So after today’s poem, we’ll be three-fifths of the way through this November challenge. That’s pretty impressive. And, as has been noted by several of you, it’s not just the quantity of writing that’s been amazing about November; it’s also the quality. Oh yeah!
For today’s prompt, I want you to write a point-of-view poem. Write from the perspective from someone or something obvious (or not so obvious) related to your theme. If you’re writing a series of accounting poems, then today is the day you can write a poem from the perspective of your spreadsheet. If you’re writing a bunch of baker poems, time to share the voice of your dough (or even your apron). If you’re writing a series of poems from the perspective of an accountant for a bakery, then, well, I guess you have some options.
Here’s my attempt for the day:
“Silver Bullet”
I’m the only sure way to kill a werewolf,
the only way to make sure a werewolf stays dead.
If you blow them up,
their body pieces will find a way back to each other.
Regular bullets just slow them down,
and wooden stakes only kill vampires.
Cages can confine,
but only I kill.
After all, guns don’t kill werewolves,
I do.
Child’s Point of View
Mommy come here quick!
The sun came down to play
with me and look! the
sunbeam is jumping from my
window to fuzzy yellow flowers
on the grass. Oh please let’s
go outside, Mommy, please!
Listen, Mommy, bees are
singing me a fumbuzzly
kind of song and they’re
playing tag with the flowers
and the butterflies look like
they want to play too and me
too oh I wish I could fly and play.
I hear birds singing too, Mommy,
Where are they? Oh, Mommy,
a whole bunch just flew out of
the big tree. Lots of ‘em,
maybe lebenty-three and they
made those pretty red and yellow
leaves fall down, now they’re
playing loop de loop up in the sky.
Look, Mommy, Mr. Charlie is
raking all his leaves up. I want
to jump in his big pile and you
cover me up with leaves, okay?
Oh wait I just want to watch this
ladybug first, Mommy. This is fun,
Mommy, the leaves are crunchy and
smell like sunshine. I’ve got an idea,
let’s get my little rake, the one I use
when I help Daddy, and I can help
Mr. Charlie too, can I Mommy?
Who is that man, Mommy, and
why does he have that big cloth over
his nose and mouth? He looks funny.
I don’t want to go inside, Mommy,
I’m having so much fun, this is my
best day ever and oh look Ladybug
Ladybug fly away home. Hurry little
bug.
Why did we walk inside so fast, Mommy,
wait, please don’t close all the windows.
I want to listen to my humbuzzling
bees and hear my birds sing to me,
please Mommy, pretty please.
What is that man doing, Mommy,
he looks like he’s spraying water
on my dandelions. Yes, I know
what poison is. Oh no! why does
that man want to kill my flowers,
Mommy? Why is he so mean. Make him
stop, Mommy please make him stop.
Please!
XVIII. The Mathematics of Vital Signs
My cardiac leads suction-cupped to the chest,
I’m a graphical marvel
Of algebraic tendency.
My perfect sine waves
Marred by PVCs,
Which I count off by the minute
Like a drill sergeant metronome.
My pulse-ox meter,
Clipped first to nose
And then to index finger,
Illustrates Numbers and Operations,
A lesson in percents:
92 out of 100, or 92%.
My dual blood pressure monitors,
One cuffed to bicep
The other cathetered through the groin,
Are a blasphemy of proportions.
And you, who once earned yourself
A reputation as mathematical whiz,
Find yourself detesting
My sodomy of the subject.
From the Television Set
Did anyone ever ask me
if I want to spout all this
right-wing rubbish?
Did anyone wonder
if I really want to broadcast
Fox news?
when Sarah Palin winks
through my screen
don’t you think I shudder?
And didn’t you see me
virtually glow with glee
when the map turned blue?
My theme is Change (and its many meanings)
I like this riding warm in a pocket
next to a thigh, so I can feel the
muscles move. At night I rest
on a dresser, breathing the bedroom
fragrances, aftershave, a bit of perfume.
My Lincoln face is dulled
no more the shiny new penny
that delighted a child
with sticky fingers
when I was fresh from
minting. I’ve traveled
six times completely across
the continent, lived in a cash
drawer at a New York pizzaria
Starbucks in Sausalito, in a
Cosco in Kansas. For three
years I lived in a bottle kept
by a boy, with hundreds
others, until I was dumped
in a collection bin Pennies
for Prevention. Maybe if I’m
lucky someone will throw me
in a fountain, Rome I would
prefer, make a wish, kiss
and live happily ever after.
Unwritten Poem
Here I sit all alone
I’m not much,
but an unwritten poem
Here I wait
for him to take pen in hand
perhaps to debate
that which most will never understand
With so much out there to inspire
it’s a wonder
that he never tires
With a prompt from Robert
a change in the economy
what would it hurt
for him to write just once about me
It’s not easy being an unwritten poem
sitting here in the dark, all alone
when all I want is a place to call home. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/20/08 Perspective poem.
PS last stanza first line, should read blackened. Oops my bad!
If you squeeze my bulb any harder, I will vomit -
I will spill my acid all down your suit.
It serves you right, preemptively ejaculating
my contents at undeserving pedestrians!
I want to spew forth on the face of the Bat,
can’t you hear my pansy eyes weeping Daddy,
my green lugubrious tears hiss as they fall
from my petaled face and die on your own bosom!
I am her death
I blanket her
And keep her warm at night
Sheild her from the painful
And keep her out of sight
Dark and nuturing
Safety fears forming
Old perspectives are dead
New ones come with morning
An over protective parent
I am smothering my child
Till she can no longer breathe
Leaving her corpse to be defiled
I am the balckened city smog
Pollution and death is soaring
Old thoughts are numbed
And new ones come with mourning
(written from the perspective of the city pollution smog.. but you already worked that one out!
)
PS. Is it clear that I am writing from the perspective of the music?
Resistance
We swarm
into the sweaty heat
of dance floors,
we are nothing more
than the amplified swell
surrounding bending bodies.
Watching
the dancers respond
you would think
that our vibrations
assaults their senses.
I do not know what
this generation is fighting
against. In years past
we were greeted with tilted hips
hands steady at the side
ready for us to fill their senses.
Tonight they slap their bodies
against us, greeting us
with pummeling fists.
Rock’s Lament
You pummel me all day long
For centuries you have beat against me
tearing away until I am only
a small portion of my former self
I was once a gigantic boulder
where sailors stood to catch your mood
But your angry waves have carried
grains of me into your depths or
deposited me on uninhabited beaches.
Some of me is even now
covering an ancient shipwreck
while other particles remain
intwined in meremaids’ hair
Here I stand as a small monument
to your tenacity
Oh great and mighty Pacific
Hail, to your salty waters
I am the liminal
The space between
½ of ½ of ½ of ½
never arriving, never merging
never whole. What holds you apart no matter how
tightly you cling together.
I am what lies between
Here and there, the transition , the fade
between night and day, that point where the horizon
starts to blur,
the stillness before the first cry,
the breath before the last.
I am the borderlands
between two vastly different worlds,
barren, dry, so hot even language
melts away. There are those that die
in the crossing and those who survive
in-between.
Kate Berne Miller
Thank you Michelle!
Oh my gosh — so many good ones today, it’s hard to list them all, so here’s my "short" list of favorites:
Nancy P – (The Scratchy Stack) Very nice! I remember them fondly. And Van Gone — I like it!
Karen – love your "tomboy" trying to be tame.
Shanon R – And to think I felt sorry for myself for joining almost a week late. You’ve got guts enough to play catch up for weeks. You go!!
Michelle – Bare Naked was cute — but I loved Leaf!
Linda – How true! And pretty good for a quick draft.
Paul W.H. – very sad.
S.E.Ingraham – some I recall from WD Forum, some were new to me. Too many, all well done, to choose a single favorite.
Judy – such a terrible loss, so tragic & heartbreaking, and you keep on capturing it so painfully well.
K Weber – (The Shame) I feel like an idiot — like I should understand this one — but it a riddle to me. Still, I really like it! (Want to enlighten dopey me?)
Jane – very simple, very nice.
Sara V – interesting idea, water seeking tranquility (Me too!)
Victoria – your door poems have been engaging — short & succinct.
Steve L – (Book) – Very interesting, and unexpected, perspective, since I anticipated reverence and care. Still, I understand well, how that book feels. I don’t like to be peeled open and read either — so why do I write (or try to write) poetry?? Nice job!
Juanita – well done!
Thanks, everyone, for yet another day of excellent poetry! We are .566667 way there. Write on!
(ok, since my theme is the Pacific Northwest and includes a couple poems on the pacific ocean, thought this particular point-of-view/rant-back fitting. –spidey)
Poseidon Speaks
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
I am not your Enemy, though
at times you render me with such cruelty.
Lives I have taken, yes
but never without Reason,
and never with Greed.
Death is such a delicate matter,
to always be carried out with great Honor
and Respect, in spite of your own record.
Your hands are not entirely clean.
You engage my children in blood sport,
pollute my reefs with garbage & chemicals,
come to my home and drill giant holes
in blatant disregard of the consequences,
how else am I supposed to feel?
You cannot enslave or bully me.
I cannot be bought or sold.
I’ve been in existence far longer than
when you first crawled out of the ooze.
While you were busy whittling sticks
I was carving out coastlines and
tumbling rocks smooth as glass.
While you were busy building your cities
and expanding your territory,
I sent my own painful reminders,
hurricanes and volcanoes,
tsunamis and quakes.
Never think yourself my equal.
no matter how many trips to the moon,
or how small I seem from your space station.
You will never be my equal.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
PSC – I like your Calendar’s Lament!
Calendar’s Lament
I tallied days with tender care
I never could relax
I couldn’t let one single day
Just slip right through the cracks
Appointments and your special days
I tracked with care and reason
Recording every holiday,
Full moon and change of season
But, though I kept track of it all
I see the writing on the wall
The year is quickly winding down
I fear a new kid’s come to town
I haven’t got a lot of time
And so, I’ll keep it brief
The days are quickly slipping by
Oh Time, that awful thief!
My days are numbered, it is true
But friend, one day this may be you
Trying hard to be not bitter
Tossed aside like so much litter
Baby
I’m the second incarnation
the first is shoved on top
of a dusty wardrobe
one arm hanging by a thread
face disfigured by nail polish
and grime.
I have power to create sound
a contented sucking on my dummy
wails when it falls
from my mouth’s plastic O.
Bottle, scratchy shirt and me,
the trinity she needs
to get to sleep.
Sorry, had parent teacher conference last night, got home to late to write, but will try to catch up later.
Rod.
Change
Fingers hovering
over keys, after
comfortable words
she plays them out-
it’s their rite.
People sometimes
tell her what hymns
to use, though
they won’t know
from their vantage.
Those left behind
will hear the song
later, and every time
remember, remember.
Day 15 – prompt – "nightmare dream" (almost caught up)
Dreaming Dreams
“We are near waking when we dream we are dreaming” Novalis
It’s always the same
The door to the cage
Lies open, unlocked
And my heart
Beating a tattoo-rhythm
Feels, even within the dream
As if it might rip
From out my chest
But my legs are heavy
Too heavy to move
To cross the short
Distance needed
To escape
And helplessly
I watch the cage-door
Slowly sliding closed
As my legs refuse
To obey my heart
And my mind goes black
And I dream I am
Awake and then
I am and still
I am not free.
Book
Eww, why
Are all your fingers
Poking and prodding
And moving layer after layer
Of me around without asking?
The worst part is I just feel
So naked when you open
Me up! Why must you
Always stare at my naked words?
Sometimes you don’t even own me.
You just grab me off of my perch on high
Pull me toward you
And almost tear me open
And after that not even give me
The satisfaction of being worthy
Enough for you.
You are all just terrible!
How would you like it if I peeled you
Open and read what was inside?
And yet another – catch up poem #14, prompt "cautionary"
Learning the Ropes
Edith is showing me around the ward
Giving me a heads-up about what’s what
She means well but she is scaring me
Half to death and I wish she would just
Shut up now and let me go back to my room
If she points out one more person I should avoid
I think I might start screaming or maybe I’ll just
Start to run down the hall and keep running
Until somebody makes me stop or somebody
Makes her stop – what? Oh – wait – she’s
Going into someone’s room now and I
Don’t have to, don’t want to, don’t go there
Go back down the hall now and find a nurse
Ask her where my room is, I can do that
Don’t listen to Edith calling after me
Soon I won’t be able to hear her
Just keep walking past the Security Desk
Is he getting up? It doesn’t matter, just
Keep walking and soon I will be at the Nurse’s
Station and then I will find someone who
Will help me and get me back to my room
Just keep walking, walking, walking
Don’t listen to anything at all, don’t think
Just keep walking, walking, walking
Where is that room? Where is that room?
I can’t walk anymore; I will just sit here now
And not think and not walk, just sit, that’s all.
Hi Everyone, I really enjoyed these poems today:
Earl – "What I’ve Seen"
Lori – "Vein Truth"
Linda – "Mr. Paper complains"
Meesh – Toliet Handle poem – very funny
Sara V. – "Still Waters"
Goodnight all! Looking forward to tomorrow and a slower pace!
Van Gone
She said Van Gogh had made her mad.
On her first museum trip, she’d pushed
her way up close to view the picture she
had only seen before on calendars and
cards. She said that once she got there,
though, the picture disappeared—only
brushstrokes—and it made her mad.
She wanted to back up enough to bring
the image back, but the room was full
by then, so she just left him for Degas.
Nancy Posey
And yet another – Day 12 – prompt "By the Numbers"
Keeping Track of Going off the Rails
Charting your disorder and the various attempts
To heal your fucked-up mind can drive you
More insane than you ever dreamed, if you let it
Or – you can begin to appreciate the elegance
Of mathematics and pure science and hope to
Pursue the answer to your crazed existence
As a purely academic exercise wherein you will
Play the part of chief subject in the experiment
Or, if Lady Luck smiles with particular favour on your
Real life laboratory, you may just end up being THE ONE
The pseudo-scientist who discovers the answers to questions
Needing to be asked and answered for you and others
But – and this is a huge but (no pun intended at all here)
First you must commit to chart keeping on a monumental scale
Learn to devote time and energy to systems and files
And research so that you are almost as educated about
Your illness and its possible treatments as those who treat you
It becomes important to realize that the number of times
You become depressed will influence – get ready for it
The number of times you will become depressed – that’s correct
Kindling – it’s called kindling
- each episode sets off little fires
That makes each successive depression
that much easier to set aflame
Talk about depressing – those numbers are that, yes?
This is just an example of how arithmetic and sanity connections
Abound in the mental health arena –
there are dozens more, maybe hundreds
But the lab is calling and the disorder
a fierce mistress who appears on a whim
This self proclaimed subject must off to work
or will find herself incarcerated once more…
So many strong and creative poems. Judy, the degree of empathy in yours just makes me shudder and want to hug you now and your son then.
Here’s mine – short and simple after a long work day.
Door
Shut, I separate.
Open, I invite.
Approach with care.
I invite, open,
I separate, shut.
I just read yesterday’s postings and as always they are all wonderful but Paul H. yours was simply beautiful.
Now to read todays!
Catch-up poem #12 – prompt "tiniest detail"
Flocculation
The scars were healed and in time
Would fade to un-noticeable lines
The doctor assured her parents
And the thoughts were gone from
Her mind also, they, and she, assured them
They kept saying, as if saying it often
Enough would make it so and no one
Noticed as she continued to pick
At her bedspread in the hospital room
There weren’t enough chairs so
She sat on the bed, straight as a soldier
At right angles to those assembled
And she laid one hand in her lap
But the whole time, she kept picking
Tiny, miniscule really, pieces of lint
Off the spread, near her thigh, with the other
She appeared to be listening to them
Her parents, the doctor – nodding
Saying – ah, and mmm – at the appropriate
Moments but really she just kept
Mindlessly picking, picking, picking
And no one saw her, no one, no one at all
Robert I loved your poem–great ending!!
Still Waters
I seek tranquility
Is that such a huge thing
To ask?
No ripples, no splashing
No webbed toes paddling about
Stillness is what I seek
I am dead tired of all this activity
Look at my beauty
The sun creates twinkles on my wrinkles
Sunset paints me petal pink
I don’t mind so much if you stop and sip
Pausing for a little drink
But then,
Be on your way
I don’t need all you critters
Mucking about
I have sunrays to catch
And to boughs to reflect
I am deeper than you think
I apologize in advance for this one. It’s late and I’m tired and something my husband said at dinner spawned this one. So, here it is…
Grrrrrr (or "The Bitch")
Why is he always in my space?
He pushes me off the good bed,
the one I’ve warmed up so my
belly won’t freeze. Now I have
to circle three times again before
I lay down on the rough blue bed
while he had the tan bed, the other
bed, the good bed. I’ll whine until
my humans tell me to “Lie down!”
faces redder and redder until I
obey them. Why did they ruin
my life? Why did they bring
that spotted monstrosity home?
Why didn’t I kill him when
he was the size of my head?
While I have a few more catch up poems to post, this one actually belongs to today and is a "point-of-view" poem in keeping with my chapbook theme…
Wrapped Up
They only bring me out on the odd occasion
The men and women in the white coats
As they are so colloquially referred to
The emergency workers, I mean
They do try everything else first – drugs
Are always really the first lines of defence
Well – I guess, talk is, at least that’s the spiel
Sold the public and the press, and it is tried
For about thirty seconds maybe, oh – okay
For up to three minutes if the cuckoo
Is anywhere near lucid and let’s be honest
By the time my people get there, it’s not
Likely we have a talker, not likely at all
So if subduing is in order, and when isn’t it
And the drugs aren’t cutting it, and often they don’t
You’d be surprised how much some crazies can handle
Without going down – it’s pretty amazing actually
And, of course, no one wants to use the dreaded taser
That’s for sure – not with all the controversy
Surrounding that baby, and its countless fatalities
Of late – nossir – that’s why my sweet self
Has been making such a resurgence and also why
More of the husky fellows are being sent on calls
To subdue and contain the loonies
It takes really strong ones to hold them down
And get me onto them properly, you know
But once I’m on and wrapped, tied and fastened
Well – I don’t like to boast – okay, maybe just a tad
There is no getting around it – the game is over
Once they’re restrained by Mr. Strait-Jacket
They might just as well kiss their freedom
Good-bye, sayonara, adios, and any other term
You can think of that means – you are going to the Funny Farm
Friend, it’s the Ha Ha Hilton for you
- no good trying to get free
Even the great Houdini had trouble
getting out of a strait -jacket
What makes you think a crazy-ass fool like you is going to
Escape – uh uh – not going to happen – no way Jose
And that as they say, is all she wrote folks – I love my work.
My Mother’s Words
Twenty-one years ago next week I died.
I have kind of lost track of the exact date,
as I have been so busy here in heaven since
the time of my death, but i know I was looking
forward to preparing Thanksgiving dinner. The
menu had been decided on. The food was in
the refrigerator. It was sudden. My death.
My heart just stopped. No warning. I didn’t
mean to leave so quickly without saying
good-bye to everyone I loved, but maybe it
was for the better. Good-byes sometimes
an be long and drawn out, not to mention
being filled with much pain for those dying
and those left behind. For me, it just happened.
God called me home. He must have had His
reasons. I know my husband missed me.
You know how quiet he was and how he
depended on me for social things. He hadn’t
made a lot of friends here in heaven since
he’d arrived. No surprise, he had been waiting for me.
I suppose you’d like to know what I’ve been
doing here, but there’s no time for that right now.
Just know that there is more than enough to do,
but also all the time in the world. Here in heaven
there is no real past and no real future. Everything
is the present, and present is eternal and perfect bliss.
No pain, no one ages, everyone is happy. Yes, just
as you learned in Sunday School. But don’t rush
to get here. Enjoy those moments, months, years
on earth. They are special, and you will never forget
your experiences or the people you know. Your
memories last forever. God does have a plan.
He is yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He is
eternal, and you are also. Know we will meet again!
(In memory of my mother who died November 24, 1987)
TIRESIAS, AS THE BEARDED LADY, SPEAKS TO A CARNY
-In Homage to Larry Levis’ Whitman
-For ladies who like Hamlet
Slipped between two
Like toes
Between shoe and earth
Wandered I,
Spat from Hades’ mouth
To know life in a circle,
And at first there only blackness, and cold,
So far stretched the only thing was numbness
Then earth, finally, and grass, and stone as old
Anything from the gods.
Eventually I progressed through a king
From a worm to a fish
Dined upon a wooden dish
While a play wheeled on before him.
And back to grass, and to a deer, and eventually,
Finally to a beggar, limbs so racked with spirit
They shook when the voices took
And death was held back,
But only for a moment.
After the beggar: a horse thief,
A liar of a woman so wanton it was a relief to a whole village
To burn her at the stake.
Lawyer, housewife, a soldier or two,
Lion tamer, candy maker,
popcorn entertainer.
Once I came back as poet,
My moustache deliciously out of style,
But no one paid attention.
Actors, many. Thieves all, blind,
Only if they lived long enough to have more of their kind,
Breeding like a stray, afraid Zeus might yank life back.
But having shaken off that guilt
It is walking up and down
That engenders the seeing eye.
I can cross over
To the other side,
Death no longer my company.
From the Public Toilet Handle, in Sorrow
O for the touch of a human hand!
Boots and soles, boots and soles.
My days like karate
movies on endless loop –
all this kicking
in uncomfortable proximity,
then the smack,
the unexpected impact,
breaking the scene,
a boot, a sole, its treads
caked with clay, studded
with pebbles, globbed
with gum, tattery
with the odd shred of toilet paper.
A plunge, a stomp,
and I remember gravity.
Hear my cry,
an ocean of sorrow,
in every whoosh
in every flush.
O for an unshod touch!
Of course it wasn’t the "first" catch-up poem of the day…ignore that comment – I’m suffering some sort of jet lag; that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Man – there’s a lot of good stuff on here! What an exciting month. Sharon I.
Shadow Shift
All day I work my changes,
drawing westward up to noon,
then reverse to stretch eastward
until night relieves my shift
First catch up poem on this day – "deep thought or observational poem" – prompt for day 11 – hope this fits the bill
Deconstructing Memory
Without my asking, pages of that year
find their way into my hands
And before I know it, my eyes are drawn
to the lines there limned
Those days, so detailed at times, I cannot look away,
yet all I want to do
Is throw the lot of them off some cliff
or into a furnace or a fire-pit, at least
But all I’m able it to do,it seems,
is read and re-read, the most graphic
Descriptions of a woman I do not recognize,
dismantling a life I do recall
With such tenderness and regret,
I find myself, inevitably reaching out
Physically moving my hand as if to offer it
in peace to someone
Perhaps one of my children – oh please
– take my hand and pull me back
From the precipice of my own disastrous choices,
I seem to be saying
Now, long after that time of rash decisions,
and judgements not entirely sane
When hindsight is so much clearer than any
sight was then, even though
There was no telling me anything then
– I was so sure I had it right, so sure
That there was nothing wrong inside my head,
my heart, my soul
That all the rending of other’s lives
was justified, was, in fact,
essential if all were to survive
I was convinced, of that I was so certain
– the feeling comes back to me at times
Washes over me; the colour of shame is as red
as radishes or rhubarb or blood spilled
And I think I might die of humiliation
and remorse but there is no death from that
Apparently, for I have lain awake in the dark
praying for death’s pale horse
To come riding in the night and carry me off,
before I do any more damage
Damage that I am sure resides in me yet,
just waiting for its chance to leap out once more
Grasp all that I love, all that is good and right
in my life, and rip it into tiny, irreparable shreds.
the shame
ridiculous, this
mess
of you
fifty years:
fifty chances
to get well
not soon
enough; you
went to kansas
and tore
through
everyone
like a wind-
storm
to a cornfield
you were
once the clown
and the hippie
now, we are
laughing
at your misfortune
how you
let money
run wild
your mouth,
inappropriate;
you in blackface
the routine
of chaos
bored us
the doors
are closed
and the bridges
splintered; each
shred shoved under
your coke nail
Trust Me
I was tired, Mom
all I’d worked for didn’t seem worth
it and my head, always the headaches
and now something else. I find it difficult
to get out of bed but I don’t want you
to worry. I kept it from you for a reason.
I had to make my own decision, my own
way. I’m still doing my job, meeting
with friends, doing what I need to do
but I’m tired Mom.
When I saw Mema in the casket
she seemed so peaceful, at rest, she got to
rest. Death didn’t seem such a terrible thing.
Death seemed like an answer, just go to sleep
forever, don’t worry about computer systems
and company networks, the bosses, the 20 hour
work days , don‘t worry about anything any longer.
I didn’t know where home was anymore. My
apartment in Atlanta, my family and friends
in Tampa, my job site in Illinois. I’m only
twenty-three Mom but I’m tired. I want to
sleep and not have to worry about spreadsheets
and bills and being away from my family
and all my college friends in Gainesville
spread all over the US with their jobs.
I don’t know anyone here in Atlanta, I’m so
lonely, and then I have to fly so much. You
know what a homebody I always was Mom.
I worked from the time I was in grade school
for this opportunity, for this life I have. New
car, grand apartment and job with a top five
company. I’ve achieved all my goals but
it’s not all that. I love you and Dad and Sis
with all my heart but I can’t stay any more.
There doesn’t seem to be an end to these
hours with a job I don’t care for after all
in a town where I don’t know anyone, in a
space I don’t’ want to be. I guess its depression
but it feels like it will last forever and I don’t
want this pain. Remember it’s not about
you, it’s about me and what I choose.
You know I’ve always made good choices
Mom. You said so from the time I was small.
Trust me now and know that I’m doing
what I need to do. Our last weekend
together was great. I knew I wouldn’t
see any of you again and I wanted you
to have that one last memory. I wanted
you to know this isn’t about you. I love
you.
The Postcards
It began with traveling, a trip out west
where he had never been. Neal closed
his eyes and breathed what he thought
the scenery would be. They stopped.
Neal, his wife, the little girl. The shop
held Native jewelry and turquoise.
The cards stacked next to the cashier
located them in this vast terrain:
Mountains, canyons, clouds overhead.
Never had Neal felt so small, and that’s when
the dreaming commenced, and he drifted
away from reality like those clouds, shifting
evolving, turning into someone else.
That’s when he had lost his head. That’s
when the questioning began, when he knew
his size amidst the universe. He’d made
decisions without even realizing there’d been
choices at that point. He’d made the decision
to surround himself with minutiae in order
to feel grandiose. He felt huge. He knew
now, at this moment, in present tense,
he needed to fall back down to ground.
Predator
I am waiting for you
to fall off your feet
to make a wrong turn
to take your eyes off of His face
I am lying in wait
to prey on your pride
to ride on your lust
to drive a wedge into His grace
It is my desire
to see you in bonds
to cause you to suffer
to wrap your life in my oppression
You have no idea
that I hunt you down
that I crave your blood
that I am behind your depression
So keep closing down
your ears to His Word
your eyes to His might
your heart to His love-stricken voice
I don’t want you to know
that you are His love
that you are forgiven
that between us, He gives you a choice.
Catch up poem for Day 10 – prompt "survival"
No Room at the Bin? No Problem
(aka: survival of the lunatic fringe)
Call, in a panic, make an unscheduled appointment
With whichever shrink will see you
Doesn’t have to be your shrink but is best if it can be
Go in unwashed clothes, with greasy, uncombed hair
No makeup – none – a scrap of makeup indicates wellness
Slouch, shuffle, head down, meet no-one’s eyes
Try for tears – tears are good – if possible do some weeping
Ahead of time so your eyes are puffy, reddened
Speak slowly, not much above a whisper
Do not act overtly suicidal; this is way too obvious
Especially for the long-time patient, a dead give-away
That really, you just want a rest, and to have your meals made
When the head-shrinker asks if you have thoughts of hurting
Yourself or others, shrug, try to look confused, weary
Neither weary nor confused will be much
of a stretch by this point
Suggest that no, not really, you are just tired
and wish that you could
Go to bed and sleep forever, that’s all, just sleep forever
Try not to mind too much, that by the time you have convinced
Your caregiver, you will have very much
convinced yourself that yes,
You should be in the hospital and no, you don’t care if they lock
You up and throw away the damned key.
The Bull
A cape is a cape is a cape,
except of course when
it is a red cape. I’m there
for you– snorting, stomping
the ground, looking fierce–
what more do you want?
Fair is fair and that means
no color to antagonize me
further. Colorless would
do nicely. Isn’t it
enough humiliation
for me to be
center ring with
some fool in fancy
get-up waving
a cape at me,
daring me to
charge, when I
could have at
him with no cape?
Do I have no
rights, no emotions,
no dignity? Do I
not bleed red?
Back in Canada and playing catch up – I have the poems written, just could not post from there for some reason, so will post here today and tomorrow – the Dominican was lovely mostly – two weddings in two days followed by my new son-in-law’s father having a heart-attack right after the second wedding’s reception (his daughter’s) – he’s still in hospital in Santa Domingo (sp?). There is a surrealism about all of this that lends itself to my Chapbook theme of insanity, but it’s not one I would have wished for…
Day 9 – prompt, "dream type poem"
Anne Sexton Haunts My Dreams
There is a gargoyle in the corner of my doctor’s office
But you can’t see it if you look directly there
However if I watch from out the corner of my eye
Whilst chatting casually as if engaged in doing something else
Then – there – just on the periphery of my vision
He’s grinning like the evil little demon that I know him for
Flicking his tongue in and out between his pointed teeth
While my shrink, he’s busy making arrangements for me
To be admitted to the psych ward on the fifth floor up above us
All the time, watching me, trying not to see his gargoyle
And me? I’m wondering why I feel so tired now;
why I can’t get off this chair.
Minutes later, or maybe it’s the next day,
days melt into each other here
It’s the middle of the night actually, not day at all,
and I’m sitting straight up in bed
Wide awake, heart pounding, scared out of my wits again
and wondering where she’s at
I’m getting tired of her, I can tell you that,
and it seems like every time I turn around
Certainly every time it’s lights out, whether at home,
or here in the hospital,
That freaking poet seems to think it’s party time,
and in she waltzes,
A volume of her poetry spread open in one hand,
a half-smoked cigarette smouldering away in the other
She just sashays up to me in her red high heels
and starts right in;
Never bothers to ask me, what would I like to hear tonight
Oh no, she always picks the piece – not that I’d know what to choose these days, of course
I used to love all of them, “Mercy Street”, “Locked Doors”, oh – and especially,
“The God-Monger”, but lately I’d burn the lot
Anybody knows me, would know how very pissed off I must be,
to talk about burning books
I’d rather kill somebody than burn a book, you can ask anyone;
Too bad this particular somebody is already dead
It’s just when I see her near me,
all angst-filled still but puffed up
With phoney sophistication and remnants of her own suicide
I know what she wants; I may be crazy, as they say,
but I’m not an imbecile;
She doesn’t need to crook her manicured finger
to get me to know I’m to follow her
That’s when I start screaming
and a couple of nurses come running,
Waving their magic wands – hypodermics full of tranqs
- I know the drill
Never mind, I tell myself, at least if I’m unconscious
Miss Smarty Pants poet person, can’t get to me there
My vertigo often makes it feel as if my bed is moving. It can get so bad that I end up with insomnia, unable to sleep because of the nausea and being snapped into being awake because my head says I’m falling. Therefore, this is written from my long suffering bed’s perspective.
Bed Ridden
Tossing, turning she whimpers and moans through sleep
As I try to cradle her in stillness, holding my ground while she
Misperceives the floating feeling of endlessly falling from me.
Within these four corners I lay myself and there I keep
A vigilant embrace, holding and folding close enough
And still she jerks awake, her world become too rough.
Lifting her from a world that doesn’t shift, I let her grip
Holding onto the only things solid in her life, the slip
Of her world from solid to this endless boundless trip.
Paul- that was very moving- great work!
Laurie K.
The Orphan’s Confession:
They say –
with biblical authority –
that it is a most selfish
act. . .
But do they know:
after the affects
were packed in tubs
and moved to the place
beneath the stairs
that I kept one coat behind?
A plum colored coat,
quilted on the outside lining
with a darker accent around
the collar and the cuffs;
in the back of the closet
it looks grandmotherly
as if it were waiting for kids
on the corner to get off of the bus
on some late autumn afternoon.
Sometimes – in quieter moments –
I will take the silk inner lining
and rub the material together
between fingers and thumbs
and the friction is like the end
of a blanket I used to know –
the one you’d throw without prayer
over my half-sleeping body
They say –
with an air of conviction –
that it is a most selfish
act. . .
That sometimes,
I smell around the seams
of that same old coat, the places
where the scent of you still lingers –
the proof of the fire –
and I breathe in the memories
of you, when life in your lungs
burned and your presence
was a burning ember on the back porch
or behind the garage,
in the time before you stopped breathing. . .
each sniff is a wish for smoke
to wrap around my head
and stroke my temples
to feel you once more
in the smoldering.
Okay, after starting this challenge 10 days late, I am still behind, so today I have to post another quickie. Otherwise I will never catch up!
Mr. Paper Complains
I’ve been around the block, folks,
and life ain’t been a piece of cake,
’cause nobody seems to respect me.
Not sure how much more I can take.
When Peter painted his rainbow
and held it for the class to see,
people only noticed the colors
and they simply overlooked me.
And that was just my first round,
later times involved misuse,
some of which I lament
strongly border on abuse.
I’ve been marked up and crumbled,
folded, cut and chewed,
used as a blotter, a paper airplane,
and been both stapled and glued.
Now I wish that in my next life
things won’t be as complicated.
Please recycle me into a paycheck
so I’ll finally be appreciated.
Linda
COMPASS
My face is round and petaled as a globe
to encompass the world. I measure
it out in small angles.
Giving allowance
for declination, I have a natural
affinity for north. My housing
turns on the axis of you
who hold me,
but my arrow always aims true.
I’m the heart
of the compass-rose.
Do you think I could point you
the way to find a child
lost in the dark? That’s not
my job. It’s yours.
I can only beat the wolves
Away from the door
For so long
And then it just gets
Really hairy.
When they’re ready to come in
There’s not much else to do
Except offer everyone a nice
Full glass of red wine, a Cabernet
Works best I’ve found.
Takes the edge off of the business still
Left at hand.
She cleans the houses for the people but
Each family is so different.
The man with his boys and no mommy
Cause her to cry.
Each time she drives away feeling their loss,
The emptiness, all over again, the mommy’s
Picture treasured everywhere.
The woman who beat cancer to death
Helps her, cleans right along side,
Laughing at the messes her children have made,
Proud to be around to see what her
Little darlings have dreamed up.
The sadness in the eyes of the woman
Who is still in the eye of the Storm,
Still trying to survive Life, always
Leaves her disheveled … the broken home
Overwhelming not because of size,
Or mess, but because
Of the pain painted on each wall.
The other woman who seems to have everything
In the world except happiness
Whispers in her ear,
“Don’t forget to clean the coffee pot,
You didn’t last time, dear.”
On her way home she drives slowly through
The school zone, sees the laughter on the faces
Of the freed children and wonders what
Their homes are like and if
They are surviving the pain
Life seems to bring everyone
Including her own little piece of the world,
The one the people she cleans for
Never asks her about.
Bread Knife
I am a sword in the hands of a child
the slicer and dicer and tamer of mild
a dozen or more tiny scimitar edges
waiting to cut any monster to wedges.
In the hands of the trained I will bite in defence
aligned with a forearm in cut increments
a simple punch sees me cutting up skin
if you don’t see coming you’ll know where I’ve been
For now I’ll sleep under a pillow of down
protecting a child from the monsters in town
One day she’ll forget me and then with a grin
I’ll open her up from her leg to her chin.
Dear Ringo,
Is it just me or are all you Yankees
crazy? I just don’t get how y’all base your
friendships on mistrust and venom. I’ve
never met such a spiteful mad assed idiot
in all my days. Maybe it’s driving that cab
that sends you round the twist, with all those
mad New Yorkers yapping at the back of your
neck all day, every day. One thing you did get
right though: your wife and mother-in-law are
as mad as fish and need to be locked up. That
cousin of Moosehead’s seems pleasant enough;
always eager to please. Speaking of Moosehead,
he really is a dumb-ass putting up with all your
B.S. I can’t figure how he does it, nor why?
Anyway, I feel better for getting this off my chest and
I don’t want to abuse your hospitality any more than
necessary. Also, I’m forgetting the point of this note.
I booked lanes at the bowling alley. See you back of seven.
Yours lacking in the usual southern graces,
Jimmy the Greek
Karen Phillips, I love ecphrastic poetry! Since I can’t produce a work of art, I love other ways to celebrate it.
Is it my imagination or are several of us teachers?
Robert: I just wanted to tell you that I love this chapbook format. I will go back and use the prompts for another theme!
Thanks!
ooops. it’s "as soon as I see your needle"
Cats, Poetry & Death #21
The Spectre and the Scythe
Write what you will
it makes no odds
No muse off sets my
coming
Nine lives or not
you’ll be mine
All come to me
finally
God loving or atheist
feline or Poet
Fear me for I am
waiting
Darkly shrouded
hooded I stand
Scythe in hand for
taking
The only certainty
is your end
I shall claim you
silently
The Spectre that haunts
from over the shoulder
has only one name:
Death
Iain
I was in a silly mood today I guess.
Vein truth
I’m a little slippery thing
That likes to hide from you
The more you think you’ll get a hit
The more I make you blue
Oh, with a tourniquet, I’ll sure pop up
And when you rub your alcohol
But as soon as see your needle
You won’t see me at all.
So pick and stick all you want
The only way you’ll get me
Is when the doctor changes his mind
About the patient needing an IV.
Hee Hee! Thanks for the dedication Connie, nice work! I’m back from the slopes now & will post in a little while.
Great work every one!
Iain
I’m so busy I haven’t had time to read yesterday’s posting, but I will soon. Today I started a new before school reading group for gifted readers with my 5th grade daughter, it’s also her birthday, so I just pulled the cake I made from scratch (which I never do) from the oven. The I volunteered in my 3rd graders’ classroom and they are having their big 3rd grade music concert tonight (finally dawned on my why she’s been so moody and a little sassy this morning! – She’s nervous to be in front of thousands of people!!
) And, no it’s not thousands. So next I’m off to have lunch with the birthday girl and then back home to make supper for the grandparents and then we have the concert!! So maybe tonight I can read yesterdays and todays!! Sorry for the rambling…
but I can’t wait to read your postings!
“Leaf”
Oh, I am so wet
And now I’m stuck to glass
But how interesting this is
To peer inside this home
For I recognize this woman
Sitting upon her couch
She often sat and stared at me
When I was still attached to my tree
I wonder does she recognize me?
Whoa, Good-bye!
The wind moves me.
“Bare Naked” (first title)
My goodness it’s cold
And how my limbs do shiver;
I lost my coat a while back
And now my limbs do quiver;
I pray for spring
And the new coat it will deliver.
“Bare Naked Trees” (final title)
Sugar Maple Lament
Insects eat lunch on my crown,
root rot weakens down below,
twig blight burns the branches bare,
cankers on my bare trunk grow
so numerous I’m weakened more.
When sap rises, it’s tapped off,
I don’t have enough to grow
strong green leaves. My branches bare,
next winter broken by the snow.
No sap rises the next spring,
I find my branches bare of leaves.
Soon a storm will blow me down,
and you’ll wonder why.
Robert, this is a fantastic idea, to have us write on a theme, soooo much better than the typical poem a day. I am just starting TODAY. I will try to catch up. So far I have posted in Days 1 – 3. Maybe its better to start backwards? Forwards?? I look forward to seeing how the collection of ‘first drafts’ build! Cheers. Shannon
I apologize for stacking 15,16,17 and 18 all in a row, but internet in Paris only includes a view of the Tour de Eiffel lit up in blue with no guarantees for reliable internet. Thank you for indulging me.
I am slowly catching up on the reading of the poems and must say…I love the cat poems, the lessons, and the dominoes really got me…I’m seeing them everywhere! The human relations poems, as well, are very good. Great writing folks!
DAY 15
NIGHTMARE POEM
ON WAKING UP IN IRELAND
No heat
No hot water
Unless you know where the controls are
And they are set correctly
Sidewalks so small you can only walk
Single file
Cars that often ride up
Onto the sidewalk to pass
Can hit you if you are not aware
Five-block walks to everywhere
Take your life into your hands
Riding bikes
Five years on average
To get your license
To drive a tiny car
On the other side of the road
Surrounded by everyone in a hurry
Getting nowhere fast on narrow streets
That barely have room for one vehicle
But is still a “two-way” street
A machine to wash your clothes and
Dry them in three or four hours
That does less than half the machine at home
Half-sized fridge and freezer
To match; don’t forget to defrost
Time to go shopping AGAIN!
Some days I wake up
and ask myself
“Who am I?”
“Where am I?”
Then I remember
The great experiment
No two- or three-week holiday this
One school year before
I get my kitchen back
My attached garage
My full-size car
And all my belongings that were too bulky
To carry in a suitcase
And I will let all those folks
Who said “Ireland is wonderful …
You’re going to LOVE IT!”
Know
That being on holiday and
Actually living there
Are two VERY DIFFERENT THINGS!!!
DAY 16
If it WERE UP TO ME…
It WOULD BE
A lagoon with white sand
A chaise lounge chair
With a cup-holder for
Unlimited pina coladas
Easy access, of course,
For internet
Free long-distance calling
to say:
Having such a great time
Wish you were here
To go snorkeling
Scuba-diving
Wind-surfing
Dancing every night to great music
Writing poetry by twinkle lights
on the verandah
And it will take a lot
To coax me back home
11/17/08
LOVE POEM
All my love
Does that mean I have none left?
Lots of love
How do you measure that?
Give your heart away
Is there now a big hole in your chest?
Puppy love
Does it wear off with the first $50 pair of chewed shoes?
Love you forever
Does that include any afterlife?
11/18/08
PERSPECTIVE POEM
You can complain about it
But you have to live it
You can be the luckiest one on earth
Or the poorest
Or the saddest
Or the happiest
You can choose where you might live it
Who you will live it with
Whether you will celebrate it
Or wish you didn’t have it
And it’s the only thing that is truly yours
For when you leave it
You take nothing with you
That’s Life
Nancy, I so relate, and beautifully put!
Charles Courtney Curran, American (1861-1942)
On the Heights, 1909
Secret Thoughts
My sisters sit beside me.
How do they stay so still?
Sedate, they clasp their hands
in their laps.
The hillside’s alive,
like this shrub brushing
my knees and its twig
I snapped off
and now hold between my fingers.
Mr. Curran was none too happy
and told me not to move,
I’d spoil the ambiance–whatever that means.
Summer breeze teases our
tightly bunned and poufed hair–
it’s the style, after all–
and I wish I could be as
content as we look,
posing for the painter.
I suppose Father wouldn’t want
me to run down this hillside
just yet,
and Mother would purse her lips
if she saw me take a roll
through the waving grass,
tumbling down the slope
in my pristine white dress.
The sun warms my back,
so much so, I feel sweat drops
trickle down.
I think of the breeze
to cool myself
and concentrate on the
fine blue-skied day.
A sideways glance tells me
my sisters still pose,
serene,
peaches-and-cream,
in the clear air.
I look as much a lady
as they.
I feel a bit black-sheepish,
longing to turn a cartwheel
downhill
in my perfect white dress.
In my second dream poem I already wrote one from the pov of a domino, so this one’s for you, Iain.
Flippy Cat
I’m Flippy Cat the famous domino tipper.
I may be as popular as the dolphin Flipper.
On YouTube, this is no exaggeration,
I’ve become a great sensation.
My favorites are Christmas Tree, Domino Lisa,
Candy Corn, Doninearth—they’ll all please ya.
YouTube displays my many fans’ tributes.
I have a white-tipped tail and wear no boots.
I’m black and white and a little plump,
and at times I’m as still as a stump.
I like to wander when I’m camera shy.
My man took my picture ‘neath a sunny sky.
He made domino portraits of me and my friend.
I tip them over, and meow at the end.
Lesson #18: Lessons and Learning
The three sat together
Not intending to meet
They found themselves
In a corner
Squeezed into ill-fitting chairs
The smell of moldy napkins
Filled the air and she wasn’t sure
She was going to be able to eat
To her left sat
“Lessons”
To her right sat
“Learning”
Learning listened intently to
Lesson’s philosophies,
Soaking them into her crevices
She took Lesson’s words to heart,
Bookmarked thoughts,
Plans,
Calculated changes
Learning nodded in all the right places,
Lessons continued with her speech about
Independence,
Integrity,
How to set a life free
She watched as
Lessons and Learning had a meeting of the minds
Learning took some of the suggestions hard,
Lessons self-righteously continued on,
Oblivious to Learning’s
Growing concerns
She didn’t stop them or interject
She knew that in time
Learning would understand
That Lessons had a lot to learn
Lesson #18: Just Because You’ve Learned a Lesson Doesn’t Mean You’re Done Learning
So once again I’m struggling with a name. "Soil" just seems too obvious but, yet, that’s all that comes to me. *sigh* Oh well, here is poem # 18
PAD Challenge Day 18 – Point of View
You use me for life,
your life. You throw yourself
down on me and expect me
to keep you warm until
you are ready to venture out into
the world around you.
I am left here to ground you,
to keep you rooted. You spread
your bounty into the very skies
that I will never be allowed
to touch.
I understand, though, I have used
you as well. When your dead and
rotting remains return to me I take
them in and renourish myself I
feed on you
and so in this way
we continue to be.
Yea, Nancy! I love that record poem too! I wrote a similar poem back in the April PAD (Robert featured it) called "Record Store", that celebrates the "brick-and-mortar" store and how much more satisfication one gets from handling a record, or even CD, rather than a digital download.
Piano
You are all so enamored of touching
my long row of improbable teeth.
But please remember that I am high-strung,
and whether you play “Chopsticks”
or "Claire de Lune”,
you are hammering me inside.
Finally! I’m all caught up! Yay!
As of right now, I am only a frame,
a wooden skeleton not fit to shelter.
But tomorrow comes drywall, insulation,
and windows. Concrete for the floors,
and brand new doors. These guys
are fast workers, and it won’t be
long before a family moves in,
and I become a home.
What am I?
I am best friend to man or woman
I protect them when they are weakest
I defend them at all times
I exist, but I am virtually unknown
I allow them dignity and grace
I am impartial and do not judge
I am not a Who, a Where, a When
I am neither How nor Why
I am a What, so what am I?
I am your Human Right.
I am yours, by your birthright.
Vanessa O’Dwyer
created
I didn’t choose to become your nemesis;
You created me inside
that dreamy recluse of a building
after your hunter friend came visiting,
talking about how he killed off
some attic-sheltering coons last year.
You also added my friends,
so we could thwart your attempts
to access your car and fulfil the myth
of how troublesome we can be.
When you threw your keys at me,
did you think it would hurt me
like your friend’s rifle butt stunned
the real coon trying to escape him?
Of course I grabbed your keys.
They glinted at me in the dim lighting,
made me curious, feel mischievous
as I pondered the unnatural way
you put me inside, even before
winter winds became a threat.
Was your subconscious trying
to save me?
~ Ronda Eller 2008
WOULD
(the point-of-view poem of the point-of-view?
=}
Oh Nancy,vinyl rules!
But we come from different schools.
For your have rock and roll things,
But mine mean something ’cause they swings!
Hehehehe.
LK – Your poems have so much feeling.
Nancy – I still have over 500 albums that I won’t part with. One of these days I’ll get another turntable with a digital converter and put them on CD. Yeah, right. I’ve been saying that for a decade now.
Day 18 for LL&L:
What I’ve Seen
Some amazing people have passed my way
Over the last few thousand years
And I’ve seen the faces of every one
I’ve seen happiness, shock and tears
Some didn’t believe they were really here
Others were elated they’d finally arrived
All were happy when they first saw me
But they walked by like I wasn’t alive
Some ran by while others could only crawl
And some froze right where they stood
Some collapsed and had to be helped on their way
But make no mistake; they all understood
They’d heard of me, but they never knew
Just how pearly beautiful I would be
They’d also heard what wonders lay beyond
They couldn’t wait for their turn to see
What my boss had in store for each of them
And the old friends and family they’d meet
The mansion He built, and awaiting rewards
The crystal clear waters and gold streets
I’ve been so blessed to see them all first
My boss put me in the very best place
For I get to greet you when you make it home
And one day, I hope to see your smiling face
Robert, loved it. Silver is supernatural!
Okay. To business
Yesterday the prompt wanted a love poem. I’d already written my day 17 poem and this one is old. Very old. But it’s a love poem I gave her for Valentine’s day.
I saw you this morning, driving home
Waving at me as I drove to work.
I waved back frantically, alone
Again in a second, and jerk
The car back into traffic, and feel
Good all the way in, driving in
A bubble of warmth; bells peal
In my heart, subsiding in
A few hours to a hum,
A glow I carry through the day
Until I see you for a crumb
Of time at evening, when I say
How much I adore you
And recall this morning that I saw you.
But the challenge is to write a new poem, so….
The sun promises warmth and clear skies
And I have no work to go to now,
So in my driveway, my truck lies
Silently. I remind myself how
Each morning I made it roar to life
So I could sally forth once more
To face the strife
Of day to day, the chore
That work was, and now is not.
Old memory has eased the stress
And made the victories caught
Much bigger, and the losses less.
The past holds much. But I’ve grown wise,
Because the sun promises warmth and clear skies.
Day 18 for SS:
Zap Me!
I can hear the energy flowing
I can see the lightning flash
I can feel the power moving
Through ten billion of my buds
There goes one
That was close
But not close enough
I want to be a part
Of the fun
Zap me!
Here comes a massive power surge
Coming my way at high speed
I hope they’re on a collision course
‘Cause it been so long since I
Got involved in the action
Charge me, please!
Send me a spark
A burst of electricity
To charge this little neuron
Zap me!
The Scratchy Stack
Twelve by twelve, suitable for
hanging in every rock-and-roll
themed joint, we stand forgotten,
one notch above the stacks of
National Geographic. In times
past, you sorted us, first by genre
then alphabet, then year, pulling
us one at a time from our jackets,
perusing the liner notes on our
sleeves, then taking us for a spin.
Now Abbey Road leans against
Fog Hat’s Rock and Roll, longing
for one more brush against the
White Album or Hard Day’s Night.
The world’s gone digital, the last
needle’s broken, but you can’t bear
to let us go, so we just let it be.
Nancy Posey
Her Heart
Why does she
continue to
open me up,
share me
with
another
and then
tear
me to
pieces
over
and
over
again?
How come she
cannot realize
I love her
so much
and she
doesn’t
need
any
more
men?