Okay, so I’m getting ready to attend my first AWP Conference ever in Chicago, which means that I still haven’t packed anything, and I’m scrambling to get as much work done as possible before forgetting half the things I should bring with me to the airport. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about forgetting my ticket–as I receive that at the airport (whew!). Anyway, real life can sometimes prompt my prompts, soooooo…
For this week’s prompt, write a preparation poem. A poem in which you either get prepared in the right way, or handle things like me. Of course, the poem doesn’t have to be about you; it could be about someone else. Or you can play around with the ant and grasshopper fable. Or you can take a completely different angle (as most of you know, I’m totally supportive of getting creative with your interpretations).
Here’s my attempt at a preparation poem prompt:
“Packed”
The pants are in the dresser, the shirts
are hanging up, the shoes need polished,
and the socks are nowhere to be found.
I got no cell phone (but I got the charger)
and no guide book, though I’m all right
just as long as I got you by my side.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer and my personal blog My Name Is Not Bob (which will include information about my AWP panel tomorrow morning).
Empty.
Eve of the snow storm
empty aisles, crushing crowd
preparations
Liked the desolate simplicity of this.
ah, the great bread and milk phenomenon. Here in Atlanta, they just have to say the word ‘snow’ and the stores are out of bread.
so few words Billie, so much impact
And Robert – a delight … sometimes I think that’s all the preparedness you need … the right somebody by your side
Thanks.
Ready or Not, Here I Go
Travelling at the speed of life
ready or not, here I go.
Not everything falls as it should
it would be good, but ready or not,
here I go again, jumping in feet first.
It could get worse if I were the man
with a plan but I can stand to think
on my feet from time to time. In my mind,
I’m ready. But even if I’m not…here I go.
“Travelling at the speed of life,” “I’m ready. But even if I’m not…here I go.” Love the opening and closing of this piece. Bravo.
Lots of fun to read this one! – Mosk
Love this!
Rebirth of Zero
Preparing is really just undoing all the things you do,
un-getting in your car that night, un-joining the Marines,
un-saying goodbye so many times to those you miss.
The end result feels something like zero
but hey, you’re kind of ready for stuff now.
If you want to look that far ahead,
what we’re preparing for is one huge tug-of-war
thousands (according to some estimates) of years in the making
and possibly ending this December? so you better be ready, maybe.
March 1st feels an awful lot like February this year,
February more like April, and I didn’t admit I was sick
until I started wheezing even in my dreams.
Breton said the cure was poetry and so here we are,
me now and you…now. Cured
or at least staving off extinction.
Deano says the mind becomes a field of snow
but what if all these February-Aprils and this-Decembers are true,
our minds melted memories on a barren landscape, a mountain
and a body of water in the background? One on a dead tree.
What if it isn’t my face I see when I get to the river?
Mike, I never read before I write, but your first line caught my eye, hooked my heart. So glad it did. There are too many amazing lines to mention. This is simply a powerful, powerful piece. Well done.
Thanks very much, De.
Glad you enjoyed it.
Agree with De about your first line, and feel of piece. Especially “our minds melted memories on a barren landscape” – WOW.
Very thoughtful and a joy to read.
Thanks, Mosk.
What if it isn’t my face I see when I get to the river?
I really enjoyed this last line!
“What if it isn’t my face I see when I get to the river?” Wow! What a line!
Yes, I agree!
Sorry for the quasi-duplicate post!
What a cool poem Mike – I keep coming back to read and re-read it … the last line just clinches it
A Powerful Piece mike
Thanks very much, everyone. Glad it came out well and you guys/gals enjoy it.
“Honey, Where’d You Find Me?”
All the papers graded
All the desks arranged
All the lessons written
All the diapers changed
All the children bedtimed
All the dishes dried
All the toys are picked up
All the loose ends tied.
All the pages written
All submissions made
All my laptops powered down
Screw it, one more page.
All my time to teaching
And still I need to add
Time for full time writing
And time to be a dad.
I love when verse is done well and this is well done. I liked your gerunding (?) of bedtimed.
I like the gerunding of bedtimed, too. As well as the gerunding of gerund by Mosk.
Excellent poem, and can relate, in the mom-est sense.
Bravo! The cadence, the subject, the emotion … just so enjoyable a read!
Well written and charming.
Despite all my
books and
worries
There’s no real
preparation for
life
Except perhaps faith
and deep
breaths
That’s what I said, but more verbosely! Loved this.
I love this simplicity and depth!
Never Prepared
The church is prepared,
the way she pictured it –
white lace hanging, flowers
on the pews, everything bright.
The preacher is prepared,
waiting at the front with
Bible in hand, appropriate
words and vows memorized.
The groom is ready, waiting,
thinking he is prepared,
to take this woman
I can only think of as a child.
She is most certainly prepared
for this day of her dreams,
setting out on love’s journey,
radiant and confident.
Now, she waits for me,
to open the doors,
walk her down the aisle –
I could never be prepared.
Man to man, you hit it on the nose. I liked this so much.
*snifflesniffle*
It’s just a head cold. Really …
Beautiful! Brought a tear to my eye!
aww – you FOB’s get me every time; beautifully said …
Procrastinator
I think my brain is broken.
In my preparing
I don’t prepare.
I work on my priorities
from the bottom up,
putting off what’s important
till it’s screaming through my veins
rattling around between my ears
demanding to get out—
when the weight of missing it
is almost too much to bear.
At least that way, it’s got your full attention. Well written.
fits my thinking good way to write about planned or unplanned delays
Prepare to Die
Everyday
I prepare to die,
by slowing down
and not fighting
the inevitable.
I practice
wide-eyed breathing,
taking in everything
without judgment or attachment.
I feel less scared of death
but I am still not ready
to go.
My best poem
hasn’t been written
and my best melody is still
hiding somewhere
inside a piano
waiting to be coaxed out
and I just hope I find it
before Death finds me.
I wonder if every goodbye
is going to be
the final goodbye,
but before I can
do anything that would
constitute a Grand Finale,
I just leave,
to prepare myself
for how random and mundane
the inevitable end must be.
This life is
an improvised play
in a theatre with
outdated permits
and it’s only
a matter of time
before the Fire Marshall
unceremoniously
shuts it all down.
So,
play on, I say!
Love this, Mosk. Especially the Fire Marshall line.
I see we had the same vision today – preparing for the end. I admit to feeling a bit gloomy myself, though in my heart I feel that death is just another beginning, both for the person going and the ones left behind.
So well done, Mosk.
Love this! And this: “and my best melody is still hiding somewhere inside a piano waiting to be coaxed out” is brilliant!
I love this! A bit of subtle black humour thrown in and aren’t we preparing for death from the first breath … excellent poem
Wow, Wow, Wow, B. That last stanza is a killer!
Gone Either Way
Sometimes death takes us by surprise.
Going about our day, perhaps,
being as shallow as only
the truly unprepared can be.
And someone we love is just gone.
Sometimes death takes us by surprise.
But sometimes there is fair warning.
A doctor’s visit, followed by
a grim diagnosis. Yet now
we have the time we think we need,
to say what we wanted to say.
Sometimes death takes us by surprise
even then, though, because waiting
for the end inevitably
brings weariness. And when they’re gone,
sometimes, death takes us by surprise.
Diana Terrill Clark
This is exactly how my Pop went – captured it perfectly.
“Waiting for the end inevitably brings weariness.” What a line!
Arrangements
The flowers are placed just so.
A bit displaced, too, so much white and yellow
and green and palest pink in this sea of black.
He looks good.
They keep saying it. As if he’s still in there, and
will hear them, and smile, or wink or half wave.
He looks good.
He looks good. He looks good. To the beat of the
clock on the wall, gray face tsk-tocking away.
He looks good.
There’s a fly on the windowsill that doesn’t, fin
-ally surrendered to the heat, feet still, skyward.
Tsk-tock.
These damn flowers are going to go, too, with
-er to microscopic nothing, what is it they say?
Ashes to ashes. Dust.
The lights are too bright, and the curtains are too
right and her heart aches for things already gone.
The flowers are placed, just so
she can mourn them, and move on.
Wow, De. Just Wow.
ditto Domino – esp love the italicized bits in particular “he looks good” – indeed
I wonder what kind of comment it is that many of the writing today are concerned with death/dying? I like how everything in this poem is arranged leading to the last two stanzas, where the human dimension takes hold. Very well done, indeed.
Oh, man! That’s what I get for reading from the bottom up! Yeah, it does make me wonder, too, Buddah.
Thank you, Mosk and Domino.
internalizing
the sum of all my futures
in kindergarten
very clever and succinct
DOWN & OUT
Black sky manifesto
Black blizzards comeback
Black winds lug black snow
Dust bowl at my back
A miscalculation
About crop rotation
End up losing your shirt
An I.O.U.
For bad times come true
Being poorer than dust bowl dirt
The withered acres
Will pay back the takers
Doomsday clock ticking, no doubt
Gonna need sandals
Stroll bygone panhandles
Ready up to be down and out
by Randy Bell
ONE MORE THING
papers filed
bills paid
ducks
all settled in a row
I am prepared
to leave;
wait–one more thing
before I go…
The note.
Yikes, Paula. Chilling. Well done.
Gasp
Well played, Paula.
Bills paid? You’re a better person than I.
Bril, just bril.
As Mosk said, “Bills paid?” – nice touch …
Thank you, De, Marie, Mosk and Sharon! Greatly appreciate the encouragement.
WHERE SHINGLE CREEK PAUSES AT A POND
it gathers itself for another day,
another coming season.
The pond mirrors all the moods of sky
in its silks and riffles,
it’s the cup of spring where summer
comes to take a drink.
This pond watched gold-miners come,
and go away again.
It’s home to tiny red worms, tadpoles,
the larvae of dragonflies.
Creature of soil and rain, of rock and wind,
a pond has a life of its own.
Today, like the leafless trees, it’s gray.
It’s giddy with joy of a million mouths,
raindrops after months of drought.
It still remembers the face of a girl who died
homesick for her land of dragons.
This pond writes its history in water-lines
that rise and fall like murmurs.
It lets its water seep through the dam,
believing the heavens will grant it more.
It takes wing with heron and kingfisher,
with goldeneye and egret.
This pond is where I walk to find
myself in its story,
as it smoothes its riffles for another
day, a season, a century.
taylor: “it’s the cup of spring where summer/comes to take a drink.”
so great.
beautiful and breathtaking all rolled in to one. I could imagine what was happening as i read along. It felt like i was looking at a picture and was reading the story of it. This is something i actually like to do its amazing to see what you come up with.
This is beautiful and breathtaking all rolled in to one. I could imagine what was happening as i read along. It felt like i was looking at a picture and was reading the story of it. This is something i actually like to do its amazing to see what you come up with.
In the Changing Room
Transform is really a series of verbs
pretending at simplicity: he knows this. He knows
that behind its two syllables is a host of actions.
Tuck and tape, plump and powder,
bind, paint, affix.
In the animal kingdom
metamorphosis is done on instinct:
he matches mascara and lipstick without
a second thought,
pairs heels and gloves with tonight’s centerpiece,
a sequined cloak in violent blue and purple.
The blonde wig, he doesn’t think.
The prologue dance of putting on the face
leaves little time for philosophy.
All there is,
is to stick an S on front of his pronoun,
add some sharps and flats to language,
turn his inner bitch up to eleven.
Past tenses, actions completed,
checklist in the narrative shape of him
now her. Boudoir duties
have become this figure in the wings.
She does not merely stand in those boots,
seven feet tall with that bouffant: she statues,
she is now wholly there.
Now THAT is some serious preparation. Perfectly penned as usual.
Wow, Joseph! LOVE the descriptive verb phrase “she statues”. What a picture.
now THAT is preparation – brava …
All to come
flannel slips
on finger tips
brush across
rose petal cheeks
in arms encircled
carried forth
into all that
waits
feather pillows
I can provide
to cushion every
fall but if so done
unfair, unfair, unfair
feather pillows for now
this eye flicker space of
time cradled soft
as petals rose
upon my heart
until time for
all that waits…
HER BABY’S FIRST BIRTHDAY
Diligently planned
Around distant Granddad.
Candle lit
Granddad Skyped
No response.
Try again.
No response.
Try again.
No response.
Memories flood.
Tears repressed.
Candle snuffed.
Lesson learned:
Detached Dad /
Detached Granddad.
Ouch. Reminds me too much of my Dad. He does try harder since Mom passed, but he is just not very good at it. Sad.
So sad, Mark. I’m sorry to hear that.
Marie Elena and Mark W – As I said to Jane, I read after I posted. Bless you. both
Thank you so much, Willy. You’re a sweetie.
lovely dedication of memory
This is achingly poignant. Great write.
Aww – the best laid plans are sometimes heart-breaking … well-told though
Ouch! I know so many people with similar men in/out of their lives. Fabulous poem, Marie.
In Short
One week to prepare –
Clean house,
make lists,
pack and go.
One week on vacation –
To relax,
enjoy,
and play.
One hour at home –
To mess
up a clean
house.
HA! Too true!
After such a serious first pass, I am feeling the need to put somethin’ silly in the world today.
Thus, this…
Mellow Yellow
I’m prepared.
It’s right there on my label, see?
Ready for anything.
A confident condiment, indeed.
Liquid gold.
Parlez vous francais.
Viva la Dijon du jour!
I’ve got a zest for life,
a taste of the tang-o.
Spread a little thin at times,
maybe
but hey, I’m cool.
Smooth.
Yep. I can cut it.
Stick with me, baby.
I’ll be your main squeeze.
The Letting Go
She behaves as if
she were born ready,
nothing worth doing left
undone, her boundaries
pulled in to surround
her favorite chair and
bedside table, all set
to go, if only she can
get her heavenly ticket
agent to act, rather than
listen silently.
Like someone awaiting
a flight to divine destinations,
she’s packed it in,
anxiously patient,
listening for boarding calls
and fidgety with check-in.
Smiling knowingly, she says,
you need to get ready
to let me go, so you don’t
cling to what can’t stay—
such rending is too hard.
She does not tell me how
to prepare to let go, even
how the letting go itself
happens, but just to get
my mind right, accept,
do a little pre-mourning,
so her transition from
present to past won’t
be too jarring to my heart.
Wouldn’t it be best
to deal with loss when it comes,
rather than thinking about
handling it every day
until it happens?
I ask her, knowing full well
I’ve tried already and cannot
prepare myself for a world
absent of her, my last origin
gone, cannot imagine who
I will be when I can foresee
a me without her, a me all
too ready to let go.
Ooh, Jane. I read after I posted. I feel this one. Bless you.
Jane,
This is perfectly presented. Every line pointing to “a me without her.” As Willy says, bless you.
Its hard letting them go this is a beautiful way of how you feel pulls on the heart strings
“my last origin gone” – what a lovely, touching way to put it – loved this Jane
Thanks to you all for the encouraging comments. Very kind.
“French bread warming in the sun”
A spray of flickering taper candles anoints her sleek hair,
silky skin marinating in lavender bath salts, her coy
eyes averting the brass mirror fogged with hope.
Only a woman can feel shy while bathing alone awaiting
strawberries and champagne and Old Spice and laughter.
An eyebrow pluck, a spray of jasmine behind both ears,
gauzy floral skirt tickling her painted toes, golden cross
resting in the cleavage of a loose cotton blouse.
Andrea Bocelli crooning in the background, English ivy swaying
around the wrought iron spindles on the terrace where hard-
crusted bread, covered in homespun eyelet, warms in the sun.
She praises the weather, thankful the sunshine is on her
side, but with the next breath, she curses the scalded chocolate
in the saucepan, the two wilting sunflowers in a single mason
jar, and the beads of nerves above her dry lips.
She wipes her palms on her hips and imagines his voice
spinning the flour dust into strands of silver.
I can see and smell this – you present the images so vividly … poignant and a touch sad … very nice.
I really like this piece, provocative and sexy with just the right amount of imagery. Bravo!
Thank you to you both!
Lovely images, especially the last line.
Thank you, Sara.
For Your Trip
What I am prepared to offer you is
this broken suitcase that leaks when it rains;
you can watch from the window as it sits
on the tarmac in drizzle and grease.
Fast forward to yellow lamplight, shake out
your damp, wrinkled clothes; move them into
the dresser whose drawers go “thunk,” the closet
with pinheaded hangers that slide along a track.
Or you can heft the broken suitcase onto
the folding rack, live out of it for your few
stolen days; you are a bandit, too unsettled to
move in, pretend to build a room-shaped life.
Prepare your bed for sleep; turn down
the bedspread, concealingly printed, or
the duvet, eerily whiter than white. This is
what you have reserved: a space for
yourself, your things, a stippled ceiling
to stare at when you can’t sleep because
your head is full of travel, and you are
becoming new and don’t know it yet.
“room-shaped life”
Powerful, in itself.
“your head is full of travel, and you are
becoming new and don’t know it yet.”
This is a posmic “wow.”
I like those same lines. Very nice.
Gorgeous, provocative, with just the right amount of sentiment. Nicely done!
Thank you all! I tried to say so earlier, but I kept getting an error message that I was “posting comments too quickly — slow down!” … which I guess is good advice.
Despite warning time
length, preparedness for death
cannot be achieved.
unprepared
Stumped. I’m unprepared
for this prompt
Throwing the towel.
posmic, so much here to love:
“too unsettled to
move in, pretend to build a room-shaped life.”
that whiter than white duvet…
“becoming new and don’t know it yet.”
this piece captures the desolation and loneliness of travel so well, balanced with that soulful, somehow hopeful last line. just beautiful.
Well, that didn’t go where it was supposed to. Comment above is for posmic’s “For Your Trip.”
Scenario
Unsure of any other way she could forestall
inevitable disaster, failure, disappointment,
she dreamed up every possible scenario:
She planned, in case of thieves, the words
to win their sympathy, giving up trifles
so that she might keep her wedding band.
Were she accosted in the dark of night,
she planned to save her virtue, claiming
some peculiar disease, a certain death
to anyone who dared approach within
a breath. She knew the closest exits
at each theater, in structures where
she had to leave ground floor, she knew
each fire escape. On airplanes, choosing
exit rows, she knew she’d save herself
and leave the others to escape as best
they could. She thought she’d figured
how to overcome each threat. Too bad,
the one plan she forgot was how, when
faced with loss of love, she might go on,
head up, unwavering, dry-eyed to the end.
oh my – and don’t we all know someone like this? Wonderfully craft
well – that’s a new one on me Nancy – the commented posted before I was ready! I was just going to finish by saying: wonderfully crafted as always … now if there was only a way for me to tell the site “you are posting too quickly” hah hah
This is the poster poem for how we can never be fully prepared.
Unpack the Suitcase
Shake out all the neatly folded clothes
let the tissue paper between each layer
catch in the breeze ….
Open the suitcase to the breeze
and run along the shore
barefoot until empty
in the sundrenched sun of
the shimmered unpacked
unknown
Prep
Two days prior, try to eat
light, and not have any meat.
On the day before, follow
instructions on sheet, swallow
only what is indicated there.
Make sure your insides are bare.
Hope your body is in harmony;
go, and enjoy your colonoscopy.
Ready or Not
An old familiar wind
Is snaking around
The corridors of my mind
Working its way
Up from whispery
To the howling I so fear
I feel a trembling
In my hands
And my breath catches
While my heart pounds
Just a little too hard
I thought I was ready
Perfectly prepared
To once again
Lay it all out, flay myself
Alive, as it were
It doesn’t seem to matter
How straight-forward
And to the point
I tell it – true confessions
Always feel like censure
S.E.Ingraham©
Pennies on His Eyes
Comb his hair with soft cologne
on crisp white sheets
one hand upon the other
gently wipe the bit of crust
from his lip
take the tube from his cool nose
Flatten the pillows under his head
Kiss each cheek while still soft
Fix the errant strand of hair raised
in the open windowed breeze
Pick two pennies from the dresser
tray – not too old – not bright
Place them gently on his forever
closed eyes
Cry as though you will never stop
Quietly …
Thats very deep putting the pennies on the eyes reminds me of people leaving money at the graveside
Thanks Ber… Some cultures do put pennies on the eyes — or bits of pottery .. Didn’t really do any reading today yet, but just read your birth poem… power-full and lovingly lovely…
Thank you very much for taken the time to read my poem and the lovely comment. I have heard of pennies on the eyes never of puting pottery thats amazing . The different traditions are interesting i think. We have to look at different cultures in the course i am doing and some of the things we research would make you rethink the way you think
Life inside of me
As I lay on my bed
Relaxed and feeling every kick
The evening before I felt unwell
Couldn’t eat felt sick
Tiredness is all I seem to know these days
Trying to take it easy its all going to be a phase
Hands are hot and swollen
My belly is moving and rolling
I talk to this tiny life inside of me
I know you can hear me
You are the one
I wish I could see
I am scared don’t know what to expect
Oh I need to close my eyes
I am worn out
I am wrecked
This sudden tiredness
I wish it would go away
Please leave me alone
Come back another day
I sleep for awhile
When suddenly i am woking up
To this sudden sharp pain
I need to throw up
Oh please not yet
Your not ready to be born
I have some of my bags packed
This has been going on since the morn
I call out where is the doctor
They have called him he is late
The ambulance arrives before him
I give out rant and rave
The poor nurse she thinks
That I am possessed
I think I need a straight jacket
She needs a bullet proof vest
I can’t explain the pain
It’s like nothing I felt before
I want to scream my head off and shout of loud
Standing around me there is a crowd
The nurse tells me to wait until she tells me to push
I turn to her and smile here is a water gush
She seen it all before it doesn’t bother her anymore
I want to crawl on my hands and knees like a baby on the floor
I am tired and weak
Will this ever stop?
When with one last push
I see a head of dark hair
I almost pass out
I nearly drop
But excitement takes over
Your all mine in my arms
Your cute little soft smile
Your skin so soft and fragile
I know my life will never be the same
Since you were born that day
Since you became who you came
No preparations could get me ready for this
I suppose it mostly always hit and miss
I love you so much
Wouldn’t change you for the world
You are my bundle of joy
You are my world
power-full and lovingly lovely…
The Best Laid Plans
He practiced for a solid week
at different times of day
determined to be ready
when the baby came their way
before the dawn his wife awoke
with an unmistakable arm grip
was finally time to take the ride –
begin the perfected hospital drive trip
Slide into clothes on chairs at ready
Help her into shoes, lock door, leave quickly, calm and walk proudly and steady
Get into car, forget all practiced, to your “MOTHER’S HOUSE” drive the wrong way speedily
Listen to WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? I cannot wait! feet drumming on dashboard Here comes the BAAABY!
lovely
She prepared the birth
before summer vacation
He arrived end of December
Could be the first time …
She held onto the headboard
tight fingers white blood drained
heart pounding waiting for
the onslaughted crash
and plunder of the long
held rose
Steeled for the ripped assunder
And finally in the quiet wedded
dark asked in whispered wonder
Was that it?
I love this, PKP.
Breathless
Father waited with the camera
in the chilled September morn
Filming her eyes instant awakening
Next frame
Skipping into new clothes
Waiting on foot of bed
Buckling shoes gleaming
Next frame
Heart hammering
In happy anticipation
Bubbles in her cereal
She laughs through
Breakfast
Next frame
Mom’s Sign
FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
Kindergarten awaited
For a five-year-old
life-time
Next frame
On the top of the steps
Waving to parents
Suddenly small
in the distance
Double doors open
brass gleaming
pull her gently in
to the light …
Dancing Under the Lights
“I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights.” ~Muhammad Ali
Does putting on your tap shoes count
or is it merely tantamount
to saying, “It’s still luck or chance?”
Rehearsal first, and then you dance.
Each actor knows the telltale sign
when someone gestures, “Help me. Line?”
They need to practice in advance.
Rehearsal first, and then they dance.
An orchestra’s musicians must
learn all the tunes before they’re thrust
upon the stage. Not happenstance.
Rehearsal first, and then they dance.
And as a writer, I prepare
and do my diligence with care
to make my words inform, enhance.
Rehearsal first, and then I dance.
###
“Rehearsal first and then I dance….” these words keep repeating… Lovely, lovely…
In The Book
Dark clouds blocked out the sun.
It was impossible to see.
There was no place left to run.
Such a cruel reality.
Fill a box and mark it with a label.
Go ahead and rest your elbows
squarely on the table.
No one understands
why your face is in your hands
and impressions in the sands are far from stable.
Washed away today by the ever rising tide.
Forced to swallow poison, passion,
pain, pity and pride.
This shall come to cease.
You will find your peace.
Get down on your knees, He will provide.
Break glass ceilings with a rock.
Turn your head and take a look.
Find the right keys to the lock.
They are found in The Book.
By Michael Grove
Prepare
Lie the back-up knife upon your bed
stand on tiptoe wrest your head
into the noose you have carefully strung
kick away the chair until you have hung
My poem for this week’s prompt is here, for any that would like to read!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/02/29/listening/
Smiles to every one, hope you’re all having a great week!
Be Ready
When Hell was posing as high water,
I got into the largest craft with the most lifeboats.
When Hell began to freeze over,
I shifted the direction of the rudder South
And lifted the second and third sail.
When Hell built its own highway for me,
I took a plane high over that dark pavement.
When my friend decided to descend into Hell,
I suggested he might drag himself out
In the emergency hand basket provided.
Although the road to Hell is paved with good intentions
Heaven and Hell are often mistaken for each other.
There is always a fresh Hell to replace random Hells people
Might have missed. That’s why people say…
Run from trouble like a bat out of Hell and if not prepared;
Bloody Hell.
Surgery
In goes the needle, out goes Tom
Fully prepped, he’s finally calm
Fair warning
Dear sir or madam,
next Tuesday at ten past three
your sixteen-year-old
will give up talking to you.
You will blame yourself for this.
Bamboo Garden
Learn to speak Chinese: Mother, Father, Son.
Learn to interpret monosyllables,
enjoy it when you get a warm shower,
never look behind the radiator.
Quit searching – true love is right beside you.
Make a carefully-lined box in your chest,
ready to preserve every stray kindness,
every chance smile, every awkward fist bump.
Remember how you treated your parents
and ask yourself whether you believe in
justice, or in divine retribution.
Good luck – your lucky number is sixteen.
She Lives in Fantasy
I’m surprised when she tells me she’s ready
for a zombie apocalypse when she’s not prepared
for the maths test she has in the morning of
the load of washing I’m about to do
(her laundry hampers is empty still).
I ask her what she’d do if a zombie shuffled in
through the patio door. I’d pop a cap in his ass,
she said, miming a two-finger gun and I despair.
She watches too much television, too much Youtube,
and has never fired anything more lethal than a lasertag gun
much less a real one (we live in England,
where they don’t hand guns out with your welfare cheque).
Besides when was the last time you saw a handgun
with two barrels mounted vertically?
But most of all I despair of her knowledge of zombies
and that she doesn’t realise you have to disrupt the brain stem activity.
Honestly, where’s her sense of reality?
Just a silly verse for this week:
Good Deed
A driver, distraught on the side of the road
said, “Man! This is always my luck!
I just got this brand new car today
and already the darned horn is stuck!”
Just then down the road came two Boy Scouts,
curious about all the din,
when they noticed the predicament
that this poor car owner was in.
“We think we can help you,” one said,
as he carefully raised the hood.
They peered underneath, fiddled around
and stopped that loud horn for good.
“Thank you!” the grateful driver exclaimed,
“How’d you get these skills that you’ve shared?”
“It’s obvious, sir,” the two Scouts replied,
“Our motto is ‘Beep Repaired’!”
I like it! Good job!
cool one, Bruce!
In the world of multitasking
There is no preparation time
No planning no thinking allowed
One leaps stumbles falls into
The next urgent must be done yesterday fire.
I live a pool table life bouncing from work task
To family task to me me me next demands.
My inner self is drained exhausted.
in the world of multitasking
MKM
When Our Paths Meet
Un-star-crossed, non-perpendicular, our lifelines
are the same shared gathering of infinite points,
the steps we take either toward or away. I wonder
if our paths will cross but suspect they can’t,
only chancing to meet again at a single blessed
point with no dimensions in time or space.
This poem emerged at the crossroads of this week’s prompt (preparation) and a self-published book / theatrical performance I am putting together called “Monster Poems.” If you haven’t seen “Pan’s Labyrinth,” it features one of the most terrifying and original movie monsters I’ve ever seen. (Viewable here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9YD2PFF31E)
“The pale man”
I am a chef. I have seen nearly three
centuries because I have learned to cook
cuisine of formidable sorcery.
My orchard yields only weeds. You can look.
I fetch a pailful to the scullery,
warp creeping jenny, pokeweed and hemlock
into aromatic strawberry crepes.
It takes me weeks of precise handiwork,
metamorphosing moss to muscat grapes—
and all the while I am madly hungry.
Springtime to springtime. That’s the time it takes
to set the banquet, set the trap, then rest
my eyes, side by side, on the pewter plate.
There’s nothing then but to wait unconscious
until—at last—some door admits a crook.
More than anything, I love having guests.
I count the skulls, the times I have been blessed.
Sometimes life hits you
with a sucker punch
right in the gut,
unexpected,
and leaves you
doubled over
without
breath
it’s all in the prep
by juanita lewison-snyder
she lays out her finest,
fluffs the ruffles
smoothes the hems,
tops it with her favorite brooch
and perfumed note.
pinning up long dark strands
of tangled hair to the muse of
rhythmic running water,
she tosses lavender salts into a
tub sudsing over with promise.
even the vanity mirror steams
as the white robe comes off,
followed by the contours of
ruby-throated hummingbirds
down a freshly inked back
she dons proudly like
skin poetry.
at first contact
with the heated water
the words swell and redden
into a poesy meter all its own,
then slowly water logs into
a sweet narcotic anchor,
coaxing shoulders
then nape,
lips and finally
pierced brows
to slip unconsciously
just under the water line,
and bloom like lotus tea
on its way to a porcelain bottom.
© 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder