As requested, I’m getting today’s prompt out a little earlier in the morning than usual. Hopefully, everyone didn’t stay up too late watching the election coverage last night (if you were watching the election coverage, that is). I know I’m still a little sleepy-eyed (though that may have more to do with these spreadsheets I’ve been working on for WritersMarket.com).
Today, I’d like you to write a poem that sets a scene. In other words, one that pays attention to the details of the scenery and uses those details to heighten the effect and meaning of the poem. For instance, if you were to write a poem about the election results last night, don’t drown it in abstractions and ideas. Instead, focus on the setting of a rally and let the details describe whether the particular candidate won or lost.
Personally, though, my attempt for the day is going to continue on with my monsters theme:
“Autumn Poem”
He loves the way leaves fall from trees
and collect on the ground. He loves
raking them into little mounds
next to the street. And as more leaves
fall, his mounds grow ever larger
until they’re the right size for him
to climb inside and wait for kids
biking along the gutter to
venture close enough to jump up
and scare. The reason why no kids
trick-or-treat his end of the street.
Broad expanse of lawn neatly manicured
emerald green with random dots of vibrant
yellow and and a few spots of white fluff
peaceful cohabitation
children full of giggles make wishes
blow on dandelion wisps of white
a toddler picks a bright yellow bouquet
for his mother who stands on the sidewalk
with the gardener going over instructions
for spraying as the background roar of a
lawn mower drowns out birdsong
Under parched vacant sky
immigrants from Ukraine settled
in the prairies. My great grandmother
remembers the slap of dry air
assaulting her skin when she first stepped onto the land
she had travelled over an ocean for
three children in her arms. Two survived.
I wonder what sound vibrated from her core
when her eyes first saw the rock lined forest of pine and fir trees
towering on the land she was promised her family could farm on.
How long would her suffering rattle in my bones, in my blood lines
each time I considered settling for a promise handed down to me from a stranger?
Tonight I enter the dance floor
the bodies piled around me like pillars are her fir trees
their dance her forest.
We both enter
eyes squeezed shut
ready to begin plowing though
to make a path for our own.
V. Too Close (to Death) for Comfort
Sleep lassoing me in like
A truant calf forty-eight hours
Since its last noted spotting,
I lay my cheek against
The gray Berber carpeting
That underfooted the waiting room
I’d come to call “my new home.”
Every inch of windowless wall space lined
With armchairs whose comfort level
Anyone would liken to the electric chair
After two full days upon them.
These torture devices closing in on me;
The whir of linoleum polishers
Committing holy matrimony
With the nightmarish brain activity
I blissfully could not relate—
When all was said and done,
None of these discomforts
Could hold a cardiac shock
To the five full days
You spent flat backed,
Tethered to life support.
The cherry red door opens
Revealing the interior of this dwelling
This house she called home as a child
I find it hard to stand on the dilapidated front porch
Is it so hard to use a level?
Stepping over broken nails, I’m glad to have worn my boots
The light bulb flickers next to the doorway
I try to remember the morse code combination for "S.O.S."
But fail miserably
The stout older woman glares at me
Curiously or Dangerously? I can’t tell
She’s as unkept as her home
"Who are you? What do you want?" she screeches
I look at her with sympathetic eyes
Before I turn and walk away
FINDING YOUR WAY
in this new house you worry
that you can’t afford, you turn off
every switch behind you. Your husband
keeps forgetting. There’s a constant night-
light at the bottom
of the hall. Right now the space ahead
of you is dark. How early the day fails
us in November. Daylight savings
done, just listen to the news of market
crash and subprime mortgages,
the jobless rate, the price of gas.
In the dim
you step carefully, not to trip
over three dogs sprawled at ease,
not curled nose under tail
against winter. They twitch
in dreams that have nothing to do
with famine.
Second detail poem, though, this may be more of a if this detail had not been overlooked type poem. But it was written for this prompt.
Youth and Details
They were young and on vacation
out in a country they’d never been
enjoying self-discovery,
they did not bother with information
Unfortunately, they never would again
It had reached about noon
they saw a sign just off the main
it said fresh apples, and other fruit
She said lets go
He said, not so fast, it’ll be dark soon
that’s a dirt road, what if we get lost
She said, be adventurous, lets go all the same
little did they know what this trip would cost
About an hour into the ride
the sun went down
there were no lights, just the moon
But, he had flashlight inside
Looking around,
they noticed they were alone
they first heard the howl
He was the first to feel that sense of doom
She said, this place is nowhere to be found
it’s pitch dark, and from the sound
out here the wolves’ abound
I think it’s time to turn around
They were young,
so they had not yet learned
knowledge to some
that has to be earned
That is the little details
the ones that really count
those that when overlooked
one usually fails
the obstacles to surmount
What they failed to realize
was that they were on a desolate road
more so, this road was too small to turn around
as you may have surmised
this was not all the bad luck they were owed
with a thumbda thumpda, thumpda
they soon found,
they had a flat
Where was the nearest gas station at
there was none
they did not even know where they were
but, they were not done
they would lock the doors
sleep the night
and just wait for someone
they would be alright
well, that’s what they thought
They soon became hungry
patience they’d never been taught
so he decided to fix the flat himself
no sooner did he open the trunk
when he realized
this car had belonged to someone else
it had been back a mile or so,
she complained that something stunk
but, two dead bodies
she never expected to find in the trunk
They had to go
no one could ever know
they might be blamed
She proclaimed
So, they left the car
as they ran
but, they didn’t get far
That’s when the end began. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/15/08 detail poem. Funny this was written before I found out about the
fright poem, I might have been able to use it, but that would not be fair, so I will post it in the
prompt it was meant for.
Back at Work
They spend hours today
talking in hushed voices
dark faces filled with wonder
they bend over newspapers
and scour the internet
no loud celebrating here
but I feel the glow
they quiet when the white girl walks by
until they learn how I voted
and then they speak to me too
Riding in the car,
the interstate stretching
ahead and behind us,
the autumn leaves float
to the ground. The radio
plays softly in the
background as we discuss
moving in.
SETTING THE SCENE
… a heavy shower –
and a goldcrest appears,
flicking through sharp branches,
a bright raindrop.
After nine long months
of mini-migration
–it’s back!
Spirea and oak glow rain rich yellow,
and from Berberis Darwinii bursts
a single ochre petal.
Tranquili-tea
Like well steeped English Breakfast Tea
It catches the sun funnels it deep
Flashes of orange, blue scales flicker
And then dark, a cloud sliding by
Blocking entry to the deep
Circles molded by the motions
of fins and tails unseen
Arise and then collapse again
Wakes building molten edges
From the callused orange legs
Stroking lazily beneath the snow white rump
Gliding to the far side where the
Weeping willow drapes spring green knifelets
Over the pond’s edge, swaying like with each breath of breeze
And the sun shifts gilding the surface with gold, silver
Finally rose encompasses it
and then all is dark from shining Tea to midnight Tea
And all is still,
Until the morning glow
Opens a window
To the well-steeped deep again
v. playgrounds
i move through mauve
inside the temple.
there are classrooms here.
i watch students learning
to float in awkward
silliness
and then
a whistle sounds—
eyes turn on me,
centurion guards bombard us
and I am their target.
hummingbird-swift
i speed into emerald,
high-tailed against
a stationary, green-backed sky.
i have no time
for wooing caresses;
it must surrender.
my highway leads me
to yellow playgrounds
where my pursuers
become soaring eagles—
the trees
understand guardianship.
mustard children giggle
as I render a swing-set
into a kitten.
they gently pat it
into daylight.
~ Ronda Eller 5nov2008
The carpet is vacuumed diagonally
The blinds dusted slat by slat
Fresh flowers in your mother’s vase
The table lemon-pledged to an oily sheen
The kids are clean and playing in their rooms
A roast in the oven with potatoes and carrots
Your car pulls into the driveway
I glance into the mirror
and reapply lipstick
My bruise is almost gone
Outside the T
The strident chords progress through the neural network
to the skin
from the heart to the strings on the electric guitar.
The people spilling out of T stop and toss a coin
or two,
the man doesn’t notice,
he’s channeling Billy Bragg, and keeping one eye
on his hat.
Autumn hats patrol the street.
Those who stay to watch the showman
witness his hands transform into fighting birds
moving up and down the branch of his guitar.
Heather, today’s was my favorite of yours so far.
Iain, I like the irony of your Moosehead/Ringo letter-poems.
Eugene Boudin, French (1824-98)
The Beach at Trouville (1887-96)
He captures the gradations of blue,
from powder of the low cloud-bordered sky,
to deep aquamarine of the sea,
to the blue-green of a distant grassy knoll.
Why does a man drive a horse-drawn wagon
across the beach,
with another man riding in the back?
Left to wonder, the observer might shade
her eyes from the glare
seen only on an overcast day
where the clouds are as bright
to the eyes as sunlight.
I am REALLY looking forward to being caught up, so I can read more of the entries that are here. For now, though, it’s head down and keep writing!
Here is my PAD – DAY 5: “Set a Scene” Poem
Late Autumn Arrivals
Never mind the
Hot stone massage
Moist mud wrap
Sea salt shimmer
Don’t even mention the
Waxed and exfoliated
Moisturized, buff & polish
hot-oiled mani-pedi combo
With French tips
Just forget all about the
Roots recently colored
Tresses tastefully tamed
Highlights and lowlights
Artistically executed
In spite of every effulgent effort
The juncos arrived today
Can winter be far behind?
Her arms engulf me in greeting as
she holds me against her ample bosom.
I can smell the Tabu and the hard day’s work
on her flesh. She has on her navy-checked
cotton dress that has been line-dried and
starched in the sink before she put the iron to it.
She gets her vast body into her worn green
vinyl lounge chair and sighs to let me know
all is not well with her or many others.
She picks at her cuticles as she worries
about me, family and friends, and the world.
She punctuates my update with “Well…”
as she shakes her freshly permed head and fills
our space with the odor of amonia, the mole on
her chin moves as she tells me how much she
missed me, how much she loves me, how she
hopes I have a good relationship with God.
Beside her on the cheap, clanky folding table sits her
favorite Bible, highlighted and bookmarked,
the worn edges beginning to curl up. There’s
a notebook with a yellow No. 2 pencil she uses
to jot down visitors names. She checks her notes
riffles through the pages. “Not as many came today
as they did last Wednesday. I had 52 visitors last
week but I won‘t have that many this week.“ Then
I smell the biscuits baking and I walk into the kitchen.
I notice the incline towards the back porch is steeper
the floors creak with each step. There’s always something
cooking on the stove as if she had a sixth sense about
people coming.
I half the fluffy biscuits and add some of her fresh
churned butter and the blackberry jam she put up
last summer and we feast. She died 20 years ago
but I can still see grandma there standing by the
screen door with her arms outstretched.
k weber – I wondered when I first read – but then I think we can put what we need to – This is an alluring poem – love the expanse and sense of time and space evoked in this piece – the longing
oops wrong day!
dalliance
your cough
on the radio
reminds me
that i don’t
know your hand-
writing, have
only seen you
in second
or third
person
another coast
to float on: you
sleeping
three hours
behind me
but both
of us dreaming
in sound-
tracks
too many land-
scapes separate
us: the desert
of time, the mountains
of too many
minutes apart
like contractions
of "cannot"
and "will not"
Kate – you sweet thing – I needed that. Sharon I
Bursting from split cedar
mounds of mulch. Color contrast
to red, all flowering in
sprawling echoes of desire
to stretch their limbs
Waving rock flows
up and down
circling the bed with
abrupt closure as the wave breaks
against sun faded beams
of standing fence
Rain gutters and rock
determined to navigate
rushing waterways away from
the gentle motion of the mound.
The tiny Lilac patiently waits
in the back corner
Alone, sure that one day its
full grown bloom will steal
the show.
The wind howled all through the night,
Still wails and bends the trees,
Bowing and rising, though the sun is bright;
Giving the dark grass no ease,
As, swept by golden leaves, it yellows
On its way to winter sleep.
The stones stand in frozen rows,
Holding stalwart against the seep
Of time, demanding eternal remembrance
For ancestors the busy world has forgot,
Though for now, reverence
And law protects each granite dot.
I stand before the small gray stone
That tells me you are gone, and I’m alone.
" Love Lost"
Love was lost to her. She had been in love many years ago and it graduallly left her.
She had loved with every ounce of her being , every
inch of her heart had been filled.
The years went on and the love she felt lessened with each.
She became lost with no feelings, no emotions could be
found.
She began to see a man that wouldn’t allow any kind of attachment.
This was the kind of love she needed, one that wouldn’t cost her anything.
But love is very sneaky, it can even find the hardest hearts. She found herself wanting to love, but she wouldn’t allow this feeling to take over.
She continued to makelove with him with no attachments, that’s what she thought she wanted.
She really wanted to love him and wanted him to love
her back, but she knew this would never be.
She needed him physically and he needed her too. The love they made was so passionate and so incredible,
for that moment she could feel his total love inside and out, without being in love.
This was the love she settled for. This was the only love she would have.
Bound
11/06/08
Shadows flicker along the walls
As she descends the candlelit stairway
Once a simple basement room
Now a cavern of fear and delight
Black and purple velvet drapes
Disguise cold cement and stone
Lush carpet caresses barefoot steps
As the centerpiece draws her forward
A mammoth bed of beam and steel
Satin-clad altar of sacred and profane
A glimpse of rope, the clank of chain,
Devices of pain and erotic torment
Dangle within easy reach
A whisper of warm breath
Then sudden darkness
A blindfold in place, pushed to her knees
Held, bound, helpless..
A deep voice in her ear,
“Are you ready?”
And trembling,
She can only whimper “Please…”
Thanks Jared! Alas, no. It was purely about the insect sitting on my garage key pad the other day.
Kate, thank you. Very much enjoying yours!
Frustrating I don’t have time to read everything properly, just skim read, but so much fantastic work. Especially enjoyed Heather, Patti Williams, Vanessa, Kate Berne Miller, K Webber, Earl the brain poems, Iain the mooseheads are poetry and I love ‘em!, Juanita, SE Ingraham.
My theme is my kids – no great ambitions with the book, maybe something I could share with my family, and a gift to myself and the kids in the future, to catch a little of how they are now.
Go poets!!
Thursday – takeaway
When I get home from work
he’ll be lying on the couch
‘come on’ he’ll say ‘let’s get going’
he’s been waiting for this all day.
I’ll get changed into something cooler, nag the kids to hurry
one will leave his lego on the floor for later
one will grumble shutting down the computer
one will turn off the tv halfway through her show.
When we get there they’ll stand before
the row of glass fridge doors
and gaze, undecided.
‘Hurry up and choose’ he’ll say.
We’ll sit at the table up the back
with the worn plastic cloth
the doors will be open to the street heat
the loose tiles will have been patched with glue,
and none of this will matter.
Destruction
Moon casting silver strands
Catching the last leaves
As they scamper about the ground
Silhouetting the broken limbs
And clean skin trunks
Waiting to be taken
Ravaged earth carelessly soiled
As moon beams caress over
The scattered filth
Suffocating Gaia’s breath
The breeze shimmers
And disturbs the flickering dust
Dancing alone
Along the annihilated land
Skimming the silent lake
Ripples forming
And gliding to the bank
Silence eerie on a lazy
Summer’s eve
Surrounding the placidity
The remains of destruction
Float carelessly –
A mutilation of her body
The dancing jewel
Adderbolt,
Wings shadowing
The stillness,
Passes over again
With a tearful sigh
Like the ripples
That never return
From the shore
Neither shall her spirit.
Shann,
What poignant images that work so well to convey a mood.
Change
A pebble in a shoe, pea
under the mattress, whisper
in an empty room, fall rain
tapping Vivaldi on a tin roof,
and in the space between,
you rise up bittersweet
as sorghum on my tongue.
I can’t let loose the grip
sorrow demands but will
lift you to the fine white light
that keeps me on this journey
of troubles bearing a hunger
I can’t satisfy, a fear I embrace
like a brick begs mortar, hold.
The New Conductor
(November 5, 2008)
As we take our seats in the theater,
programs in hand, the orchestra sounds
like chaos. Each musician stretches a string
or clears a valve, runs a scale or polishes up
a bit of melody, scrapes a chair across the floor,
shuffles music sheets, adjusts the metal stand.
Into the noise strides the conductor,
bowing to polite applause.
He mounts the podium and raps his baton,
and the concertmaster rises, drawing a long note
on his violin. The whole assemblage falls
into place, morphing to one unanimous “A”
before the conductor raises his stick again
and everything goes silent.
It’s his first time, he and his family have waited
so long for this – it seems like centuries –
but he exudes confidence. Every instrument,
every player is poised on the edge of the music,
watching the very tip of his baton,
and as he brings it down in a graceful swoop,
our symphony begins.
Nancy, your poem says it all. There is no need to concern ourselves with having to create a chapbook, unless we want to. It would be fun to try, though.
Brockville Psyche
The sound of the double-thick doors clunking behind us
Followed by the complicated machinations of lock and key
Every time we went from hallway to stairwell
To hallway and so on – is just one of the things I recall from Brockville,
And peering into the tiny solitary rooms, especially this
cell-like one, bare of all but a tiny shrivelled woman
Curled fetus-like in a corner, so still, I thought perhaps dead
When queried, the doctor said they feared greatly for her;
She had swallowed her thirteenth toothbrush that week
And if they had to open her up again, it would likely kill her
Why toothbrushes, I wondered? “To scrub her sinful insides,”
He told me, “At least that’s what she keeps saying.”
There was no convincing her otherwise and no keeping
The toothbrushes away from her either apparently.
We carried on. A nine hundred bed hospital for the insane
From the outside, architecturally beautiful – red-brick, gothic,
Park like setting, wrought iron fences surrounding, huge swing gates
That were never locked; dangerous patients were kept locked up inside
Oh, but inside, the hallways – narrow, dimly lit – and they smelled of urine
And ammonia, and something indefinable – I couldn’t place it then
When I was still on the right side of the keyed doors but now
Years of experiencing time on the other side of those doors
Has acquainted me with that smell – the scent of lunacy and fear
Still, back then, in my naïveté and youth, I imagined I would become
A psychiatric nurse, so worked as an assistant with one of the doctors
A volunteer, but still, got close enough to both patients
and disorders to discover, I disliked working with the sick and,
There was no way I could work in that field; the cure rate being
far too depressing- two percent at that time, thirty years ago, not much
better these days, they just don’t ever give a ‘cure’ rate…
Back then, I didn’t realize just how dangerous
some of the people the doctor had me interviewing actually were
He would lock me and a criminally insane patient in a teeny tiny
Interview room with a clipboard and fifty quiz questions to ask
Said patient, and a few instructions re spotting signs that signalled
A subject needed changing – ‘just in case’
I don’t know who was more foolish, the doctor, or me
He did leave a few cursory instructions about how to contact
emergency help, should I feel matters were ‘getting out of hand’
I marvel I came out of there unscathed, but they say
god protects drunks and fools and I don’t drink…
Of course, I didn’t know that eventually, I would
make major use of the mental health system myself, ironic really
Even more ironic too when I remember how nervous I was
attending a social function for the patients and having to dance
with several of the cuckoos, as I thought of them then
Poetic justice, really, and it serves me right that now I am
one of the cuckoos; back then I was embarrassed and frightened
of ‘those’ people, people who were probably a combination of
the mentally ill, the retarded and other segments of
marginalized society that was lumped together…
Having become familiar first hand with the stigma that still runs
deep and how misunderstandings still abound about this
disenfranchised part of society is what makes me determined
to be an advocate for the mentally ill today
birthday girl
by juanita lewison-snyder
so sorry
i missed
your special day —
11th year of your existence.
climbing behind
the wheel of imagination
i can still picture your
long thick hair,
the color of mint copper
pulled away from a
sweet-freckled-face
as it dips chin-down
to blow out
waxy-striped candles
with juvenile lungs —
the force of hurricane-winds
circling a sea of
care-bear blue icing,
smoldering in the dim-light
amid a confetti of
song and
photo-flash
ghosts.
Michelle- i don’t think i’d see it this way if not for Obama’s victory, but is WASP a metaphor for the changing of the guard in washington? …great poem regardless
Sara, thank you soooo much . . . WOW!!!!
What a difference a day makes, twenty four little hours . . . I look forward to the posts tomorrow. Iain, I expect to see Cats and Moosehead
Cheers and love to all-
Heather
Thanks all for your feedback, even if I am living vicariously off of the general comments of the last few days. This is an amazing group of which to be a part and I thank you for welcoming the newcomers to the PAD. . .
Onto day six!
H.
hey lain, hang in there
I have had 155 rejections this year so far…
the acceptances keep me coming back,
wanting more out of myself and the craft.
tomorrow’s a new day filled with opportunity
to grow, learn, and most of all, have fun with it!
Just one more quick note, then I’m done.
I confused my Rachels in my earlier post. I commented on Widow’s Daughter, so that earlier comment of mine is for you, Rachel.
Fab images, again.
And now for Rachel…gorgeous writing, particularly:
of summer hidden beneath a short fingered canopy
of silvery green oblong leaves
Fab stuff to both of you, and to everyone. (Sometimes I get confused endlessly scrolling up and down, and I don’t know everyone just yet…)
C
Rachel – beautiful.
So, keep it up!!
Iain – What I didn’t tell you the other day, is that I like Cats & etc so much (based on what you’ve written so far) that I would buy your chapbook!!
However, I understand feeling blue, I’m beginning to think I like nature too much to write about it well – or maybe I’m just tired…
Good night all! Great reads again today!
Brick
There will be no grand monument,
no marble stone nor carved angels,
no gated entrance nor posted hours.
I will walk by the aspens
under the old cedars
past the trillium, purpling
at the edge of the clearing
walk by the small flowers
decorating the miners lettuce
and past the cottony remnants
a fireweed. I will walk
until I find this keystone,
this brick encrusted to the earth
welcoming me back to the place
that is home.
Sara- you cheer me up! I apologise to every one for being in a blue fugg! Better tomorrow.
Iain
Hey all,
Just letting you know that you are all fabulous. If I only name a few it would be Iain for Cats, Death and Poetry, Garden of Sorrow-Rachel …Heather, Kateri-I think you are all wonderful writers.
Sara
And another…
A deserted street
A cloudy sky
Snow covering your sneakered feet;
The wind is hollowing
You walk all muffled and blind
Your arm stretched out seeking;
Your coat is grey
Your scarf is red
Hoping to live you pray;
It starts to snow
You’re completely lost
You find the going slow;
Should have stayed with the car
You think, now you’ve lost your way
You thought home was not far;
A mound of white
A peak of red
She’s been gone a fortnight.