment, this solemn and solitary
place, this single digit bringing infinite
release yet finite collapse within the self,
the single entity of knowledge, leading
Neal to his end, leading Neal home: Now.
The number of instances you paused, felt
a connection, wondered and wanted to know
who this Neal is, why his life felt lingers
wrapped in yours like a blanket or baby,
swaddled like a mummy, saved:
Eternal.
Or never.
Day 13 for LL&L:
Noah’s Numbers
Noah built the ark
300 cubits long
50 cubits wide
And 30 cubits tall
With 1 window
1 door
And three stories inside
On the 17th day
Of the 2nd month
Of Noah’s 600th year
God sent him into the ark
With his 1 wife
3 sons
And their 3 wives
Then God sent the animals in
7 each for clean
7 each for the birds
2 by 2 for all others
1 male and 1 female
And God shut the door
On that day
The wells of the earth burst
And the heavens opened up
And the rain poured down
For 40 days and 40 nights
The ark was lifted up
To 15 cubits over the mountains
And all life on land
Was extinguished
With the exception
Of the inhabitants of the ark
At the end of the 40 days
Noah sent forth 1 raven
And 1 dove
But the dove could
Find nowhere to rest
So it returned
Every 7 days
Noah sent the dove forth
Until 1 day
The dove brought
In its mouth
An olive leaf
7 days later
Noah sent the dove forth
Again
But this time
It returned not
For 150 days
The waters prevailed
And on the 17th day
Of the 7th month
The ark came to rest
On Mount Ararat
On the 1st month
Of the 10th month
The tops of the mountains
Could be seen
And it came to pass
That on the 1st day
Of the 1st month
Of Noah’s 601st year
Noah looked out and saw
That the ground was dry
And on the 27th day
Of the 2nd month
The earth was dry
And God spoke to Noah
Saying
Go forth
Take your wife
Your 3 sons and their 3 wives
And all the beasts
And birds of the air
Replenish the earth
Be fruitful
And multiply
And Noah built an alter
Unto the Lord
And took 1 of each clean beast
1 of each clean foul
And offered burnt offerings
To the One and Only God
And the Lord was pleased
And Noah lived for 350 years
After the flood
At the glorious ate of 950
Noah died
kiss off
hirsute
in a motel
shirted
and resisting
the stereo
moans
discomfort
takes a nap
on a stale
comforter
quiet
the wake up
call
for help
shower
two bodies
cigarette
smoke linens
utter
less than nothing
and drive
farewell
and fair-
weather
Michelle — loved it!
Margaret
Wait
Experts say wait one year
make no major decisions
no moves or changes.
We wait impatiently
for one year, two weeks
three days, four hours.
Then we make our move
search real estate ads
call agents and canvas.
The need to get out, get
away predominates, run
leave the memories behind.
That first day, the first call
net results, we’ll take it
a condo on the water.
We had seven hundred thirty
days to regret it before we could
sell and move two blocks from home.
Linda,
Me too {grin}.
was not, was ’nuff
fourteen journals
chronicling twenty-seven
men
and a few softer
bodies
only two eyes burned
caught once
in the fading
glimmer of
second adolescence
as they turned
Highs
and lows -
hoping for
one child to rise -
live
Patti,
Ten can be a big number was good. As for me, I am just getting this prompt at the end of the day here…and considering that I’ve only managed to write one poem in 13 days, I’d have to say I might have to sit this one out. Things around me just aren’t cooperating. Maybe I can do it in December???
Margaret, I just might be singing that poem the next time I clean!!
Linda
The Call
She had always stood
arrow straight
we had no knowledge
of her quiver
or how the bow would break:
whether they be
towers or pillars –
should they fall –
the measure of their impact
is the weight of heaven
they had previously supported
until they should buckle
these mentors of metal and mettle –
and are left to lay flat –
and the sky is vacant
in their absence save a random cloud
trying to hide itself against the gray
as the left behind
come to their senses -
enough to remember a number -
as a dial tone pierces
the quiet confusion:
9-1-1.
Okay, so this has nothing to do with my theme …
really, I was going to do something on the thirteen colonies, I swear it … but, hey, it’s the end of the week …
The Twelve Days of Cleaning
On the first day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me,
one door without a door key.
On the second day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the third day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the fourth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the fifth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the sixth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the seventh day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
seven rusty rakes,
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the eighth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
eight crumbling candles,
seven rusty rakes,
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the ninth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
nine handle-less hammers,
eight crumbling candles,
seven rusty rakes,
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the tenth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
ten scratchy shirts,
nine handle-less hammers,
eight crumbling candles,
seven rusty rakes,
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the eleventh day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
eleven ragged rags,
ten scratchy shirts,
nine handle-less hammers,
eight crumbling candles,
seven rusty rakes,
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
On the twelfth day of cleaning
my cleaner brought to me
twelve tattered towels,
eleven ragged rags,
ten scratchy shirts,
nine handle-less hammers,
eight crumbling candles,
seven rusty rakes,
six broken brooms,
five moldy mops,
four ratty rugs,
three decrepit dusters,
two pitted pots
and one door without a door key.
Tomorrow will be the warmest day of the week,
The weather man said last night.
Sometimes the man has a lot of cheek
Telling us whether the future is dark or bright,
But this time he’s told the truth
A sunny day with warmth, and little wind
So far. He says tomorrow will be decidedly uncouth
With wind and cold and clouds pinned
Down near the earth, maybe dropping snow
On us for the first time this year.
Snow is on our mountains, but not down low
Here on the plains. Coming soon I fear.
You left on a golden day that was promised filled.
Since then, though warm, each day is easily chilled.
Ten Can Be a Big Number
It was a ten on the Richter scale.
The ground shook beneath,
Breaking her foundation,
Tearing apart every piece
Of their life together.
Standing was impossible as
Destruction filled the only
World she had ever known.
As she sat on the floor, looking for answers,
He calmly explained she had let herself go,
Spent too much time with the kids,
She just wasn’t fun anymore.
So that is why he had to leave them,
Save his destiny from the boredom of marriage.
He had several other women to turn to,
Ten, he told her, were very interested.
He was like a 10-pound bass
Swimming around in pond full of
Nice lean trout, all ready to do some nibbling.
It had been ten years, yes,
But he told her it felt like
Ten times ten
And that wasn’t how he wanted to live.
Plus with the way she looked now,
Ten was the last number he’d use
To describe the shape of her body.
A round circle maybe,
But not with a 1 in front of it.
After he left, and she’d had her big cry,
She vowed to rebuild her life again.
And after she met with her lawyer,
Ten would certainly help
With putting her world back together.
Ten thousand a month would
Help get her past the Storm of his Crisis,
Help her out quite a bit indeed.
Ten could be a very big number as
Her soon to be ex-husband
Would quickly find out.
Past the Mistake
Each love she’s had in her life
has been like a stepping stone;
one step further to finding true love,
her soul mate yet unknown.
Her first love was sweet and pure,
they were in love and having fun.
It lasted through most of college;
after graduation, he was on the run.
The second love she married,
a rebound now she sees.
But he lied and their marriage ended,
as she became sicker in her disease.
Number three was the one,
or at least that’s what she thought.
Even though at first separated,
he went back to his wife and forgot.
The fourth man she loved,
(or at the time thought she did),
had lots of money, and they had fun
(although grown up, he acted like a kid).
Number five was plain and simple,
a teacher just like her.
This time she broke his heart;
she was too troubled from what did occur.
After all these years,
in her search of love so crazily,
she finally found out how to love herself,
by surrendering to God openly.
Only then did she find Mr. Right,
after five stepping stones she did take.
But looking back, she’d still do the same,
to get her where she is today- past the mistake.
Laurie K.
I thought this prompt would be easier for me my creative ideas kept crashing. Here is what I have ended up with.
The Age of Numbers
I was on of them
our mission applying
numbers to intangibles.
I was particularly good
at it, one of my talents.
It was going to revolutionize
the study of human nature
make social science a real
science. Anything it seemed
could be numeralized
anger, beauty, goodness,
evil, caring, enthusiasm,
intelligence, reduced to
numbers, crunched into
data, analyzed,
correlations, matrixes,
regressions, association
but not cause, cause
and effect, yes numbers
would change the way we
looked at the world. But
one wonders if it has
gone too far and changed
the world as well.
Nov. 13, 2008
I really despise math so I had no idea how I was going to do this one, but I guess thats the good thing about being creative is that you can always think of something new.
Count it down
In ten simple steps
I can hide all my problems
With a big fat cocky attitude.
Nine days until she
Realizes she wants me to die.
Wonder what took so long.
Just wrote eight pages
About what happened years ago.
I didn’t learn anything.
I think seven hours would be
How long it would take society
To collapse if we all really accepted each other.
I just spent six dollars
On a cardboard boat.
Do you think I overpaid?
Five tips for self improvement,
They are so easy to follow,
But you wouldn’t like them.
It has been about four months
Since I last begged for something
I wonder what it was.
Three times today I have
Consulted marketing materials
To tell me what I want.
After two nights of uncooked
Fishsticks I think I might
Be hungry for some sushi.
It only took one minute
To finally realize that
No one wants their reality.
“What has four eyes?” she said,
“Nothing”, he replied.
“What has four ears?” She said,
“Nothing”, he replied.
“What has two noses?” She said,
“Nothing”, he replied
“What has eight legs?” She said,
“Nothing”, he replied
“What has two tails?” she said,
“Nothing!” he replied
She giggled and said,
“What has four eyes, four ears,
Two noses, eight legs, two tails,
And wants to eat your breakfast?”
He looked at her and
Then looked pointedly
Toward the floor and said,
“Two dogs.”
Lori – loved you multiple choice poem.
Nancy – sobering numbers, great poem. I’ve seen that documentary on the kids in TN who filled the railcar with paperclips – it was excellent.
Nancy P, your "Count" poem just blew me away. I wrote a poem about the kids with the paper clips for Robert’s April poem-a-day challenge.
1,1,2,3,5,8,“13”,21,33,54….
No, it’s not the missing hotel floor
or even an unlucky Friday
it is a Fibonacci number!
To be exact it, it is the seventh Fibonacci number,
which surely must be some coincidence,
for 7 and 13 are my favorite numbers!
Did you know that the Fibonacci sequence
can be found in nature?
How about flowers, animals, insects and seeds?
So next time you’re out walking
and bend to sniff a flower
count the petals and you will
most likely see
a Fibonacci number!
This was a hard one for me today & I’m not thrilled with the result but anyway, here ’tis…
Cats, Poetry & Death #16
A Matter of Form
In all the arts none use such variation
of form or style than this sweet medium.
And numbers are so oft the key to how
a poem plays out its course. Setting aside
free verse and prose, the laying out of stanzas
is numerically fixed by standard and tradition
in Sonnets, Sestinas,
Quatrains and Tritinas, Haiku, Triolets
Cinqains and Cinq-Cinquains.
Poets Laureate and idle scribblers are made slave
to numbered lines and seek and search
for the apt most words and phrases to fill
the form and fill the pages.
But when it comes to subject matter then
the search is of a deeper nature. Numbers no
longer dictate, still more the heart comes into play.
Infinity might be the score ’til a lack of
inspiration grips poetic souls and all that
remains is a holy trinity of staple muses
Cats, Poetry and Death.
Iain
Lori, I like your math test.
Count
Mathematically morbid, we tally the number
lost, marking each life with a chair, a cross,
a stone—at Oklahoma City, Columbine,
the Pentagon. We sometimes sacrifice
precision for effect. Shakespeare was not
the first, after all, to overstate the odds
when the” happy few,” that “band of brothers”
came up against the French and won;
nor can we know for sure the dead that day,
since, we are told, the French only counted
their noble dead. (Is that why they call them
counts?) Does it matter to the living, to the
dead? Still we seek to comprehend, in grade
school celebrating the hundredth day with
a hundred things, marbles, cookies, pencils.
How, then, came we wrap our minds around
the count:
eleven million dead,
six million Jews,
a quarter million Roma,
1.5 million children,
give or take?
Somewhere in Tennessee, children fill a rail
car with eleven million paperclips to try to
understand, while somewhere else, Darfur
perhaps, just now, one more child dies.
Nancy Posey
Birthday Girl
The clock ticks
Three minutes to go…
Two…
On the cusp of fourteen
On the cusp of womanhood
(according to the laws of Faery)
One…
No longer thirteen
No longer limited to mortal sight
No longer a child
The clock strikes
There is her mother
There her three sisters
There the man who murdered them
“Happy Birthday darling.”
She picks up her sword…
Wow – I am going to be posting late and out-of-order as I try madly to get at least partly caught up in the Dominican where internet time is a tad pricey and who wants to be indoors at any rate? That being said, hopefully this is my dream poem: – or not as it won’t paste…ah sh—-shoot. Maybe next time. Back to the beach.
Sharon I
Excellent poetry already today, as usual. I’m in reverse order today as having trouble getting numbers into my first theme. So here’s The Bleacher Creature…
Dear Moosehead,
Let me tell ya buddy, that Greek Jimmy
has some nerve! Stayin’ in my place
and bad mouthing me to my best pal.
And sure your sister & mother are all
over him like he’s royalty so of course
he’s singin’ their praises. I put him straight
though… told him how those no good
Braves only ever got three World Series wins
(only one since they moved to Atlanta) out of
nine Pennants whilst the Bronx Bombers
have a record twenty-six from thirty-nine.
Who’s got a bad attitude now? More like a team
that can’t bat with girls for pitchers! I put them
women straight too… they can let him pull
his weight around here and treat him with same
damn contempt they usually reserve for yours truly.
And no! I have no idea why or how my mothers
cousin married a Greek or why we even have
family south of the Mason-Dixon!
Pick ya up at seven… Greek SOB wants to go bowlin’
Yours indignantly Irish-American
Ringo the Howler
Emergency Room.
Earache for one week
Suicidal
Nausea- for two weeks
Rash all over
Drank “only three beers” and hit a tree
Short of Breath
Cough/congestion for four days
Chest pain
Temperature of 103- didn’t think of taking Tylenol
Car accident- laceration to head with possible concussion
You have three exam rooms and one doctor.
Who do you put in the rooms?
Where do you send the doctor first?
Who do you let sit in the lobby for six hours?.
This is the multiple choice they didn’t
give you in school.
Heather, I often use poetic license to get a point across so something lovely may have actually been a disappointment or something horrible that happened was never my reality.
With that said, Tori did die sometime between the end of November and the middle of December. I made my family take care of cleaning it all away for me. Most of my frustration, however, was directed at myself.
I’m gonna "cheat" right now and post a poem I wrote earlier this year, just because it fits both my theme and robert’s prompt perfectly. (I promise to write a new one today too!) This is based on a song by the band Okkervil River called "Plus Ones", where they take number-related song titles and add one to them, then incorporate them into their lyrics (97 Tears, 100 Luftballoons, 51 Ways to Leave You Lover, etc.) They used a lot of the best ones, but there were enough left over to do a "sequel" of sorts.
Plus Ones Redux
(after Okkervil River)
I can’t hang anything out on Highway 62
or get my kicks on Route 67.
I can’t roll the windows down
and sing Song 3 at the top of my lungs
(“WOO-HOO!”).
I can’t make 7 days on the road,
or survive my 20th nervous breakdown.
I’m not waiting for Revolution #10,
And I’ll be damned if I’ll look
for yet another gift
for the 13 days of Christmas.
I’d rather just relax, take 6,
one more than Brubeck.
And when I’m 65
I’ll still want to be needed and fed.
So here I am at 2:46,
one minute later, still no one in the place,
and Joe’s already set ‘em up.
Oh, Satia!! That’s horrible about your bird. I’m a bird lover myself. Good poem enjoyed it.
Nancy, really liked yours as well.
Colors I Share my Life With
I had a stunning red dress of Chinese
design worn only once
before it stopped fitting.
Lavender crystal earrings,
handmade, graced my
ear lobes a dozen times
before one disappeared.
The room which doubles
as a writer’s inner sanctum
and a hair and makeup
grooming center is painted
morning pale lemon
and has been for over
two years now.
I have an old 70′s Patti Smith
T-shirt, ripped, stained, tight,
and I still wear it on occasion.
Great poem, Robert! One of my favorites of yours.
I’ll be back with my own offering after my classes.
Kate Berne Miller
Once Accountants
Loving numbers more than words,
we penciled one and then another,
neat in columns, spread wide,
filling up green pads,
mechanically manipulating
assets and liabilities
completely balanced
so the total equaled nothing
until that day –
We met across a desk
and found a word to two
to say before retreating
to the safety
of the solitary page
and the wonder of imagining
the other not so far away.
As communal interests soared
our singularity diminished
and two exponentially expanded
into the mystery of seven
carrying on and coming back.
Today, our massaging numbers finished,
we sit comfortable listening
for the phone, their announcement
of another entry, ten new digits fine,
all perfectly complete.
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
oops I think I posted on Day 12
Help
From my bed I dictate our needs
Recite lists of easy to fix meals
Ticking the ingredients from
Memorized recipes that I cook from instinct.
One cup of this, a teaspoon of that,
Cook for thirty minutes covered then
Uncover until the sauce bubbles.
I remind everyone to update the calendar
At 8:00 one needs to be here and at ten
Another needs to be there and at four
Someone needs to be two places at once.
Coordinating doctor appointments,
Follow-up visits, tests, prescription renewals
And ongoing pointless physical therapy,
I still have to remind someone the bills are due
On the first, fifteenth and random days in between.
Two weeks later,
I find my bird dead in its cage.
It’s funny the things
My family forgets to do for me
When I’m not able to take care of them
Or able to leave my bed without help.
Domino Day Eve
One more day
till Domino Day
November 14th , 2008
with the theme of ‘Celebrating 10 years of Domino Day-
Breaking more World Records than ever-‘
where over 90 domino builders
from all over Europe
after one year of preparation
and eight weeks of perpetual domino building
mostly on hands and knees
using more than 300 mechanisms, 100 décor pieces,
5,000 meters squared of floor paint and 250 varieties of dominoes,
nearly 3,000 safety stops and 1,500 turning fences in
9,500 square meters of building space
set out to break ten world records
including the most dominoes toppled
set in 2006 with the theme of Music in Motion
with 4,079,381 dominoes
which they didn’t break in 2007
and have now set up 4.5 million
to be toppled tomorrow
watched by 85 million TV viewers
including one poet/novelist
who wishes she could be there.
Okay, I confess, I wrote this on Nov 9 for my dream theme and have just been waiting for somewhere to slot it in!
Lucid
In 1591
a potion let me
fall asleep
and not wake up.
In 1991
the alarm rings
and I remember
falling asleep.
~ Ronda Eller 2008
Lesson# 13: Making a Point
She was so scared
To make a wrong move
He’d slam his fists down,
Throw his lighter across the counter,
Take a cigarette out of the pack and tap it as hard as possible
Without snapping it in two,
To make a point
She was so scared
To make a mistake
He’d ball his fists as if to strike,
Fling doors open,
Rip the phone off the wall
By its cord
To make a point
She was so scared
To say the wrong thing
He’d drag her up a flight of stairs
By her neck
Leaving her gasping,
Crying,
Confused,
To make a point
Lesson #13: What Was the Point?
Wow! Who thought I’d ever get here first?? Of course, I’m cheating a bit, because I’m going to repeat my day 1 poem here. As I’ve progressed through the days, I’m not sure my "hook" will actually remain my hook. Maybe so, maybe not. (Oh those pervasive second thoughts!) If I have time (and muse), I may do another numbers poem for today, but I’m still tuning yesterday’s draft, and anyway, this one does include numbers, so forgive the rerun. (I was so late joining in, this may be the first time you’ve seen it anyway!)
Do the Math
Seventy-seven point eight
(average years ‘til you’re dun)
One hundred and five (if you’re lucky)
Or just seventeen (if you’re un-)
(margin of error – 99% –
plus or minus one)