In case you missed it yesterday, click here to check an interview with me on the Poetic Bloomings site.
Today’s prompt comes from Joseph Mills.
Here’s Joseph’s prompt: Use the last line of yesterday’s poem for the first line of today’s poem.
Robert’s attempt at a Last Line First Poem:
“And we can”
And we can dash into the forest forever
forgetting the bells, the whistles, all the people
cursing their neighbors, dancing in their flooded streets
when the rain is too much for the drains to contain.
And we can dash into the forest forever
but our hearts won’t forget, our minds won’t cease beating
the blood of our parents, our connected story
sparking fires nothing short of those rains can contain.
*****
Thank you, Joseph, for the great prompt today! Click here to learn more about Joseph.
Click here if you prefer sharing poems on the Writer’s Digest Forum.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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Day 16
Prompt: Use last line of Day 15′s poem as first line of Day 16′s poem.
What I Don’t Choose
Choices were made for me before birth:
Birthplace
Year of birth
Parents
DNA, gender, chromosomes
Intelligence
Class/income
Certainly many factors of my life
lie out of my control,
spiraling to make me who I am
and what I will become.
Circumstances surround me
as God and nature choose:
Tornado misses our house.
Dryer fire and oven fire end with children safe.
Sleepy accident in the night spins my husband
safely into guard rail with no cars nearby.
A canoe trip in my single twenties could have
turned out so differently if I hadn’t made it
to a rock from the filling canoe
through the floodwaters but instead had
plunged unsuspecting over a waterfall armed only
with a puny old style lifejacket.
Those are the kinds of things I don’t choose.
But I do choose how I respond
and how my life can be more
than how I’m made and what
happens to me.
Yesterday’s Poem
The crack in our bell
reminds me evolution
does not mean beauty
is lost but redefined.
Light enters where once it was denied.
The Saddest Truth
Where the memory of me used to stand,
A photo in some box does sit
To offer proof I did exist.
I wonder what that photo tells
To those who did not know me well?
For one day too you shall be gone;
The friends I’ve made as years went on.
Where the memory of me used to stand
A photo in some box does sit
To offer proof I did exist.
It doesn’t matter what I gave
What came before, what path I paved
For lives untouched or touched the same
For I am still without a name.
Where the memory of me used to stand
A photo in some box does sit
To offer proof I did exist
And who of you remembers me?
No branches grown on family trees;
A nameless face in someone’s hand
Is all that’s that left, that’s all I am.
Running a wee behind this day…
To Kimmie…
I only want what’s best for you.
I’ll cook your favorite chicken stew.
I wish you health, a bright mañana
and lots of fun with Faith and Johanna.
I’ll send you off to Paris or Sydney
and if you ever need a hand or kidney,
I’ll give you one, for I have two.
I only want what’s best for you.
The One
At her feet
lay the sun, moon, stars, (every
gaseous planet in the
arms of Orion and most
of the rocky ones as well) but
all she really wanted
was the world – just one
minuscule
blue-green marble
miracle of the Milky Way
(which no one offered up)
so she walked away
Stuck, Tradeoff, Last line First line,
I’m stuck in a time zone and employment that keep me late hours
So the daily poetic challenges become tall shadowing towers
I bid some slack and request a trade
A story comprised with bit of the three made
Please refer to the following rendition
A cowpoke, pondering his condition
Stuck in the Saddle
Stuck here in the saddle, follow’n a herd
Been a right long time, haven’t heard a word
Got stories, recollections, chase’n in my head
Colt strapped to my side, six pieces of lead
Rifle in the scabbard, loaded, ready to aim
The trail we ride, none any too tame
Cougar wait’n up a tall pine, wolves by the pack
Rattlers slither’n quiet, hide’n in a crack
The paint believes he’s the favorite, since I saddle him the most
Truth be told, he slips through the timber, easier than a flee’n ghost
He’s sure on his feet, ‘n keeps a smooth stride
Makes gather’n the herd, a most pleasant ride
The cows don’t talk, but you can tell what they say
Scent of water in the breeze, they be headed that way
Should reach that river soon, just below Shirley’s Ridge
Clean, cool current, flow’n peaceful, under a natural bridge
Plenty of grass for the herd, we’ll make camp for the night
Sunset, snowcaps to the west, simply inspire’n sight
How that ridge took her name, take more than a written page
First laid eyes on my beautiful wife there, tend’n the stage
She’ll be wait’n there, fire ready, biscuits ‘n coffee, hot
Stand’n tradition, every ride, we meet same ol’ spot
I’ll bring a fresh grouse, to fix with her wild berries and sage
She’ll prepare it all, with tender love, never tired with age
Come daybreak, we’ll finish the trail together, stride by stride
An old cowpoke in a saddle ‘n a pretty lady, ride’n side by side
No where else I’d rather be, than along side my bride, follow’n the herd
Must admit, “stuck” in the saddle, was a poor choice of the word
Early Alzheimer’s Patient (Patience!)
She doesn’t recall
At all.
Or at least she is rocketing down that path
At a rate we can’t restrain.
“Are you ready to go?”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you out for breakfast.”
“What do I need? Do I need my keys? Where are my keys?”
“They are right here on your wrist bracelet.”
“Oh yes! Here they are, right there!”
She heads for her bedroom,
Returning with a flustered, “I can’t go! I can’t find my keys!”
“They are right here on your wrist bracelet.”
“Oh!” A thankful smile.
“Are we ready then? Where are we going?”
“We’re going to breakfast.”
“Oh! How nice! Do I need my keys?”
“You have your keys right here on your wrist. Ready?”
“Where are we going?”
At this point, I put my arm around her,
Gently leading her to her door.
“I’m taking you out for a nice breakfast.”
“Oh! How nice!”
She opens her purse, fumbling for her keys…
OPEN
Eight hours sleep
was enough
to open my eyes
to the beauty
of rain on Autumn
leaves.
Darn it! I posted this on the wrong page. The one time it works on the first try. Oops .. that was day 15.
Still trailing …
http://whatnotshop.blogspot.com/2012/11/tradeoffs.html
it seemed like a great way to end at the time…..much harder to start with!
Just the Way it’s done ’round here
spit and shake:
now the deal is struck
no contracts to sign;
just blind faith, or luck?
it’s a system of old
when a mans’ word was true
not determined by service fees
or how the wind blew
just service with a smile
and the customer is right
“You have a good day now m’am.”
“Thank you, to you a good night.”
Yes, my town is so small
no Starbuck’s you’d find
But life is much simpler —
and I can’t say that I mind
This was a great prompt, thanks Joseph! It got me to write about something I never would have thought of. There are a lot of really good pieces posted today!
The Friendship V in Late October
With the trawlers and the humpback spray,
grey salt fields thick with buoys and lines,
and Egg Rock just off to the left, the boat is
headed to Petit Manaan, not that you can tell
in this sea fog. Three foot chop, forty degrees,
and no horizon.
The city people are getting sick into brown
bags that the crew hands out, especially
those as went inside to stay warm. We won’t
see any whales today, neither seabirds,
unless they are mergansers or buffleheads
rafting just off island. Only creatures that float
in close to the hull – maybe some grey seals
or harbour seals. That’ll be it.
Zack still talks away over the intercom, telling
them the history of the islands they can’t see
passing by us in the fog, the porpoise and dolphin
that must be racing off our sides, if only it would
clear. He’s been doing it ever since we were
kids in college. He knows what to say even
when the ocean isn’t there.
The Shape of a Sip
Desire’s more unsinkable
when glasses are most clinkable.
Just take a sip of noble grape
and life takes on a whole new shape.
You’re suddenly attractive and
I gain some boldness, loss the bland.
We’re superheroes in a cape.
Our lives take on a whole new shape.
A daring personality
emerges. Immortality
is in our reach. Just close the drape:
watch life take on a whole new shape.
So here’s to us. Let’s drink a toast,
you’ll flirt; I’ll give a quite riposte
that’s sly but hints of sweet escape…
and life takes on a whole new shape.
###
What He Made
he made, all his dealing days.
I meant to say, he made
some really bad ones.
excuse, please, if I
leave things out at times,
words, punctuation,
capital letters. those can
be heard, you know. or
you hear when they
are missing. missing.
anyway, jim and all his
dealings, he never made
anything much good
except two children
with Irene who always
said he should stop
making deals because
great as it was to have
a huge fish or a pop-up
camper, there were times,
too, when jim got took,
knew he got took,
banged his head
on the door jamb
it’s a long way down
to where you’re crying
in front of your wife,
those kids. those kids
always wondering
what daddy had
in his pockets. irene
wanting to know
what jim had
to show for himself.
not enough, is it no
never enough
Slightly Mistaken
“And go back to sleep,”
She finished,
“Because there are
No monsters under the bed.”
As she left the room,
A low chuckle
Cracked the silence
Soon to be shattered
By a bloodcurdling scream.
Looking good for a Friday, everyone. Hoping all has a good weekend before the coming harried holiday week.
Only Within One’s Words
Only within one’s words
Can expression of innermost
Thoughts and feelings
Inform the world of one’s
Personal truth of life.
Only within one’s words
Are the colors that make-
Up the nuances of one’s
Beliefs as they influence
Deeds performed in the world.
Only within one’s words,
Hidden deep inside secret
Recesses of dream life,
Can eruptions in times of rest
Fill minds with possibilities.
Only within one’s words
Are promises of worlds
Yet to come to fruition,
Amid poets and dreamers
Writers and schemers.
Oh, man. I gave myself a pretty tough leave ;/
I went two days ago…
Poolitics
If we throw enough mud, some is going to stick.
So we keep throwing mud, and they keep throwing more.
When we pause, the less-smirched candidate takes the trick,
while the more-smirched candidate gets to take the floor—
and recommence to throwing mud. That’s politics.
Chimpanzees left, chimpanzees right and monkey corps
in the trees, shrieking and echoing news of who’s
been hit, by what, and if it stuck, and if it’s war,
and which morsels have been extracted from which poos,
and who emerges alpha of the bailiwick.
Who isn’t sick from all the shitsmeared evening views?
Flora. All the green earth accepts the dirty bombs
as bounty, sustenance for the changing chartreuse,
the firm speculations of the fern’s feeding calm.
There’s a frame in which monkey mud slinging restores
a balance, grants a blessing and applies a balm.
Let’s lay down on the ground and stare up through the palms.
Root Obsessions
On the trading front in winter
a dragon is shedding his swagger
swollen with flame.
He can only release
a dog-eared breath at red noon.
Reckless when stung
heaven cracks releasing
stubs of troubled newscasts
of bourbon and stone.
Nixon is troubled about
root obsessions.
Robert, your poems of yesterday and today are so beautiful. I am not able to do much reading or commenting right now, but I will catch up at some point.
Poetics Asides November Challenge – Day 16
Use last line of yesterday’s poem as first line of today’s poem
Art and Craft
Trade beads and trinkets
could never
tempt Native
American Indians,
who sewed with skilled hands.
Mine’s here:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/16/betting-on-our-wings/
I did drop the first word “and” from yesterday’s line:
The Show
You are the player to be named later,
anonymous afterthought in the big deal.
So don’t clean out your locker yet,
just make the best of where you are.
Work on that curve ball, swing for the fences,
take the extra base, get ready for the “show”.
Sooner or later coach will call you
into his office: Have a seat, kid.
autumn ginkgo
only bare branches
after you’re gone
WISHING
Eight hours sleep
is almost enough
to get me there by
airplane.
I’d say let’s meet
between somewhere
‘cept between us lies
an ocean.
The Last Line
The heat, if I walk away
is a hell of memories’
smoky tendrils curling
the edges of my mind
dark creeping char
catching orange and blue
flame as it eats toward the center.
The heat. If I leave without trying,
all those what if’s splinter
like kindling, fat logs of maybes
or should haves tossed
on flames, and suddenly
all the happy times are
blistered and scarring.
Time to cool off,
regroup, rethink
or, like the old ones say,
if you can’t stand the heat,
get out of the kitchen.
Musings
For my company
you tell a story
about past lives and the present,
it doesn’t matter
what story you tell
just as long as we speak,
and we can share
over coffee
or lunch
we tell stories
to share the depth of our lives
heartfelt depths of soul.
Of the Needle
Of the needle
I need to say
little, as it so
readily makes
its own point,
leading the way
among crisscrossed
threads, pulling
a joiner behind,
teasing notes
out of grooves
in vinyl or just
teasing someone
who may or may
not be a friend,
towering in
freestanding
stone in a canyon
or in steel
among city
skyscrapers
of the needle
I need to say little
as it so readily
makes its own point.
I’ll Be There
When you need me
I’ll be there -
and if my flesh
has turned to dust,
my spirit will coil
around you
and you will feel
my presence.
My voice will
come on the wind,
echoes of memories
will knock
on your door -
and comfort you.
When you
are ready,
I’ll be waiting
for you -
For I never left,
I was always
with you.
HISTORICAL
A golden crown
over the doorway. But there’s nothing special
about the rug except it holds decades of odors.
They say the place is haunted. Just look at
the catch-rails and deadbolt locks, the sliding
window-stops. People live in fear of falling.
Even the ceiling gives off expelled breath.
I stand in the middle of the room, eyes closed
under the great chandelier with its crystal
tears. As if earth opened beneath my feet.
They say the ghost of a black hunter-dog lives
here. Will my shepherd-dogs sniff my pant-
legs for his spoor? Can dogs scent a ghost?
I walk outside. It smells of wind in oak trees.
Clouds pass on their way from hill to mountain
and beyond. I’ll spend the day with my dogs.
There is some amazing stuff in this piece. The details in the first stanza are wonderful.
Such wonderful detail, Taylor. Grand as always.
The world will not be able to tell us apart
after we have melted into the faces of the clock.
Tick tock
there we go,
around and around and around,
dizzying our e-yes,
I am shouting this at the top of my lungs!
Are bodies are absolutely impervious
to God-knows what,
but that doesn’t prevent us from bullying our ways
through the sludge and grime
and eventually finding ourselves knee-deep
in our own prayers.
You know what they say,
shit in one hand, promise in the other and we’ll see
which one fills up faster.
We melt, you and I,
unavoidably spilling our insides to one another.
It gets so hard to carry on,
like the soldiers of Andromeda,
straining to see the fortune in man’s final hour.
And what of that hour?
Is it the last time we see the pretty colours of the sunset?
Is it the last time we have a chance to say our good-byes?
Is that the hour which finally defines us?
We are not dictionaries.
We are calloused thesauruses,
always combining ourselves into synonyms,
flipping pages back and forth without ever finding out
what it is
we mean.
You and I.
Tick tock.
Our hands around the everlasting circle.
LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE
Eight hours sleep
is never enough,
sleeping dogs agree
and stretch
and sprawl,
eyes closed,
ears flopped,
limbs limp.
Maybe
they’re
right….
*Yawn*
Last Line First
Better than anyone ever will,
is how I answered the kind-
hearted woman (okay, more
gossipy than nice about it)
who asked me how well I
really knew my fiance, the
one of whom nobody ever
expressed approval, even
after I commended him to
everyone. I know him better
than anyone else in the whole
universe, and he loves me
the same way, I said, and
that woman gave me a pitying
look and wished me well in
a voice that clearly said the
exact opposite—don’t you
just love it when people do
that to you, make you feel
as though you’re less
competent than your average
mushroom?—and when she
walked away, I exhaled my
frustration hard on a teary
sigh, and my fiance, having
grown especially intuitive
about these things, came to
my side and pulled me into
him as if I was the letter and
he the envelope in which he
wanted to fit me, and he
breathed in my tears and
breathed out peacefulness.
At The Surface
We are busy
Like bees or ants
Each with a task to complete
We serve the queen
Though we’ve never seen her
We are assured she exists
We believe, she must
Be more than just an invisible hand, or legs
Laying eggs and giving commands
We acknowledge and follow
Orders, others, around our hollow stations
Never questioning life beyond the surface
We are not individuals
But parts of the whole,
Accepting our roles to work, not think
“hollow stations” !!!!
ALWAYS YOU
(Day 16)
You don’t exist,
you are what dreams
are made of,
you are the stranger
I see on every street,
you are the picture
I carry in my heart
you no longer exist
not you, the you
I once knew.
Freewill and Eternity
Is it Oz or is it Satan
do you ask for a heart
or sell your soul
A mortal life
or eternal strife
a choice must be made
but what would you trade
whose sacrifice is it to make
a little give and a lot of take
we live with our choices
but hidden in the voices
is a cry and a plea
listen closer and you’ll see
we are here together
you and I forever
as we travel down that path
you must do the math
one plus one is two
but one minus one is nothingness.
he sacrificed all
for a taste of the rare fruit
and one chance at joy
November 16
Not another call in the night
Waking reaching across grumble meows
Dreading the news of frozen memories
Now locked away
Dreading the news of failing bones and
Unable to knit the future between fragile hope
And realities venon.
This one had my mind tied up in knots
this is my first attempt at a cascade.
Independence Any Time
( a cascade poem)
Independence any time.
It’s there when we wake up.
It’s there when we go to sleep.
It’ll always be there, right?
We’ve never known anything different.
Independence to become the
best ‘us’ that we can be.
Independence any time.
We have the right to protest
against it—in public or
private—in word or deed.
It’s there when we wake up.
We’re entitled to it.
It’s our God-given right.
It makes us special.
It’s there when we go to sleep.
Take it for granted?
Most times we don’t even
think about it.
It’ll always be there, right?
Ellen Knight
The Wake
Blown away
on the sharp edge of the wind,
sliced cold and scattered
across the hills. Dust
to dust, what remains of you
stretched like a cloud
into the winter-thinned sun, low
and breaking the horizon. Calcified
bone and memories, skeletons
in closets clucking like thick-waisted
and heavy-bosom mourners
paid for the pondering of you.
You Can Keep Your Dreams
You can keep your dreams
But don’t pack them away
Like old skinny jeans
You may never fit into again
You can keep your dreams
Like a beloved pet
Nurturing it with the best food
And tender loving care
You can keep your dreams
Like your daily journal
Adding bit by bit
Through thick and thin
You can keep your dreams
Like a prized plant
Watching each new leaf
Unfurl in shining beauty
Yes, keep your dreams
Nurture, add to, watch over
Until they mature,
Giving birth to new dreams
Totally Worth It
Pets
Naps
Croup
Picnics
Stitches
Teething
Camping
Old Maid
Bike rides
The circus
Black eyes
Disneyland
Class mom
Science fair
Sleep-overs
Art museum
Chicken pox
Potty training
Cotton candy
Board games
Carnival rides
Baking cookies
Science Center
Birthday parties
Movie matinees
Museum field trip
Tenth-grade Play
Dying Easter eggs
First day of school
Christmas morning
Principal’s honor roll
Rainy day at the zoo
Fireworks on the 4th
Break-up heartbreak
Little League baseball
Call from the principal
Fishing at the city park
Jack-o-Lantern carving
Playland at McDonalds
Baking soda volcanoes
Drippy ice cream cones
Singing “Happy Brithday”
Children’s puppet theater
Fifth Grade Band Concert
Bring-your-kid-to-work day
Thanksgiving hand-turkeys
Saturday morning cartoons
Planting a tree on Arbor day
Cardboard tube sword fights
Practicing for the driving test
Six hour flight with three kids
Elementary school Fun Faire
Stitches at the doctor’s office
Set-building at the high school
Holding his hand at the dentist
Finding the funnest park in town
Handmade Halloween costumes
Breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day
Finding the perfect tux/dress for prom
Driving around looking at Christmas lights
Picking them up from their first day at work
Diana Terrill Clark
I’m so glad to revisit these last lines…great prompt!
’s to all!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/16/day-sixteen-last-line-first-a-haiku/
Tree
It never says a word
but lets the wind, the breezes, gales
make all the noise -
A language that is understood
by all who live upon this earth.
This tree is old. The children believe
that native children played beneath
its branches. They waded out into the water,
perhaps they built small shelters on the sand.
The older children talk about bringing blankets
Blankets to toss over the lower limbs
and make a shelter, We parents say no.
Our danger is not wild animals like the native
peoples fought, but two legged
predators that look like Mom and Dad
Danger can be everywhere – whether
We recognize it or not. The tree itself
So serene, leaning into the rosey sunset sky,
It could turn against us in an instant
shattered by hurricane winds, its branches
stripped into deadly missiles, ready to pierce
our soft, human flesh.
FIB
I’m
sure
you’ll see
that I am
right ,so please just go
clean your room if you want dinner
Hawk
Quaking, but so warm, so alive, the hawk
lay broken under the tree and trusting,
let me lift him, gingerly folding his wings
and carrying him indoors, settling him
in a box, lined with papers shreds and leaves.
Then thumbing through the books
on my shelves, encyclopedias used
only rarely now, outmoded, slow,
unchanging, I search for instructions
left for me by some ancient Merlin,
how to heal a hawk, repair a wing.
Knowing full well he belongs there,
nearer the clouds, atop the trees,
he seems ashamed, sheltered in the box,
dependent on me, that thing he fears.
His yellow eye follows me; his heart
beats with fear so strong, he shakes
my house. Or perhaps that’s my heart.
Oh my gosh! Love it!
One of your best, Nancita. I love the bird poems
Inescapable
To test that theory
I’ll use the old
punchline:
“who are you going to believe,
me or your lying eyes?”
I cannot see
the air I breathe
and depend upon,
yet I know it is real,
because I see
what happens
when it is taken away.
It is
the same
with God.
Just because
you can’t see God
doesn’t mean
God doesn’t exist.
If I try
to take God away
to see what happens,
I can’t.
God doesn’t exist
just because
we believe in God
and therefore
will God
into existence.
Thomas Talbott called
God’s love
inescapable,
and for me,
that makes it
as basic as air.
TIT FOR TAT
Too many tradeoffs made without fair compensation,
are never worth it! It’s tough to say what value can be placed
on situations not embraced. Lead with your heart and you impart
a sense of sentimentality when the reality rests in your mind.
Use your head and your heart will follow eventually.
Never give up more than your mind can handle.
Never give less than your heart will allow.
FROM TWO
That’s just what it takes to make one out of two!
First, it takes two unique individuals willing
to spend their lives filling each others’ hearts
with everything they’ve hoped for and desired.
It is the fire of love that consumes them,
it presumes that life couldn’t get any better.
But, you better not get complacent, because
adjacent to the good things, the bad resides.
It hides in the shadows smirking; lurking,
ready to pounce and make any smooth sailing
wrought with prevailing winds and thirty foot waves.
It is that true love that saves you from drowning.
Commitment and dedication have no separation
ad that should translate into a great rapport;
one of trust and communication that keeps
those feelings growing, sowing that kernel of life
between husband material and his future wife.
For as that seed grows, it knows enough to grow strong,
for the long haul head, instead of offering many weaker tendrils
of patchy and sporadic emotions. It is in sealing the deal
that the fruit of all labors gives a true indication of what lies ahead.
One trunk rooted and grounded instead of two seeds divided.
One love rooted and grounded from two hearts in synchronicity.
It is this simplicity that gives love its complexity.
Two hearts beating without retreating,
completing the circle of life.
County Road 9 (a Big Ten form)
…the baby will scream until you look up
peppering the walls with raw emotion
because there simply are no words to say
The world is ending! The world is ending!
Just so, every fiber of my being
is screaming white lines while our bravest words
twist in the night air, graceful as a swan.
You see an angel but I am sleeping
and somehow we walk free across a field.
We are alive and the crying has stopped.
I AM Not Lost
(a shadorma)
*based on Psalm 56
To my tear-
drops: fall where you may.
You are caught
and counted
by my Father in Heaven.
He knows my sorrows.
I apologize in advance for the cynical tone of this poem. That line just didn’t want to go anywhere nice this morning.
Look, Ma! No Cake!
But that’s the tradeoff:
You can’t have your cake
And eat it too,
Even if your mama
Always let you.
I know she always said
That you were special,
But that was a mother’s
Point of view.
Guess what?
The rest of the world
Doesn’t quite agree,
As I’m sure, one day,
You’ll see.
You want to be
Taken seriously
Out here in the real world?
Then watch as your new
Place is unfurled:
You’re no longer
The centre of the universe.
Wave goodbye
As your pride
Leaves in a hearse.
No screaming, now;
Don’t curse. Quietly
Get on the bus
And join the rest of us
Mere mortals, small
And ant-like
On the ground.
Welcome to reality,
My friend.
We’re so glad
You’ve been found.
This is an awesome prompt. Thank you, Joseph!
Of course, my last line yesterday is so awesome, otherwise I wouldn’t be so happy
***
Thrilled by you
Never let me be
Otherwise
***
You can’t win.
A flat line from the white voice
at my right acromioclavicular joint.
The rueful shake of my head
displaces a paperdoll robe,
and in the eyecorner blur is a barbed tail
coiled, neatly, around red ankles.
I sigh. And the ache of my left shoulder
sighs. Friday begins
in a moment of rare accord.
Ha! I like this one.
It serves me right for being cheeky: the PAD prompt today is to use the last line of yesterday’s poem as the first of today’s. I was too tired to write yesterday, and merely posted this on the PAD forum:
Day 15: A trade off poem
If I write a haiku
can I be let off today
and go to bed now?
so I get even cheekier today (but I didn’t go where the line might have led me)
Day 16 – last line of Day 15 poem first of Day 16
And go to bed now –
To sleep, perchance to dream
If that’s what turns you on.
A real cop-out. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.
This was quite a challenge.
And yet , It was awesome prompt to let your thoughts wander ..
===
“This is where I will make
the best deal”,
she whispered to herself.
Standing at the edge
of an unknown territory,
marked with cautious smiles
and uncertain eyes.
A hesitant step with open palms,
a soft squeeze to his hand,
a feeble smile for his shocked one,
a nervous glance at people around.
“This is where I will make
the best deal”,
she whispered like a
new found mantra.
Standing within his easy reach,
listening silently to
quickened heart beats,
an awkward hug it looked to be,
but for them,it was the beginning.
uh-oh.
rather regretting the use of “spit and shake” now…..this should be interesting. LOL
It surprised me, but it did get my attention! LOL!
Loving Hearts
Your running veins of living
Keep on giving and giving
beyond your loving heart
beyond your misgivings
Speechless words
fall on deaf ears
words that once meant something
now hurt causing tears
Open up your eyes
curve the edges of your mouth
speak only good
don’t give in
don’t give out
A wondering heart
pulled along for to long now
pounded by life
cuts deep like a knife
Veins of flowing living
following lifes wonders around
open surprises of yesterday
beautiful mesmerizing sounds
Backing up memories
hidden for far to long
loving the lyrics of music
hearing that favourite song
Moving on now
living pulling away
wondering what will happen
to the ghosts of yesterday
“The Melancholy of Autumn’s End” (Nonet)
The melancholy of autumn’s end
leaves copper, ruby, gold canvas
behind, awaits renewal
of a more sober kind:
splendor replaced by
sepia tones,
longing for
snow’s fresh
white
“Of My Hand”
On my way to a globe in the palm of my hand,
I stopped to consider the people who planned.
The brick and the mortar, macadamized roads,
The truckers that truck out the trinkets in loads,
It was my sweat and vision that got us this far,
I dined our investors and putted for par,
I balanced the spreadsheets for profit and loss,
I should make more money, for I am the boss.
And taxes? Forget it! They’re out of control,
The top ten percent can’t fill half of the hole.
We’ve got to cut spending. It’s just a hard fact,
And ease regulation. We’re under attack.
But now that I’m eighty-fold richer than you,
With a big empty house only sycophants view,
I see how we’ve fouled up the salary guide,
There’s only one answer, although you may chide,
Give me control, just a little more power,
I’ll boost up your wages to twelve bucks an hour,
Is the rent too damn high? Less property tax!
The third world revolting? Unmanned drone attacks!
Sigh…
On my way to a globe in the palm of my hand,
I stopped to consider the janitor… and…
While six billion people would rather be me,
I’d rather be him and I’d do it for free.
BESIDE THE GOLDEN DOOR
Freedom!
Like a beacon held high
the idea, the dream, the hope
to live in a land where you can
speak your own thoughts,
read words of compliment and complaint,
protest against or for a cause,
petition the government to change,
then, thank your God where and when you want
is still calling people to the shores
of this great land.
Freedom!
Worth the risk,
worth the pain,
worth the challenges.
Let those of us who have found comfort
within Freedom’s arms
never forget that once,
we, too, risked it all
to walk through this Golden Door!
NEW BEGINNINGS
A great place to start,
a week before Thanksgiving
and living what’s left of the American Dream.
Every day is a new adventure,
an extension of your hopes for a better life,
with less strife and a pocketful of goodwill.
And when that excursion ends
you take stock of the friends who have stood by you
to buy you more hope that with which your began.
It invigorates your heart
to think that better things await you; it elates you.
A great place to start!
Like it a lot!
Robert, I enjoyed your interview so much. You’re such an inspiration and thank you. I know that this poem is something completely different but I can’t help wanting to show all the worlds – and I didn’t succeed in posting yesterday’s poem.
This Something on my Wings
Had supper ready at seven?
Wow, I’m compared
with my mother-in-law.
The honor is hard to grasp,
this hard working, proud
farmer woman who was
in control and
who’s brought alive,
like right next to you
when you for hours
explain
all about love to me.
Oh yes, supper at seven,
this goal in
my in betweens
during work,
my washing up, laundry, cleaning and
fetching the kids at five.
Supper at seven, it is,
of course.
I love you, too.