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.
It is growing cold
The sky is gray
The temperature is falling;
I sit hear barely able to move
For I am a wasp
And winter is not for me.
Hm. I lost a new post, and cant find it. If this posts twice, um, oops.
Robert, I don’t think I’ve thanked you for this. It’s inspiring me!
lain, I know what you mean. Good luck with the waiting. You’ll come out of this "dip" soon, I’m sure. It’s all good.
Rachel, I love your images! I think you could even expand this poem for today and play with some slant rhymes too for fun. The images make the poem rock, imo.
Here’s a second post from me (sorry about inundating with Neal) I think this might match the sense of setting better than the last, which was just the next poem I would like to have as of now.
Neal leaves one night, the wife and daughter
nestled with one eye open like owls. They know.
He sneaks out and sees himself just once
in the hallway mirror, paunch tucked in
like a lie. He heads to a bar for smoke and drink
and the taste of heavenly hell in the mouth.
Voices clatter against the wall amidst
the plates crashing behind the swinging door
and a waitress with a little tray sashays.
Neal can’t even believe the audacity
of truth in cliches. Hey, he calls but all
he spots is red: lips, legs, dresses amidst the blues
of jazz and drunks. There’s a woman
in all of this, somewhere. But Neal can’t speak
for the loss of tongue. He’s had too many drinks
and his labored breathing like the birth
of Satan out of Heaven keeps him up. He’d
fall asleep at this bar if he could because
it feels like home, like hard arms
proclaiming love. He thinks about a friend
he used to hover around and decides to shout
his way one of these days and not a second
thought goes to two hovered in the corner
of a bed back home waiting for him, for the high
to exit so they can tell him goodbye.
Robert, a belated Love All Your Poems!
Green
She was envious of my
lush carpet of lawn that
seemed to sprout from a
mysterious source. She
should have paid closer
attention to the ecology
of our earth, `stead of
focusing on those funds that
flower from hedges or
wherever it is they grow. How
upset would she be to
learn of my secret
garden raising all manner
of veggies from peas to beans?
Heather I love you but it is the way I feel… Satia, thank you but its more than that… I am waiting for a rejection from a publisher and to be honest I don’t know why I submitted. This site is a good place to be but the world does not want poetry as mainstream any more… I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you are published or famous for somnething else then you can easily reach the public, the rest of us are screwed by blinkered editors & the intellecti that judge before reading… Maybe I’m arrogant but a chapbook won’t cut it for me… publish me or tell me to give up but lets get rid of the snobbery in editorial standards….
Nancy – I love your last, felt it was for me & I really should get over myself…but probably won’t…
Iain
Angry Pain
Tears welled up in her eyes
Shadows on the wall
she hoped would disguise
simply did nothing at all
Outside all was silent
but the sound of crickets
very little to disturb thoughts so violent
hatred and anger so thick it’s
as dark as this night
A look at the clock
revealing it’s three A.M.
That deafening loneliness, tick tock
She misses him again
Forgetting the bruises
through the broken lip
she thinks about calling
if she does she loses
she feels her blood drip
dizzy, she’s falling
As she goes down
she remembers how he slammed her head
Oh, god, she does not want to be found
just lying there, near dead
not like this, in a pool of her own blood,
Oh why didn’t she listen
the memories flood
the wet begins to glisten
in the moonlight,
she remembers hearing the thud
the anger, the fight
over what, nothing that mattered
it never is
yet, she always lies there tattered
all from his fist
Again, she says she wont’ take him back
makes the same promise’s
how many times, she’s lost track
where will it end
he’ll never let her go
on that she can depend
she hurts so much
she feels the pain grow
he was her crutch
but she has to let him go
losing the will to live
she knows there’s nothing left to forgive
before he destroys it all
she starts to dial the phone
she decides to make the call
before he comes home. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer A scene poem prompt November 5, 2008 for all of the abused and battered
women out there, make the call, get some help before it’s too late for you, these situations don’t
always have happy endings, unless you make the first move.
Iain, that is NONSENSE!!!
Maybe this could be another declaration:
To all poetic asiders:
You are hereby relieved
of the responsibility
of writing a chapbook–
unless you want to–or
building on a theme–
unless you want to.
You don’t have to read
anyone else’s poem–
unless you want to
or leave comments
to your poetry brother
and sisters–
unless you want to.
But I sure am glad
that somebody wants to!
Iain, For someone who is finding this torturous, you are certainly an exemplar of productivity. You were prolific last time around and when I saw that this time there would be a theme I wondered if you would be as productive as before.
Need I say more?
Robert please, please stop this. I want to write a poem a day but the idea of a chapbook is killing me. Yes I will write 30 poems themed in Cats Poetry & Death but I do not want to be published on their worth..I have so much more to say… & the Mooseheeads are not poetry just an homage to Bob Dylan… serioosly I do not know if I shold give up the challenge or just give up writing. No one publishes new poets and no one cares, no one except poets read poetry so whats the point…… kinda why I write the Mooseheads… its not poetry & nobody cares….
Iain
I made an attempt to compare my joy on this gorgeous autumn day with my not so joyful experience of having my teeth drilled. Well, the experience wasn’t all that bad, but all I came up with was cliched-driven drivel.
Robert, you took the right approach with a simple description of mounds of leaves. I find the more earthly beauty I see in front of me, the less I am able to begin to describe it.
Maybe I can think of a better poem later, but this one simply shows my inability to adequately describe this amply wonderful an autumn day.
Worthy of More Than Mere Words
I can photograph the arching
trees on this warm autumn day,
notice the tree trunk encircled
by still-green leaves, and see the
leaf-strewn path before me,
the sunshine outlining it all.
What I cannot seem to do is to
write lines worthy of it all.
How can God work such
magic that my poor words
fail to capture His palette
of color and subtlety of sound?
Even the camera only
approximates the gorgeous
grace of it all, poured out
to us mortals who can but
spout clichés, but possess
no truly heavenly language
to express the wonder of it all.
K-
I like it, really like it
to the dregs
you were the beard
with balloons: idling
in the background
of other people’s
wedding photos
the sweetest
river city
monger, the mayor
of another night
on the town
senses on fire
and a heart
that burns
with grit
and velvet
on midday trips
to the grocery
you are fluorescent
and steal words
for poems
always a story
and a cure
for the self-
same blues
and bullshit
the quiet
observer, loud
with living
Homeplace
Home for Thanksgiving, I carve out
a little time to slip over to visit Elaine.
Each of us converging from two states
away, our visits rarely coincide.
After so many years away, there feels
more like home than here, after all.
So we arrive in town, feigning displeasure
at this command performance, checking
on parents who seem not to age, despite
the time between our visits. Maybe
they’ve found some Peter Pan magic they
withhold from those of us who leave.
But this year we make the effort,
knowing full well we’ll need a holiday
to recover from this holiday. After
holding court, hanging around long
enough to see the kin we once saw
every Thanksgiving, Fourth of July,
and Christmas too, then I back the car
out, feeling unreasonably guilty
at turning around in the yard. When I
arrive, her mom’s house hasn’t changed
a lick. I could find the flatware drawer
in one try; I know where they hide
the extra key. I skim the familiar
bookshelves looking for titles that
may be mine, atonement for those I
have of hers.
Here we met as Girl Scouts, old
enough we did our best only to
keep our troup a secret back at
school. Where the television sits,
I once watched John Jr’s salute,
Bobby’s wake, Hootenany, and
Where the Action Is. We stayed up
late to watch Sex and the Single Girl,
disappointed that only the title
titillated. We fought over Paul,
the cute one, and settled for boys
her brother’s age, just right to
practice kissing and dancing
to “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?”
When I drive back to Mom and
Dad’s, I feel an ache for something
I may have missed, the home place.
Whether necessity or restlessness
prompted our moves, we kept packing
everything we owned in boxes,
moving to the next house, the one
we swore we’d never leave but
always did, each time leaving
behind a box or two—and a little
piece of ourselves.
Nancy Posey
Rachel, I am impressed. I felt like I was there.
Iris
Your fragrance is enticing
As you whisper to me your gentle touch
Tickles my sensitive zones
I close my eyes to be enveloped by you
While a meadowlark calls from the trees
I drag myself from your embrace
With a towel I remove the vestiges
Of your dampness from my skin
Skinnydipping at twilight has refreshed me
Another challenging one for me. I am wondering if it is the theme that is making this so difficult. Or maybe it’s this plus nano. Either way . . . rough rough rough.
Tabled Expectations
Sitting on the table,
She wonders why these things are so high
Dreams of stretching herself out on the safety of the floor
Knowing the ebb and flow of the carpet ride
That tides every surface into water ripple motion.
Sitting on the table,
Her feet dangle like a child’s and she
Remembers swinging legs free, shoes slipping loose to toe
And barely listens to the nothing news
The latest tests have revealed, read monotone.
Sitting on the table,
She bites the inside of her mouth bloody
Fights a losing battle against tears that blind the moment
And blinking looks up at the doctor to ask
Another question for which he has no answer.
Sitting on the edge,
She reaches for a hand to hold
Comes up empty, nearly falls, and is caught by
Her own momentum. She stands to push
Away the hopelessness of medical expertise.
“Raiment”
A glance out the window –
I set my eyes upon a cluster
of November leaves,
no longer green,
given to oranges and reds
and the whims of the wind
set them against the tree
that bore them
reminding me of the days
we used to collect leaves in the yard;
we would strip apart the papery parts,
attempting to leave the skeleton intact
rent and ruined, a fine confetti
littered the dying grass.
Some could tear away more than others:
a neighbor I remember could leave
five fingers extending from a spine
connected to a corked stem,
but the finer parts of the leaf
would always end up torn.
And those leaves
stripped of their natural disguises
would fall flat upon the ground
and wait for turning,
or being whisked away,
but never without an arch
in that spine that longed to bend
for coming rain.
Neal’s Family Emerges
Wooed young, after a factory job left
him alone and broke, he could still
romance one soft spoken wild woman
who roared with a mind full of dust.
She never cleaned the apartment
and he could not get enough of inhaling
her until they bore a child, a little girl
who lied every Saturday when she wanted
for something just a little more
than they could provide. That was the death
starting to haunt him, starting a forceful
cutting of the stems, leaving the floor
littered with the remnants of what was once
rooted. Then the woman left. She became
someone else and relived her moments,
forgot her past. He chose to keep her
locked in the closet, a shoe box of mismatched
items: a dried up rose, a beer cap, a slip
a tied knot. Every Saturday, when the lies
lipped themselves around his mind and pushed
his eyes he’d encounter the box and breathe.
Thank you so much for the earlier posting!
Afternoon in Den Dom
The smell of ancient dampness hits
me as I enter this autumn afternoon.
I put the soles of my wet shoes down
step by step on the gray stone floor as quietly
as possible, but it seems the very movement
of air echoes in the shadows of the Cathedral
as if God will not allow me unnoticed . I hear my clothes
settle as I sit in the wooden pew
wood’s grain worn by centuries of
of temporary sitters under the arching
stone that seems unnaturally distant
like the dim walls and darkened images
that hang here a place out of time.
The pipes of the organ, stretch
up into grayness toward a heaven
that seems from here damp and unwelcoming.
There’s a whisper, its source lost
in the vastness, then the sound
of a switch, echoing, someone coughs,
lights around the organ, and swishing
footsteps. Every sound here exaggerated
but shrunken in this cavern, the movement
of the organ bench, setting the stops,
pages of music opened , the cough again,
a breath sucked in before inconceivably
notes and chords fill the air to the
roof top, the organ pipes vibrate.
I let the wool scarf fall from my face
and ears, but I don’t feel the draft
as I am consumed like a living sacrifice
by the music and the incense.
Nov. 5, 2008
Rachel – Garden of Sorrow is great. I’ve been following yours since day 1 when you hooked me. Keep up the great work.
Connie – I love your work.
LK – Another home run.
Too many great works to mention. This is a great challenge and will be a great month. I’ll be sad when it’s over.
Here’s day 5 of Synaptic Sensations:
The Gray Matters
Come on in
Take a look around
Be careful where you step
You might damage your past
Or you might endanger your future
Come on in
Look over there
Do you see the impulses
They’re being made by you
24/7 they arc from place to place
Come on in
Don’t get stuck
Beware the cobwebs
They’ll grab you by the arm
Don’t worry, though, they’re friendly
Come on in
It’s your brain
You’re welcome here
Stay as long as you want
Grab a thought and visit your past
Come on in
Grab a synapse
Connect with a cobweb
Go ahead, touch a wrinkle
You’re right, the gray matters
Thank you Patti, I needed that. I’ve really enjoyed everyone’s posts. Good job.
Here’s day 5 of Life, Liberty & the Lord:
The End of Eden
He stands squarely in the center
Gazing longingly at the forbidden tree
The origin of the downfall
And wonders why
Why did he restrict his creation
Would it have worked out differently
Had he given them everything
Or would they have proven their humanity
And disobeyed him none the less
Forward he moves to the present
How far he has brought them
How much they have learned
How advanced they have become
Yet, they walk backwards through time
Away from the truth
Away from the straight and narrow
Blindly walking away from him
Without realizing their path
Is taking them straight to hell
He sees the real landscape
Green with greed
Red with hatred
Blue with envy
And black with sin
Still his creations smile
Thinking they are blessed
Believing they are protected
As they walk toward the cliff
Thank you Patti and Jared. I personally think that everyone is doing really well and I cannot seem to pick out a favorite, but some favorite lines.
"a mattress-less oak bed frame
with a bookshelf head-board,
laying against the wall as if asleep" – RJay
"And despite the death and in spite of the hunting Cats
I find here ever a peace and serenity to sit" – Iain
"She changed
From confident
To demure
In the length of time it takes
A comment to leave
A bitter mouth" – Heather
The Day
Beautiful flowers lined the alter,
colors of pink, white and green.
The smell was intoxicating,
a mix of incense, sweet and clean.
The pews were lined with bows of lace,
white candles lit the air.
The whole church looked beautiful that day
as she was married with love and care.
Laurie K.
The Closing
Yesterday, the resale store
announced it is closing.
A “going-out-of-business-sale,
up to seventy-five percent off”
on all of these things
someone has given up on.
There is Auntie’s wooden rocker,
arm-rests both worn through
to bare wood on the highest spots,
the student’s roll-up desk and chair,
all shelves emptied out except for some dust,
every drawer filled with promise,
a mattress-less oak bed frame
with a bookshelf head-board,
laying against the wall as if asleep,
rolled up throw rugs
stand in the corner, taller then any
bargain hunter walking by.
The wood plank floor,
high traffic areas worn smooth,
squeaks in places like a groan
from a worn out body
like a silver haired man
just prior to the day
he will give up, lids closed
shading his view of the world
for the very last time.
Buried Treasure
Treasures from yesterday
stored in boxes bring the past
to life as I retreat into the attic
late at night when I cannot sleep.
It is bitter cold in winter, sweltering
in summer, sometimes musty,
often dusty. I close the door,
choose a box, open it with care,
explore its contents, whether
it be books, dolls, old photos,
certificates, framed pictures,
nicknacks, old wallets, jewelry.
With so many treasures to investigate
during late night exploration, I lose
myself in my finds, embrace memories
brought by each, then bury them again
in the boxes of my late night hideaway
where they will be until I discover them
the next time I am unable to sleep.
I’m caught up! yeah!
Reflections
The stars reflect off the darkened faceplate
of her helmet. She hangs motionless, upside
down in relation to the Hubble telescope.
Tethered to it’s bulk, her safety line prevents
sudden movements from propelling her out
into space, a life threatening possibility in this
empty, unforgiving environment. Tools float
around her, waiting for her attention to revert
to them and the task at hand. But she’s lost,
the space around her sucking her soul out
her eyes, hidden behind the thin plastic of
her bulky spacesuit’s faceplate.
Mayflower Storm, Man Overboard
A waterfall of wind and rain
torments the sodden ship.
Too stormy for sail she sits at sea,
awaits the will of the weather.
Young John sidles across roughened planks,
clings to the splintered rail.
A swell of sea, a swirl of the ship,
he’s over the rail and looks to drown.
Icy water covers his head,
he swallows the sea, seizes a halyard,
there no doubt by the will of God,
as the seamen haul him up to the brim.
They catch the youth with an iron hook,
by this and the rope he’s pulled aboard.
Poor John shivers and spits some sea,
hurries below deck to get dry.
A waterfall of wind and rain
torments the sodden ship.
Too stormy for sail she sits at sea,
awaits the will of the weather.
Kateri- my favorite today
A Single Light
A single light
Illuminates the courtyard,
Through which a woman walks
Every night at nine.
She emerges from the darkness,
Her calm fading in the pale light,
Marching to the drum of her heart,
Which beats softly in her sweaty palms,
And thunders through her ears.
She alternates
Breathing with listening,
Walking with stumbling,
Looking over each shoulder,
Into the darkness.
The single light,
Approaching at a distance,
Brightens the courtyard.
But from within its dingy glow,
Nothing is known of what is beyond
The sinister radiance that surrounds her.
She fears not
What she cannot see,
What she cannot hear,
But what can sense her,
And doesn’t return the gesture.
The single light,
Plays tricks on her mind,
As she strains her eyes to see
What may be lurking,
Just outside its corrupt luster.
Shadows hide ill intentions,
And halfway in, her pace quickens,
Finding strength in rhythm,
And, crossing the threshold
Of dark and light,
She sighs; another night survived.
The single light,
Above her door,
A sister to the one behind,
Is no more than ten steps away,
As she, obscured in the swirling night,
Is safe to go home, alone,
But she waits,
confused,
Just outside the courtyard haze,
Watching her porch light fade.
This twist she did not expect—
Surviving the light,
Only to be consumed by
The darkness.
At least this lanterne is election-related if not scenic.
Hope
we lay
at your feet.
Obama, help
us.
Rachel – I was just browsing, stumbled on your Garden of Sorrow, and it brought tears to my eyes, me an avowed agnostic. I still find the story incredibly moving and your telling of it poignant and real. Sharon I.
Beauty- For Lack of a Better Title
Warm, clear, bright sunshine
Yesterday.
Deep, unadulterated blue over head.
Wakes me up on my way to school after a long night shift.
Think, soft, penetrating fog
Today.
Lacing every breath with a moist blanket
Calms my nerves before a big test.
Mysterious, exciting, unpredictable expectations
Tomorrow.
Green tree, rolling hills, I know will be there
Assures me I’ll make it.
Rachel – IMHO, it was beautiful, we loves it!
Iain
"How To Be Idle"
When you find the time
grow some vegetables and keep a loaf
of bread in the cupboard.
Do not nap, but sleep,
find the comfort in dreams,
or bathe to make yourself clean.
See your children, visit the orphan,
comfort the widow. Where they are
one can meet a brief paradise.
Let visitors over stay
their welcome, off them a glass of water.
If they refuse then use the water for your garden.
Enjoy the vegetables you grew,
laugh with the orphan,
and keep seeking paradise.
"Untitled"
All the city turns on their eaves,
sliding down the consumptive highway,
spitting up the radio’s sputum,
a rush of coughing.
The commuters
do this every morning. Before sunrise
they drive by the stars, if you notice,
the glittering spatter past our windshield.
I am at work already.
Widower’s Daughter
She counts the stones that make the wall –
one, two, three no need to count at all
for in the end she knows what she will find
dark corners where even rats are blind
where cobwebs hang like rigging on a ship
just waiting for a little girl to slip —
no fear of such happenings today
she’s brought her box of bones and come to play.
Election Eve
It is already almost dark in the parking lot
as I slide into my car. I glance up Sehome Hill,
the late afternoon sun has cracked the purple
clouds and streams through the forest, painting
every tree trunk gold, from Aspen saplings
to Cedars and the rough bark of Douglas firs.
Among the trees the smaller shrubs and bushes
blaze like flame. This is history happening, I said
tonight, before I let my students out early.
Burning with excitement, cell phones bleeping
out reports on the latest numbers, they spill
out into Red Square, joining a larger crowd already
cheering, ignited by the power of their first votes.
Now I sit a moment in silence before turning the
engine over, basking in the spreading warmth of hope.
Kate Berne Miller
I’d love some feedback today… any thoughts appreciated.
Garden of Sorrow
In the beginning
of summer hidden beneath a short fingered canopy
of silvery green oblong leaves
He knelt among the poppies
and prayed.
His soul began to twist like
the gnarled olive trunks standing guard –
the ancient trees set to be destroyed
by the Romans’ coming siege.
Olive blooms hung stiff in silent expectation,
regarding the bud of the ancient plan
set by the will of the Most High
in the beginning.
And there He wept
amid the wild mustard growing in yellow
hues at His feet,upon the crown daisies
stained red,
while His friends slept.
There, in that valley
overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
the angel anointed the Depressed
with oil
from the healing olives faithfully keeping watch,
o’er the plan proclaimed from the mount
in the beginning.
…and here’s the second… (hard one to get my head round but anyway…)…
Dear Moosehead,
Picture if you will, buddy mine,
a warm summers evening, the flood
lights beaming, the stands are full.
The crowd is chanting and the smell
of popcorn and chilli-dogs fills the air.
Daa-daa-daa-daa! The music rings out.
The pitcher takes the mound, the batter’s
at the plate…A hush descends upon the
great theatre and a lone voice cries out:
“Play Ball!” And so it begins, the gladiators of
our age contest and do battle in the greatest
arena on God’s sweet earth and maybe, just
maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll catch a fly ball.
In lieu of decent sporting action I suggest we get
roaring drunk. Pick ya up at seven.
Nostalgically yours
Ringo the Howler
LESSONS OF BEARS
It was just a bear…
a toy
LET’S NAME IT!
A simple exercise…
at school
LET’S NAME IT!
Let’s agree on a name for…
our bear
LET’S NAME IT!
And the children thought…
and chose.
One of the children told…
her mama
HOW DARE SHE?!?
Of the bear naming…
at school
HOW DARE SHE?!?
But the mom made up…
a pretense
HOW DARE SHE?!?
For she had her own agenda…
(know that.)
It could have been…
so simple
TELL HER THIS!
To impart our culture…
onto her
TELL HER THIS!
But it was a perfect…
set up
TELL HER THIS!
To show the scandal of…
her deed.
The teacher was thrown into…
jail
INFIDEL!
Knowing not too well …
the harm
INFIDEL!
Of getting kids to work…
together
INFIDEL!
On the naming of…
a bear.
Oh the world was so…
divided
TAKE HER LIFE!
So-called insults flew…
around
TAKE HER LIFE!
Thoughtless folks took to…
the streets
TAKE HER LIFE!
Wanting blood for just…
This deed.
The children watched in awe…
so quiet
WHAT TO DO?
The sin of teacher on…
their hands
WHAT TO DO?
For naming bear the same…
as prophet
WHAT TO DO?
There was hatred through…
the land.
The scene was shushed up oh so…
quickly
SHUSH IT UP!
The teacher banned from there…
and how!
SHUSH IT UP!
Never seeing her…
beloveds
SHUSH IT UP!
On an airplane out…
of sight.
The real lesson taught our…
children?
SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
You ever think you’ll feel…
My might!
SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
Working together life…
Won’t win
SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
And cooperation’s out of…
of sight!
Vanessa O’Dwyer
I don’t know if I’ve done justice to the prompt but anyway here’s the first…
Cats, Poetry & Death #8
The Cemetery
New cemeteries are pristine and white
with marble and grief too recent to allow
it to touch one’s soul. They are clean and
function perfectly, in harmony with modern
suffering and loss.
My cemetery is old.
My cemetery holds the grave sites of those who died
not merely decades but centuries ago. Its gravestones
gnarled with time and moss. Its Oak and Elm trees
ravished and strewn with equally ancient Holly. Here
lie secrets from long ago. Here may we find tales of grief and suffering
handed down only by folk-lore and distant memory.
The graveyard Cats prowl and hunt, keeping down the rats
and mice and taking what feathered prey they can.
The solemn silence that these places always hold holds no fear for them.
They are at home as rightfully as the long forgotten souls of
those who have rested here many a long year. Through hot summers
and bright harvests. Autumn frosts and Winter snows that they have
been witness too yet never known.
The grass is always too long in my cemetery.
The trees and shrubs are over-grown.
The Sexton and his son have long since taken residence
in that which they once cared so diligently for and now “a man”
comes three times a year. Forgetfulness of the dead reaching even into the local burocracy and leaving the lost brave souls in a small
wilderness of their own. They lay here row on uneven row, victims of war,
victims of plague and sickness. Children taken before their time and
Mothers who died that a child might live.
Many stones are illegible now as time and weather
has worn away the names as time wears away the memory.
Though some may be seen and read. Inscriptions in honour
of the dead, some long some short, some in prose or poetic verse.
“In Flanders fields…” starts one but the rest is moss and erosion.
And despite the death and in spite of the hunting Cats
I find here ever a peace and serenity to sit, to think,
perhaps to write, that cannot be found at the new cemetery;
just a mile away with its pristine marble and neat mown lawns
that seem to praise only God and forget those who hoping for his redemption
were laid in state and given final rest.
Ignore my typo please … thank you.
Heather, Jane, Connie, Kateri (beautiful name by the way) – your posts are all excellent – great poetry writing going on this morning.
Robert – thank you for posting the prompt in the a.m. When it’s afternoon and everyone is needing help with something, I’m not able to write anything worth a darn.
To early to say it, but I will anyway, Cheers everyone!
Day #5: Scene
His office:
A white sterile
Stale environment.
His wife and children
Sit posed, smiling
In the picture
He has framed
For the patient to
Disappear inside
As his voice drones on
Quoting results,
Numbers, my very own
Prognosis.
I can tell it’s
Getting cloudy outside, the
Light dims casting shadows
On the framed, frozen faces.
“Treatments are out there
This isn’t the end.”
Oblivious to the weather
He continues talking
About options, changes,
As the sun eases out from
Behind the dark clouds
Making the room so bright
I think I can almost
See tomorrow and
Another day of my
Someday
Cancer free life.
Aftermath
The music stops.
The clapping and cheering die down.
The room’s suddenly abuzz with conversation.
Flags, emblems, spelled-out messages,
a portrait of a local hero, now revealed,
lie on the floor. Children romp about
happy to move and stretch after being
threatened within an inch of their lives
if they dared knock down that man’s
hard work before it was time. Some kids
grab plastic tubs and, resembling an
Easter egg hunt, help the builders
sort over sixteen thousand pieces in
twenty-four different colors in various sizes,
with soft clinks and plops into the containers.
Now all that remains of nearly two days of
work is whatever was captured on camera.
The last domino has toppled.
That blade protruding from his back
is not metaphysical, but real.
Lodged imprecisely between ribs
it quivers and shakes with every half-assed
breath that he takes, unable to fill
his lungs with oxygen – though he is
more than capable of filling the organs
with misdirected blood, that same blood
that oozes and drips from his mouth
and back in tandem, staining his precious
hand-tailored clothing; the deep purple
becoming a deeper red, and all he can do
is sputter and gasp at the irony of bleeding
out – he never was a bleeding heart, but
here he was, falling to his knees at the behest
of a former Boy Wonder scorned
one too many times, spitting blood and hunks
of indecipherable mass as the light
fades from his eyes, and the laughter
spews jaggedly from his lips.
Adieu
Holding hands we lingered
watched the big rig make its move
through shadows, round the curve
toward our new home
distant from this time and sisters
the sheltered cove and pasture
where cows grazed as usual
unaware of our goodbyes
whispered
to all of them
the lone great blue
beavers in their den
fat turtles lounging on the log
the geese paddling
the water rubbing at the shore
once ours.
We squeeze hands
release our hold
to go.
Lesson #5: Change
She changed
Faster than a bullet leaves a gun,
Twice for sure
There had been others
But they were removed
And didn’t hurt as much
She changed from sweet
To distant
In the time it takes for a hand
To touch flesh,
As fast as a memory
Can be suppressed
She changed
From confident
To demure
In the length of time it takes
A comment to leave
A bitter mouth
Turning her against herself
Leaving her with nothing but
Doubt
She changed from resigned
To receptive
The moment she met him
He said he loved her
She believed
Him
Lesson #5: Change Can Be Good
I’ll post something later, Robert, but I thought you’d like to know that I got a handful of folks from my community website, Pathetic.org, to be interested in your blog and to take up the challenge with me. I think some of them may even be posting their poems here. It’s been fun so far!