Every once in a while, I like to offer these title prompts where you fill in the blanks on a title. For instance, I want you to write a poem today with a title that is: “If It (blank), It (blank)”
So an example title might be: “If It (Hangs From the Ceiling), It (Smells Like Flowers)”
And to give you some flexibility, I’ll even let you replace the “It” words with a specific noun. So, to take my earlier example, the title could be: “If a Basket Hangs From the Ceiling, It Smells Like Flowers”
Here’s my attempt for the day:
“If the door goes unlocked, it could easily open”
she forgets to lock the front door
frequently
but doesn’t stress the details
not like anyone is waiting outside
wanting to get in
right
she forgets to lock the back door
the bathroom door
closes her eyes when she rinses her hair
so that she doesn’t know
when someone is there
No Do-Overs
If it’s done, it follows that
it can be undone. Not so in
most vital happenings. Once we
deplete the natural resources
on our small planet, once we
render a species extinct,
that is it, it is done, final, nadir.
XVII. If It Needs Revealing, It Will Be Forthcoming
Living will in hand I asked
My father’s pastor friend
What the Bible has to say
About measures that extend
A life beyond which a body
Can on its own survive.
Scripturally speaking is it sound
To keep someone such alive?
A part of me stopped and wavered;
The other knew it not mine
The right to defy a final wish,
To interfere with the divine
Stratagem God had preordained,
And still I couldn’t let go.
Until such time I saw further decline
Those requests they needn’t yet know.
day #16 If it’s shakey, it will fall
The rock on a ledge
will spur avalanche
tipping over the edge.
The bone shaking fever
will fall like cold rain
when it finally leaves her.
Schemes built on lies
collapse when truth
spreads wing and flies
If it tastes pure it must be
My neigbor drinks water from the tap
Says it tastes fine to him
When we go camping in the woods
He drinks from where he takes a swim
I will let him peer through my microscope
One slide with just a drop of water
It may cause him to drink only coffee
Or milk or soda or gin
If it’s Mid-November, It must be over
Two weddings within two weeks
Turned out to be too much
For one of the fathers present
Serious as a heart-attack took on real meaning
As the father of one of the brides
And, as it happens, one of the grooms
Collapsed, soon after all the festivities
Ended,had to be rushed to the nearest
“Tourist” hospital where-upon he was found
To have suffered a heart attack but,
Then began to cough up copious amounts
Of blood! Leading to further tests which
Resulted in an ambulance transfer to a
Real hospital in a big city and the discovery
Of several bleeding ulcers in addition
To the original heart problem
So – what began as a wonderful holiday
Culminating in a beautiful wedding
For one couple, one set of parents, and friends
Ended quite differently for the second couple et al
Who, while managing to pull off the lovely wedding part
Did not get to enjoy the ensuing wonderful holiday
They were tacking on the other side of their nuptials
As they are spending that time at a hospital with the father
And making other arrangements, trying to get back home
Hoping and praying that everything is going to be alright
This type of surreal action has resulted in a disruption
Of major proportions for the subject/poet who is supposed
To maintain a schedule and routine that is barely disrupted
Ever – and as self-absorbed as this must seem, said subject
Is somewhat terrified as she feels depression licking around
The edges of her consciousness when sleep threatens
To overwhelm her days and tears rise unbidden in her eyes
She knows all too well, how stealthy the disorders can be
How tricky their manoeuvres, and how easily they can settle in
Before she realizes their intentions – just because it’s been
The longest while since they’ve put in an appearance
Does not mean they are gone for good – she must remember this
She must not forget for a second that they lie
in wait like hyenas
Like voracious underfed hyenas, they are lurking, she knows
She must never forget, it’s not self-absorption, she knows,
It’s self-preservation and theirs, her loved ones
depend on hers
This she knows and must, at all cost, remember,
she knows, she knows.
Creepy, Robert! Great, next time I’m home alone that poem will be stuck in my head.
Claude Monet, French (1840-1926)
The Islets at Port Villez, 1897
If Eyesight Dims, Is It a Handicap?
If vision blurs over time,
how does the artist know
what he sees and thus
what he paints?
Are the pastel colors and
blurry lines purposed
toward diagonal,
even circular motion
by brushstrokes fine?
Does he mean to dance the
trees and rushes
across the canvas,
whirl the mauve,
chartreuse,
turquoise?
Does he intend to
inject the scene
with vitality,
even as he creates
a sense of peace
and joy?
"If it’s decorated, it feels like home."
A few frames on the wall,
a vase of lilies on the table.
The pantry is full of food,
the cabinets hold dishes.
The beds are made,
the towels are folded.
Your house is now a home.
If
If it has fins, It swims
If it has a beak, it squawks
If it is green, it grows
If it has wings, it flies
If it has a tail, it lashes it
If it has legs, it runs
If it is very still, it catches fish
If it has flowers, it has butterflies
If it rains, it doesn’t care
If I I have a bad day,
It disappears when I watch "Its" at play
Scoundrel
If it was known they had rights,
It would mean my demise.
To keep me out of their sights
I need to bear a disguise
I’ll hide my weasel thoughts
From the light of the day
And turn their future oughts
Into despair and decay
For I am the hater
But as that you’ll know me not.
I keep the wars a going
Defy me; I’ll see you shot
No one should know
The power they wield
Nor should they know
How it acts as a shield
Against scoundrels as I
Rights they should have?
I would rather they die!
So holding this in as much as I might
I quietly hold back my despise
For if it was known that they had rights,
It would surely mean my demise.
Vanessa O’Dwyer
postmark
i remember you
from the mail:
sending
me songs
from long
distance
we live
in the same
town, never
seem to cross
carts in super-
markets or small
talk our way
through
post office
lines
i know you
by envelopes
and address
and you
go to the open
mics i went
to, only a few
years too
late
If it’s Tuesday, it must be America
You’re sick and you’re dizzy,
never thought you’d make it out.
Haul your ass down the gangplank,
listen to the captain shout.
Gather with the others,
huddle, shiver, in the rain,
while you mourn for the family
you will never see again.
You’re the only one who made it,
never thought that you’d arrive.
Shake your head and try to clear it,
know you’re lucky you’re alive.
This one was HARD! I knew where I wanted it to go, but it kept coming together like song lyrics. I’m still not sure I’m happy with it, but have to get going on day 17, so here it is. (Though I just may continue to try to fix it on the side!)
If it’s Glowing in the Window, it’s Forgiveness
If it’s glowing in the window,
It’s forgiveness
If it’s burning in the hearth it means that
Love may still abide
If it’s glowing in the window
It’s forgiveness . . .
Come inside
If you’ve traveled many miles,
Spent some seasons
If you’ve left behind regrets, remorse and
Shed some bitter tears
Does that mean your love’s forgot?
Maybe so, maybe not
Perhaps it’s time to stand
And face your fears
While it’s true words can be cutting
And at times those cuts are deep
Surviving still, are promises
We’d always meant
To keep
So, look for the fire when you return
And pay close attention to the burn
If it’s flaming in the back yard
Might be best to stay away
And salvage what you can
Another day
But, if it’s burning in the hearth
It means that love may still abide
And if it’s glowing in the window
All’s forgiven –
Come inside
Traveling this weekend, got in late, wrote it but didn’t post it.
If it’s a pen, it writes
I leave molecules
trapped on the surface
of my notebook. A
cartographer, I record
a living trail of thought
others can follow
through the rough
contours and inner
workings of my mind.
If it’s got horns, then it’s gotta be rode!
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Some say bull riding started back in the 1800’s by a buncha cowboys
looking to settle a dispute over who was the toughest vaquero.
Personally I think it was invented by a bunch of bored cowpokes and
a few cases of beer, and one day one of ‘em said, “Hey guys, watch this!”
I mean, why else would a 150 lb. man wanna climb atop a 2000 lb. bull?!
Bull riding requires a good dose of physical strength, courage, mental
fortitude, and of course, a little “DUDE! Are ya nuts?!” thrown in.
A risky endeavor there’s a reason it’s called “the most dangerous eight
seconds in sports.” Torn ligaments, dislocated shoulders, brown Stetsons
or football helmets, Christian or Atheist, REAL bulls don’t discriminate!
Americans have a longstanding tradition of straddling anything with horns:
harleys, reindeers, jackalopes, why not brahmas?! Wrap a braided rope
around a bull’s midsection, then around your hand, clamp your legs and
then simply nod to Satan grinning at the gate that you’re bottle-rocket- ready!
And oh, hope you’re wearing your lucky chaps tonight!
There are 2 truths every bullrider knows right up front from birth on:
1) there’s really no trick or secret to riding the beast, and 2) that it’s
actually harder to get safely off the monster than it is to stay onboard.
On average, only 1 in 10 make it to the end of an eight second ride -
all that spinning, twisting, bucking, swerving, & cussing ‘round the arena.
In gymnastics, it’s all about the dismount. In bullriding, best case scenario:
somersault with 2 1/2 twists landing safely in a pike position, unless you
become entangled in the bull rope at which point, lashed to the side of a
ton of angry steak lands you face down; a snot-dripping, camera-posing,
rock-star bull straddled overtop you like a proud hen sitting on an egg…
but hey, that’s bull riding!
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
If I Remember Anything
If I remember anything
it will be the crowds
How they pressed close
hearts on their sleeves
faces wrought with
raw emotion
Take a care, I thought,
that you don’t start
Messiah rumors
or you’ll creep out
the evangelicals
Kate- Sorry about your son’s arm. Glad you’re back.
Very creative poems today!
Laurie K.
Kate,
One spring my son broke both arms at once. You can imagine how that ruined summer for a rising ninth grader. Best wishes!
If we never existed, she would still have hope.
If we never existed
They could sparkle in the sunlight
If we never existed
Might adderbolt be free again?
If we never existed
The purity would glisten
If we never existed
Would she believe again?
If we never existed
She would have hope
If we never existed
Would Gaia have been a better place?
Change
The two of us sang funerals
sending spirits out on wings,
lifting hearts with open-chords
as if at least one of us believed.
I said I did to please you
and in the midst of music
there were convincing notes.
If this is my confession,
then you must write an elegy
to realign the bones of doubt
where my longing body rests.
Let winds blow the grass above me
and the blades sing our names
until we are remembered no more.
I’ve been off-line for a couple of days as my son broke his arm. Hope to jump back in to the poetry soon. Best wishes to all
Kate
If the First Stone Tips the Rest Will Follow
Each individual domino
Doesn’t move much
Just falls over
Then the next
And the next
But watching it
It looks like something alive
Like a mouse or some kind of critter
Running across the room
Up and down
Around and around
Climbing stairs
Knocking things over
Turning on lights
Ringing bells
Rolling balls
Playing drums
Flipping switches
Going through water
Setting off catapults
Exploding volcanoes
A creature possessed
Till the last stone falls
Then there’s no live thing
Just fallen dominoes
If the Train is On Time I Must be Dreaming.
If your lover left you,
if she left you for that damn Coyote,
if she left you on the coast and took your truck,
if she left you on the hottest day of last summer,
if she left your luggage locked in the Greyhound station,
if she left you drinking before noon at the Driftwood Tavern,
when the Coast Starlight arrives on time, she’ll come back to you again.
Kate Berne Miller
SS for Day 16:
If You Use Me
I’m not just wrapped up in skull
With more neurons that you could count
In a lifetime
For your amusement
Or for you to ignore
I’m here for you to store intelligence
Experiences
Lessons
Facts
Opinions
Beliefs
Biases
Judgments
Attitudes
Wants
Desires
Aspirations
Goals
And more
You can store
And you can retrieve
If you so choose
You see
If you use me
For that which God designed me
We’ll all live a better life
Day 16 for LL&L:
If you listen, you’ll hear
If you expect Me
To walk up to you
On a crowded street
Or the privacy of your home
And tell you
Face to face
That I exist
Don’t hold your breath
And if you expect Me
To send you an email
Or a certified letter
Or a text message
To convince you
That I exist
Don’t hold your breath
I don’t make house calls
I don’t send emails
I don’t text
And I don’t stand in line
At the post office
Just to certify correspondence
That might try to
Impress on your gray matter
That I exist
So, don’t hold your breath
But if you listen
Very closely
To your heart
Then you just might
Hear Me speak
On that
You can hold your breath
If
What a powerful word—if—making its way
into poetry and song: If a picture paints
a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you,
sang David Gates. Tongue planted firmly in
cheek, the Bellamy Brothers asked, If I said you
had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?
Long ago, those carpe diem poets, Marvell
and Herrick, set up their seduction with an If, then,
but, so: If we had all the time in the world, then
sure, baby, we’d wait, but time’s a wasting, so
let’s get it on! Maybe it wasn’t quite like that.
I may be thinking of Billy Joel or Marvin Gaye,
but that was the drift. I suppose those coy virgins
fell for those lines then as they do now. After all,
that beautiful body, those thousand words are
wasted in the grave, where all those dead poets lie.
Nancy Posey
Judy… so encouraging!! Thanks for sharing a great poem!
If I Were Young Again
If I were thirty again
I wouldn’t mess with a year
of angst over turning thirty
I would rejoice that I wasn’t
fourty yet and live thirty like
the celebration it is.
If I were fourty again
I’d go celebrate with flowers
maybe a thousand yellow and pink
buds to show how lucky I am to be
not yet fifty.
.
If I were fifty again
I wouldn’t run off to Memphis to spend
the day at Graceland alone to relive the
50’s and 60’s . I’d be so happy to be fifty,
not yet sixty, that I’d spend the day living
large in the 90’s.
If I were sixty again
I would feel fortunate to be sixty
I’d plan the day surrounded with
family and friends who would know how
young I feel to be sixty instead of seventy.
I feel so lucky to be sixty-one today. I’ve
only six more months to enjoy it so I want
to embrace these months for the joy they are
and delight that I am not yet sixty-two.
Words of Encouragement From Mom
If I got an A, why not
an A+, she’d say? If I wore
a dress of soft black
leather, wouldn’t a brighter
color flatter you much
better? If I brushed
my eyelids in a shade
of turquoise, back in
the days of teen
rebellion, she’d suggest
a shade of muted
taupe to make me
look less the hellion. When I
became a full-fledged
Hippie, tie-dyed shirts,
strands of beads, and a
rainbow band across my
head, she asked why
I no longer used
make-up. Did I not
notice my skin
looking dull and dead?
If shadow is to be eliminated, it is necessary to live without sight’s light.
Here, even in the dark
the moon’s small shimmer
still enough
for me to cast my weight
of dew damp thought
spreading thick the
weary grayness
dimming my own path
even as I walk on
another step – circling
from every side
until I close my eyes
refuse to see
not your face
and not the day
there were two shadows walking.
lower .
If He Walks Like a Duck, He Must Be Chuck Berry
Black-and-white TV image, mid- to late-50’s –
the guy in the conk and pencil mustache hops
across the stage on one leg, the other stretched
ahead of him. His guitar neck is pointed
like an automatic weapon, as he strums
a new combination of country and blues.
Then he crosses the stage again, half-squatting,
half walking, bobbing his head like a bird.
The crowd goes wild for “Johnny B. Goode”.
Fast forward fifty years – hair is thinner,
covered with a nautical cap, fingers work
a little slower, a little out of tune,
but at eighty-two, he still can do that hop
across the stage, guitar neck leading the way.
The crowd goes wild for “Johnny B. Goode”.
Go, Chuck, go!
If they’re yelling at you they are breathing
How is it that people can
say that they can’t breath?
And even when we are doing all we can to
relieve them in this admittedly frightful
situation insist with a voice backed by
obvious windpower that they need
a tranquilizer to help them breath
forgetting perhaps it euphoric
affects, never realizing that the ones who
really need it to breath usually can’t
get out the words.
Here is my re-write for the day 13 number poem, titled One God:
For all time,
there is
One God, who saved
Two of every kind of creature.
Three persons of the Trinity, who created
Four headwaters.
Five loaves that feed five thousand, in His hands.
Six days given to work, and the
Seventh day given to rest, in
One God
who loves
One sinner
Two persons in a marriage
Three roommates in a campus bar
Four children at the park
Five sailors on a barge
Six players in a poker game, and,
Seven times seven times will He forgive all,
for all time
because of the
One sacrifice
of His
One Son,
my
One God,
and my
One hope
for all time.
If it Lives
If it lives it will die
a fact of nature
to be accepted
not ignored or denied.
Live the moment.
If there’s a crack in the ceiling, rain will assault
It starts slow, a gentle dip, a meandering trickle
first at the front of the garage then toward
the back. The roof acknowledges its faults
and completes its disintegration with each
passing minute. Hours go by and Neal hears
the drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drop
until the regularity of sound becomes a metronome
to his slowly dissolving life. He knows the roof
must be fixed but it is one more thing put
to the side. He is ready to explode
and when he does the water will begin
its assault on the cement floor, drowning
Neal in failed attempts at patching life up.
I’m finally feeling better. I was so sick the last couple of prompts. I might look into rewriting them.
You all have been writing wonderfully!
If it’s DARK, It’s almost DAWN
When black, smothering darkness settles,
devoid of dingy shafts of hope -
a gloomy, grimy, indistinctness,
inky, rayless, slippery slope -
watch your step this nebulous hour,
bleak and lurid, dense and glum,
lightless, hopeless, black oppression -
Hold on, dear one. The hour has come.
Enter dawn with glittering glory,
brilliant, shining, radiant Son
ablaze, alight, aglow with freedom…
the beaming, dazzling day’s begun.
It will not end, the golden brilliance
Bright and dazzling, gleaming space,
Lustrous, shimmering, vivid Sonlight
infusing PEACE, resplendant grace…
So hold one, dear one, hold on.
IF IT’S THE PHONE AT MIDNIGHT, IT’S A SEARCH
Struggling into uniform in the half-dark, loading gear
and dog, then driving through the night past lonely
porch-lights of those lucky folks who turned out
their bedroom lamps and went to sleep till morning.
Before first light, the helipad; chopper flight
under storm-clouds, over a world of black mountains.
Set down in a clearing in the dark. Briefing by Sheriff’s
headlights: little boy lost since yesterday.
And here we are. My dog ranges out of sight in the brush,
searching for a human scent. I check my map again,
my compass. Check the ground for footprints,
any sign of passage. Clues; anything out of place.
We’ve got four more hours of daylight. A boy
already twenty-seven hours lost.
If it stings, it’s probably good for you
-Corporal Harry Kellam to Post Reporter, 45th Anniversary D-Day
If it stings, it’s probably good for you
Was all he said before he kicked us out of the plane.
And brother, we fell, for a long time.
When that chute opened it stung,
Yanked me back to Virginia, for sure.
And when we landed in France
Your knees and joints felt like a hornet
Had gotten into you, just for a second,
Shock you see and we moved on in the dark.
There wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle,
Germans, mortars, landmines, tanks, bring ‘em on.
Or so we thought. After a day we realized
We should have stayed home, worked the same jobs
As our fathers, or tended love,
The only thing good in this old world anyhow.
if it fades too fast, it may be lost
the bed sheets were braided
and rumpled to boot,
i couldn’t tell if i
should rise— if i could.
the sunlight seemed twisted
& twitchy to me,
i wondered if it was
still trying to sleep…
but morning was tickling
at my feathered head
all groggy and fogged up
with dreams that i’d had.
the dog pranced by bedside,
the cat stretched and yawned…
when i suddenly noticed
my visions near gone
so i ran to a notepad
to jot some things down,
any bit that had stuck there
behind my furled brow.
i scribbled and scrawled
every scattery flap
and when I was done,
i was ready to nap!
~ Ronda Eller
Five minutes after the end of the dream, half the content is forgotten.
After ten minutes, 90% is lost.
Just off the top of my head here as I get ready to go out of town for a couple of days with less reliable Internet connections.
If there is no change, there is no life
It’s how they tested for life
you know, on Mars, added
water to soil and looked for
changes. No change, so no life.
Or so they said.
Nov. 16
While surviving life
I have found that
If it rains, it almost always pours.
The job is gone,
The savings spent,
The results the doctor reports
Unbelievable.
A simple bike ride
Can sometimes lead to death,
A walk in the park
Along an unfortunate trail
Can lead the traveler into
Total violation.
Living with deranged family members
Can permanently scar for life even after
The monster cowardly exits existence.
The storms our lives
Endure,
Grow from,
Survive,
Are what make us
Seasoned,
Strong,
Honest.
When it rains,
And it always does after a wave of drought,
It usually pours.
The survivors drink it up,
Take it on
With conviction
While the weak fall away,
Their run now over.
It’s those that get their
Coats, boots, gear on
Prepared to face the next
Storm head on,
Not afraid of the next round,
Who grow stronger, wiser,
Who Survive life
And find the warmth of the sun
Sweeter
Than anything else in this world.
If Galileo’s Wrong, I Don’t Want to Be Right
The earth was once the still point in the universe
Until the pattern of the stars proved contrary to beliefs
But Galileo was not brave enough to fight for truth
In the face of excommunication.
And yet it moves, this earth on which you stand
So confident in your perception that nothing
Is moving beneath the still point of your feet
While I laugh at your misperception.
Yet in a world where everything is constantly
Changing, shifting, and spiraling it’s hard to find
The still small voice of comfort that will speak
A revelation of my salvation.
If money can’t buy happiness,
could it make a small down payment?
It hasn’t escaped me that
lottery winners and rock stars
have failed to leave footprints on
the Happiness Walk of Fame.
If happiness is a warm puppy,
why are the pounds still full?
No wonder we just shivered
alone on the last few three-
dog nights.
And if two’s a company, then
we’re in business. Does that mean
expansion will produce at least
a small crowd?
If one is the loneliest number,
then we should amass not wealth
but friends, company, crowds,
so that as we move down our
Yellow Brick Road, we end up,
if not happy, then at least not alone.
Nancy Posey
“If your mind is blank (like mine is), It means you need a dandelion break”
If you sit down at your spot
To compose your latest plot
And you find to your great dismay
That you mind has gone away
I could suggest you sit right down and pray
But perhaps all you need today
is a “dandelion break”?
Now since it is November
And the dandelions have gone to slumber
We need to find another way
To make that brain return today
Since the chill in the air might not be to your taste
Perhaps a cozy chair by a warm fireplace
Is the break for you?
Whatever works for you is the key
To get that brain working with glee
I myself often walk away and do a mundane task
And let my conscious brain be bored until it asks
And then with glee I sit back down
And type what has come to town
Thankful that my “dandelion break” has ended.
From cold to hot, I hear the weather broadcast,
"It’s going to be seventy-ish," I hear.
Yesterday it was a miserable contrast,
Forties, with skies so drear
They drooped. But didn’t weep,
For which we in this dry
Place would have given a heap
Of dances to whichever god could pry
Weeping from them. So we
Schmooze outside the church today,
The sunlight warming me
And others come to pray.
The ritual of worship however changed is age-old,
And comforting, though at the end, I remember you. And feel cold.
Please excuse my irregular verb usage in that last posting. . .Breaths is supposed to be breath and the verb would be is. . .I caught this after the posting. . .
This English teacher is embarrassed for himself and as punishment, I am going to diagram my posting for the day.
Best to all, I am really enjoying all of the postings this month.
H.
"If it Breathes, Then its Final Breath is Always an Exhalation"
If
she sat longer,
in the bedside chair,
she might have fallen asleep –
it
had been three days
since she found her in the dark,
and she counts them – in and out—
ever y time she
breathes,
sure that the air moving
in her lungs is quality respiration,
sufficient to feed the damaged part
of the brain:
then
she looks up to the monitor
and notes the absence of activity,
the thick lines in the scan
the invasion of the lobes
its
center difficult to determine,
the balance is lost
and cannot be taken back
the effects are
final:
this is the last watch,
sitting erect in the chair,
hand in hand,
her heart in her head
had it really been so hard
to be happy?
Breaths
in and out
in this deep, deep slumber
sound like a snore
this is not peaceful, this
is
an insult to the caregiver
to have to stay awake
in the nightmare, vicarious,
while the patients eyes
barely register movement
behind closed eyelids,
always
looking straight ahead
seemingly
to some evading answer
that could not be found here
an
attempt for clarity
beyond the scope
of her limited vision,
suicide for the soothsayer,
we wait for the last breath
sure that it will be
exhalation
I am not sure you want this one for this prompt, but it fit into a sore point in any educators life.
If it works, it’ don’t need fixin’
One hundred years ago
education worked fine
what did we know
back then we were
ahead of our time
Children learned
through rote memorization
degrees were earned
then on to some fraternal organization
Most found they could earn a living
working with their best success
even had some left over for giving
of all countries, we were better then the rest
But, then came the politician
gonna fix this broken system
He was gonna make those changes
like some new fangled magician
He started with the standardized scores
Not all learn the same
can’t have children sitting bored
we have to learn to play their game
Then they judged the schools
what are we doing producing fools
they graduate, but can’t read or write
Instead of staying home and studying
they are out getting high, on a Saturday night
Soon, the teachers were to blame
even though, we learned to play their game
after all, the kids can’t succeed
it’s the teachers who can’t teach
a new evaluation is what they need
and, on and on, the politician would preach
Funny, how everyone got those table down
that is before education became a part of politics
Funny, how they all learned that class was no where
to fool around
that is before someone broke
the one thing that never needed to be fixed. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/16/08 Fill in poem.
Two minutes left and so much to say…will be in touch very soon. From the Dominican folks, good night.
OOOPS! My bad! Posted my DAY 15 Nightmare poem into DAY 16. Rats! Sorry! Will post it now into DAY 15. Still working on DAY 16. Later!
Nightmares
Hue and cry at 2 a.m.
Shrieks, sobs and sniffles
Product of monsters,
Aliens, goblins and ghosts
Cradling and cajoling, I
Thank my lucky stars
Consoled by the thought that
For now, at least –
Evil beasts may still be banished by
Cuddles and kisses
Not time yet to concede
Nor need to acknowledge
The Real Nightmares
Not so easily defeated –
Abuse, Addiction, Alzheimer’s
Cancer, Crime, Hunger, Hatred,
Prejudice, Pedophilia,
Warfare –
Villains so savage and destructive
I long for my own mother’s embrace
If it Hollers, It Gets Chopped Into Small Pieces Anyway
A tricky task, you would agree
to fight the things that you can’t see
but someone has to free the house
from giant spiders and a mouse;
from shadows that insist on groaning
clanking chains and always moaning;
from the werewolf in the cellar
(though mostly he’s a friendly fella)
from the slimy little horrors
so we can enjoy tomorrow’s.
If It’s Raining, It’s Pouring Blood
A splatter sideways across the cement
mimicks the movement of his knife -
down, twist, flick, pull out and
even more blood rains to the ground.
A Jackson Pollock emulation of smears
and purposeful hunks of liver and
pancreas, indicators of a new color paint
and suddenly everything makes more sense
to the Harlequin man. The paint can’s
body slumps to the side and suddenly
the canvas is flooded – it’s ruined
and he can’t help but to think
that it’s a pity that he’ll have
to start again.
If it’s shut, It Opens
Remember, if it’s shut. it opens.
If it’s open, it can be shut.
Oops- please forgive me- I misspelled "loneliness."
Laurie K.
Dear Moosehead,
If it’s Friday then it must be game day.
Your cousin came through a treat once more
and we have three ice-sides for the Rangers
tonight. I say three for whilst it goes against my
better judgement, I cannot in all conscience leave
Greek Jimmy at home at the mercy of those
Amazons! And given that this is not the sport to
which any of us dedicate our lives and love, he
has agreed to root for the home side as a matter of
good manners (something those Southern folks
supposed to have lots of). He even said he’ll pick
up the tab for beers and chilli-dogs so maybe he
ain’t so bad after all…
Anyway that’s the news as it happens, gotta run
as I need to fleece your sister for some cash.
Pick ya up seven, wrap up warm!
Yours in sporting bonhomie
Ringo the Howler
If She Could Be a Fly On The Wall, She Would See The Truth
The fact that he left her
a message on an answering machine,
"Hey, guess what? My wife and I
decided to try to work it out
after all instead of getting the divorce,"
was not enough to throw her life
into a whirlwind; a rug being pulled
out from underneath her. The shock,
the hurt, the lonliness, the guilt
enamored her very soul. But to
see the sweet couple, pretending
to be happy, move in across the street
in the same apartment complex
was more than she could handle.
So she peeked out the window
watching as they moved
furniture and boxes;
a stiff drink of Vodka
in one hand
and a cigarette
in the other,
wishing she could
be a fly on the wall
of their home, sweet, home.
Laurie K.
Not sure how much I like this but anyway, here ’tis…
Cats, Poetry & Death #19
If it moves it must be food or a toy…
Newspapers, books, pens and paper,
Laptop keyboards, typing fingers
Chocolate bar wrappers and logs for the fire
Are all fair game to Owners of this house
They fight and bite and jump and run
Bouncing of the walls seeking their prey.
A toy to play with or something to hunt
And no work gets done when the Car Riot starts
Watching at windows, hiding from Kites
And other smaller birds that might spot
Their game. They stalk and prowl and creep
In silence. ‘Til the hunt is over and its sleep time again
Slinking through long grass and sliding past bushes
They are ever watchful and never distracted
Except by the fire-side, curled up toasty
Dreaming of hunting and being naughty
Efforts to write best left ‘til they’re sleeping
As cat paws on keyboards make for poor reading
They always assume that the game is afoot
Having little regard for their poor Servants needs
Crafty and clever they demand feeding
Serve us now, slave or you’ll feel our claws!
And tidy the litter and then sit down still
So that we might come and sit upon you
Don’t ever leave us or at least hurry back
We depend upon Servants like you for our fun
Except when its time for the Cat War to start
And we’ll bite & claw each other just for a laugh
You cannot ignore us though we’ll ignore you
For we may be selfish and keep to ourselves
But you will still love us and take us for muse
When writing our story and conjuring verse
Iain
I guess I was feeling funny today –
“If it (is planted), It (will grow)”
I planted a seed under the ground
I covered it with love
I watered it and gave it food
And watched it from above
I waited long and never strayed
I beckoned it to grow
As days and months came and went
My tears began to flow
I soon began to realize
That my seedling needed more
It would never see the light of day
Why did I plant it in the floor?
Lesson #16: If You Think It’s Enough, It Isn’t
I used to think
That if you’re thin enough,
Charming,
Witty,
Creative,
Actively participating
In their interests,
Keeping a good home,
Managing the kids,
Working a full-time job,
And supporting them through
Their lows,
They’d be faithful
I was wrong
Lesson #16: Enough Is Never Enough