Today’s prompt comes from Madeline Sharples.
Here’s Madeline’s prompt: Write a “Wheel” poem: of fortune, ferris, bike, auto – any kind of wheel. Even a big wheel and wheeling and dealing will do.
Robert’s attempt at a Wheel Poem:
“Spinning my wheels”
Yesterday, I saw my friend sitting on a bench
staring at birds, and I asked him how we was
doing. He said, “Fine. Just fine.” “Just fine,”
I asked. “Yes, fine,” he said. “Just swell.”
“I thought you were fine,” I said. “Well,” he said,
“that too, but I’m really all right.” “Which one
do you feel the most,” I asked. “I suppose,”
he started to say and then he got distracted
by a squirrel working its way along a branch
before jumping to another branch in another
tree, and then my friend was up and walking
away from me without an explanation or
a good-bye, which was fine with me, because
I took his spot and his seat was still warm
and those birds were still darting from tree
to tree and the squirrel was still working
this way and that and there was not another
person in the park who might ask how I was.
*****
Thank you, Madeline, for the circular prompt! Click here to learn more about Madeline.
Click here if you prefer using the WD Forum thread.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Explore Poetry!
Learn more about poetic forms, poetic terms, poetic schools, and more about the history of poetry with John Drury’s The Poetry Dictionary, a wonderful poetic reference for any poet’s desk. In fact, my copy is always within arm’s reach of where I’m sitting.
On Two Wheels
(Day 19)
See me ride
my bicycle,
see how high I fly.
I can reach the silvered
moon, and catch the shining star.
Wheels
By the time he took the pulpit each Sunday,
we knew the sermon outlines, the illustrations,
the key verses he would read—always King James
back them. At the dinner table Saturday,
he’d run it by us, more talk than lecture,
and all week long, he’d visit the sick,
carry a sack of groceries to those down on their luck.
Sure, he was a preacher. Nobody questioned it,
but he was a hoss trader too, knew in his guts
a good deal on a tract of land, a used car,
a rent house. As I approached sixteen,
he dampened my enthusiasm. I wanted wheels
but not just any wheels. He suggested a Ford Falcon,
a Gremlin, something heavy and safe, no temptation
for car thieves, an AM radio was good enough surely.
The wheels he finally delivered—a rebuilt wreck,
but sport, red—was a greater gift than I dreamed:
Years later, when I began these negotiations
with children of my own, eager to hit the road,
we could honestly say, Be grateful. You should
have seen what my dad gave me to drive at sixteen.
Okay now that’s funny my loong poem posts my longer poem posts my sliver of a poem too fast
the ferris wheel
child fancy sinks under
rising waters
Ode to Wheels
Thank you for your roundness
perfect circles.
Sometimes it seems your shape
surrounds everything.
You take us places we want to go
and some we don’t.
And are with us when we grow
bicycles rollerblades.
You can be a status symbol
or ordinary
as the boy next door.
A major
player in the Indianapolis 500
yet you do
your part in my garden
wheelbarrow
hand plow
and in the overall harvest
tractors
combines.
Sometimes you are naughty
lover’s lane
elope
when you burn rubber.
Who does
not admire a well-rounded
wheel?
Wish I was there the first
time
you helped us lift our
heavy load.
Wheel
You are a gossamer firefly with coal black eyes
among copper urns, fold silk robes,
pin loose hair back
and
wheel around the world,
a spool,
with golden thread
woven into the ash colored night
Catching up…
A wheel of a tale!
At the wheel of my Corolla,
I hit a poet tree.
The impact was so great,
a poem came out of me.
Now I’m crashing into walls,
convertibles and buses,
but no more poems come out of me;
all I get is scratches.
I could not do the challenge yesterday, but I am back. http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/19/365-creativity-project-day-315/
Flat Tire
The tire on my friend’s wheelbarrow
went flat from sitting too long.
There’s so much inertia to overcome
and get it moving again.
So I push it with a start and a stop,
to clear a space,
start, stop and plop
until it rests on the flat spot.
I figure life is like the wheel barrow,
that it goes flat with inactivity.
When I return to the garage
I help her sort through the clutter
and move through memories of her life.
15 Minutes of Fame
my mother-in-law
appeared on ‘Wheel of Fortune’
but she won sod all
Turning Cartwheels
she begs me to watch
as she performs three cartwheels
one for each of us
laughing as her wig falls off
exposing the surgeon’s scars
Setting the Wheels
When I was a kid my dad and I set up
our model trains under the Christmas tree –
HO scale, smaller and more fragile than
the hefty Lionels he had when he was young.
Everything was scaled down, small enough
to put a whole town beneath our Scotch pine -
cars, people and buildings, a church,
5&10 store, gas station, post office,
and several snow-covered homes.
The steam locomotive puffed “real” smoke
and pulled box cars, gondola cars, tankers,
and a caboose, working hard just to go
around and around a big oval enclosing
the small-town scene. Being smaller,
it was more likely to jump the tracks,
so it was my job to inspect the couplings
and the wheels, make sure everything
connected and rolled smoothly, and to right
frequent derailments like some demigod,
putting the wayward train back on track,
feeling the groove of each wheel slip
into place inside of the rail, then sending it
chugging again on its single-minded mission,
even though it would never really leave town.
Poetics Aside November Challenge – Day 19
Write a wheel poem
At The Fair (shadorma)
A wheel you sit on?
Spins around
open space.
Meet me at the carousel,
clutching painted horse.
Spin the Wheel
Back in the day,
(my but that makes me
sound so old),
Gran and I used to watch
Jeopardy together when I
was visiting during the summer.
If she had grown up in
my generation, Gran
probably would have
ended up with an MFA.
I don’t know if she had a
photographic memory, but
she was already well north
of 70 then, and I can’t remember
anything she ever forgot.
Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune.
They bridged a programming
gap between the
Nightly News and
Prime Time.
Now, game show/reality shows
have invaded
Prime Time TV.
From Survivor to the Biggest
Loser. From American Idol to
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
From Cash Cab to
Dancing With the Stars.
Maybe I just like to remember
back to when I watched
Jeopardy with Gran, when
Alex Trebek didn’t have
a full head of white hair
(thus reminding me of my own).
And I also remember why I
gave up my TV.
Ellen Knight
Raclette
I fall apart now.
I drip
onto a plate
underneath me.
I can’t help it.
The fire is warm.
I am so sleepy,
and I lack arms
to get myself
back together.
We are inside,
the things
that used to be
outside.
I think I used to be
a cow, or inside a cow,
or some part of a cow.
I don’t know, but there
was grass somewhere
and I seem to remember
its taste. Maybe
sunlight also.
But now
there is this fire.
It unlocks the sun
I have held.
The sheets of something
next to me used to be
cow, too, but different.
They try to talk to me,
but I can only catch
a word or two,
because we are so
different, and so much
has happened since
the time when we were
cows. The potatoes
and gherkins, I don’t
even bother with.
They just say
their own names
over and over again,
and it seems to me that
we should forget
our names, now that
(as I believe) we will soon
become people.
The moon. For once, I am a little sorry I didn’t get six opportunities to edit.
Thoon moon must be in alignment with Orion’s left foot – tonight everything posted on the first try!
Ezekiel
People keep pressing me to explain that night,
what I saw, the fire within fire, one creature alive
with many faces, and all I can tell you is this:
We exist inversely with the stars. In these times
there is scarcely night, and we do not fear the desert.
The voice of humanity, once many waters, floods
its cacophony through the cities, we have the appetites
of pitiful manticores, we subsume the oceans.
As children we could see everything, dust motes
revealed themselves in the sunlight of our morning.
Now we are blind; the evening blazes. You ask me,
but still, I do not know under what throne we shall live.
That’s the poem I meant to write
I like where you go with the Ezekiel story, which I confess leaves me quite baffled. But I think you have an essential element of wonder (and its loss) here:
“In these times / there is scarcely night, and we do not fear the desert.”
And
“Now we are blind; the evening blazes.”
Wonderful, sonja
Goldilocks Zone (wheel 2)
Goldilocks zone, a fluid blue
halo of oxygen scattering starlight.
Launch from orbit
to find a place of rest after
the water has been sucked from
the earth, after the water has been covered
in sheets of plastic, encased
like a memorial, like your grandmother’s
sofa, uncomfortable in life as your
hot summer skin and useless
to her after death.
Captain’s Wheel
You think you’re at the wheel
captain of your own ship
calling all the shots, a homo sapiens
gathering evidence, weighing facts
making informed decisions,
but all evidence points
to the contrary – a
gray matter – colored by
chemistry & biology,
action & reaction,
mental amoeba
manufacturing facts to fit you
r preconceived notions,
personal fictional perception of
unreality, your justifications – just a-
nother spoke in the wheel
God will strengthen
E-Z from an eaten nation
wandered beside a muddy stream.
The sky above seemed to open
to fire—as in a deathbed dream.
Key elements of the vision
E-Z would swear were cherubim.
He spoke of it with eyes like fire,
and peers in exile heeded him:
wheels on a heavenly choir
running by Divine Intention—
wheels in wheels under icy spires—
fiery, human-eating design.
No one marked E-Z a liar,
for who could doubt the hungry sign
of the deity’s cold machine?
It lifted E-Z by the spine,
dropped him in a valley of bones.
This is where my mind went, too, but you beat me to it! Love your closing line.
I suppose I’ve never looked around before.
She had always been there, standing in front of me,
our eyes level and locked.
I never noticed how her irises, pale blue and bright green,
radiated from the center, almost unbroken.
But, I suppose it is that slight variation that
keeps us going round and round and round.
In circles,
her mind twists.
Ooh! i like this!
Cigar Box
My sister and I used to fight
over the insert in Dad’s
cigar box, a something -
you see, I can no longer
remember the shape -
made of very thinly shaved
wood. Was it a cylinder?
A square?
We both wanted it,
no to play with, really,
but simply because
she wanted it.
We would chase each other
around the dining room table,
endlessly around,
since we ran at approximately
the same speed,
until one of us,
my sister,
would make a break
for our room,
dash like lightning
down the hall,
slam the door shut,
while the other,
usually me,
pounded on the door.
And what, you may ask,
happened after that?
Dad says we abandoned
the insert somewhere
in the house.
and he, shaking his head
over the strange ways
of girls, would pick it up
and throw it in the trash.
Nov 19: create a wheel poem
Spin Those Wheels
We Americans love the illusion
of progress, of moving forward,
conquering outer space,
colonizing the moon,
making more money than our parents,
or even being gainfully employed.
Sadly, the current economic atmosphere’s
blowing a cold wind over our expectations.
We shiver, shrink back on ourselves.
True, we sent a Mars rover
to explore the Red Planet,
but when was the last manned flight?
Can you even remember?
Most of us would settle,
a roof over our heads,
food on the table,
and somewhere, somehow, a job.
circle time
another round
of “wheels on the bus”
***
the steady squeak
of the hamster wheel…
awake with the moon
i love your brief little bits.
Giddy up Giddy up horsey please
Up and down up and down
Round and round we go
O so fun it is yes it is
To ride the Carousel wheel of fortune
1978
A cranky wind took the wheel away
from the August sky just as moonlight
cruised in its parking space. I was
walking home with my heart in the
pocket of my church uniform. The boy
I wasn’t supposed to crush on used
the a cappella notes of my infatuation
as stepping stones to reach my friend
whom towered above me in every way.
The spiraling rain licked my face.
Mama was at the door holding a swan
printed towel, announcing I was certain
to catch a bad fever or cold.
I like the whole thing, but your second stanza especially rocks.
Thank you, Sonja.
I love this prompt, Madeline. This is the first of the draft poems I wrote today.
Wheel (1)
Karma sleeps like the
man on bench by the trash
bin in the far corner
of Grand Central station,
greyed from dirt and
living without the sun. One day
he will rise up without warning;
he may become an avenging
angel, against our sins of callousness, he
will rise up without warning, clutching
his hungry heart, arms outstretched
to receive. Will they be blows
or will you breathe in, will you
breath in his sweat, his urine,
will you hold him?
Claim
Sunday dog waits by my car
Inspecting tires, sniffing out
road trips, reading scents
like maps into a new life.
I imagine him in the car,
riding with his head out
the window, ears flapping,
tongue swept sideways
Gogo dog, adventure dog,
happy road warrior yipping
with excitement, a church lot
dog no more. He shops,
a serious buyer, lingering,
walking round and round,
admiring the wheels,
and then he lifts his leg.
Sold!
What Happens to All Those Tossed Pizza Wheels?
“Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza.” ~Dave Barry
How many times have you eight-cut
your pizza with a wheel? But what
is more important, when employed,
how many wheels went to the void?
Into the pizza box you stash
your wheel, which then goes out with trash.
It doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud:
How many wheels go to the void?
We all have done, by accident,
the wheel toss. No admonishment,
no matter if it’s well-deployed
can keep a wheel out of the void.
At least, that’s my experience
re pizza-pie and beerience.
Replace your wheel – don’t get annoyed
if you’ve just tossed it in the void.
###
Now i know what happened to mine! i’ve been looking for it for ages!!
Lost Art
She threw pots on a potter’s wheel,
created just by what she’d feel.
They’d rise from lumps of slip and clay:
she’d make ceramics a ballet.
An artisan, her figurines
would tell her tale; they were her means
to offer a beaux arts display:
she made ceramics a ballet.
Upon her wheel, a vase could grow
for orchids rare; a true tableau.
Her weathered hands would dance and sway
and make ceramics a ballet.
But now she’s gone; so is her art.
She’d never had a counterpart,
or an apprentice with a way
to make ceramics a ballet.
###
We Are Time
we
ride
wheels
like cold coal
dust, we’re free-wheeling,
spinning, slipping on glinting steel
rims – we’re water tumbling over slickened stones.
we ride wheels through lives, slowing for the young but fast as a chased rabbit for the old.
love this
So fun…played with some imagery…gears count as wheel right?
Thank you for the prompt!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/19/day-nineteen-wheels-a-haiku/
TREADMILL
Round and round they go
Nurses, doctors, teachers -
scientists, lawyers, accountants-
bakers, mechanics and more
Yes, this is the land of opportunity -
No, you degree means nothing -
Yes, you can get a job -
No, you have to speak English -
Yes, we have assistance -
No, you have to be a citizen -
Yes, this is the land of opportunity -
No, you can’t get there from here!
I know this is a wee bit cynical, but that is how I feel after learning that another of my students is having difficulty finding work even though this student is a qualified dentist in their homeland. Makes me sad.
Hmm…that is quite the set of hoops to jump through to something one is already able and qualified to do. I can see why you feel this way, Linda. Great write!
PI(KU) SQUARED AS A WHEEL
Some days I
feel
like the hamster.
Other days
I
feel like the wheel.
TRUE DAT. (says the old white lady.)
There are so many beautifully, thoughtful and fun poems written today to the prompt. I wish I could comment on each, but my success at posting is beyond frustration. Have a great day, thank you for adding to the day’s beauty during the day of stormy weather outside my window. (Domino, Uneven, Connie, Janet, RA, DA, Marie, Sally Michelle, Walt, JW, Andrew, Rob, Karen, elish., EDT, Marianv, shella, blue, jared, pmw, barbara, taylor, Miss R, julie, DeJ, claudsy)
Trees pulsate
in the building storm.
Boughs reach down,
branches crack
Over land, debris wheels,
wind’s bounty.
Reinventing
What of spin? And where
to begin?
You
make a circle of worn
fingers, and I’ll
try to reshape these tired
treads. Let’s thread some
ribbon through the spoke
-n phrases we forgot,
so we can pull our way
back. Paint the whole she
-bang black, maybe, turn
our mourning to shiny roll
-ing tide.
Hey,
at least we’ll look cool
cruisin’ down this wild
ride.
.
Love “spoke
-n”
Still haven’t managed my Glosa. Working on it, but not easy. Wheels, now. That’s fun.
Pharoh’s Dilemma
Which came first;
Pyramids or chariots?
Science tells us stone
For pyramids rolled
Into place at Giza
On logs across plains.
Climate differed then,
More trees, lusher growth,
Providing logs for use.
How many stones rolled
On each log before
Resulting firewood?
Who taught Pharoh’s
Builders to build wheels
And chariots for moving
At speed behind horses?
If they had wheels and horses,
Why decimate forests by stone?
1980 AMC Concord
It was cheap, and white
and handled just right
on the curves on the way
out of Podunk, Nevada.
It was no red tape
and paced for escape
and though she didn’t
go far, it felt like flying.
It was all hers,
and filled with something
she would never forget.
That used car smell:
freedom, and all too soon,
regret.
.
My husband would say, “that is not a real poem!” and i suppose it sounds much more like just the traffic in my head
but here it is anyway.
OF PENS AND WHEELS.
My mother
used to say “where is
the pen that is supPOSED to be
by the phone?” and I would think,
gee, what is her problem, she makes
such a big deal out of nothing, and I would
answer her, “I don’t know, why?” all innocently
and she would say “because the pen is supPOSED
to stay by the phone!” and so in my adult life I have
solved this problem by buying copious amounts of pens
and placing them by the phone /by the computer /by the
kitchen, and when I want one I think I should be able to
pick up at least ONE of those many pens but all I can
find is a dead Sharpie and an emery board and I
say “where are all the pens that are supPOSED
to be by the phone?” and my children
shrug their shoulders and look at me
like, gee, what is her problem, she makes
such a big deal out of nothing, and they answer
“I don’t know, why?” and look at me all innocently
and I say “because there are supPOSED to be pens
by the phone!” and I sigh and realize the wheel of
life has turned full circle and I have no real
answers and have turned into
my mother.
Hm. That was supPOSED to look a bit more circle-like and a bit less woman-like….
El. Oh. EL!! Cute, creative, real … what else could we ask of you?
What’s EL? and thanks (she said blushing.)
Just spelling out LOL (el oh el).
Marie Elena, it wouldn’t let me reply to your answer to my question– DUH!! Now i get it! And thanks for being your sweet and encouraging self.
oh…..PENS……now I get it
Welcome to MY brain!
i’ve been trying for an hour to get the shape better, but everything i’ve done has just looked more pornographic. i give up–for now.
lmao I thought more pornographic was better?
ACK!!!! hahahahaaaa!!!
It just kept coming out more boob-like…..
(and i think i may have only just understood your initial comment!)
Wheels Up
Leaving her
again
for the last time
again
she won’t hurt me
again
I won’t forgive her
again
I can’t live like this
again
She called
again
I forgave
again
I hate my life
again
Ouch.
Wheeling
She hates the way she wheels around
Just because he calls her name.
She always hopes he will have changed,
But things are always just the same.
She wishes he would just commit,
But she is scared and won’t insist.
She wears her heart out on her sleeve
To cover where he bruised her wrist.
But all the makeup in the world
Won’t cover what he did this time.
She tries to blame upon herself
What she knows is truly crime.
The mirror, cracked with angry blows,
Cries at her broken reflection.
She cannot help but gasp aloud;
There can be no quick correction.
Healing will take quite some time.
She quietly begins to pack.
She slams the door; he wheels around,
And knows that she will not be back.
“She wears her heart out on her sleeve
To cover where he bruised her wrist”
My favorite lines.
ROXY’S THANKSGIVING
for an old dog
Sheet of plywood for a stretcher –
we lifted you onto the vet’s steel table,
recounted how the dump-truck wheel
rolled over you. Thanksgiving Eve.
His hands probed, x-rays reached
deeper. Diaphragm sprung, you worked
at breathing. Nothing else wrong.
But, it was Thanksgiving Eve.
We got you to your feet, you walked
to the car. We drove freeway
to the big-town surgery. Left you there,
drove home to our Thanksgiving Eve.
By dawn, you were sewed back,
almost whole. A hundred miles to bring
you home; napping beside our table:
what makes Thanksgiving.
I have to admit, I was mightliy relieved that this had a happy ending!
She was a stone wheel, with a porthole for the sun,
happy when light passed through her.
She was not adept at red letter dates,
forgetting to memorize their faces, she
confused weekends with their cousins, the holidays,
became addled over fasts and feasts.
When the leaves fell, she wore a sweater, and raked.
When there was snow: a coat and gloves,
though snow rarely stayed past breakfast.
When there were new chickweed stars, she wished,
for that was what one did with stars.
Every day was new when it began, and died old.
Chickweed stars; how perfect! You have to be looking unusually hard to know those flowers. Nice observation, and I like where you took this.
GROWING UP
(a shadorma)
behind the
wheel at age fourteen
was not for
joyriding;
I was the designated
daughter to drive home
Beat you by two years. Designated Sonny at twelve.
Designated daughter…nice turn of phrase!
Never Another Fresh Step
This world always seems
To be in motion,
Either between locations
Or in all directions;
Even stationary objects
Are always working,
Progressing,
Never at rest
Everything appears
To move up and down,
Back and forth,
Oscillating
In a technological
Cacophony of man,
Machine, and nature
Struggling to preserve
Whatever slim hold
They have on the others
But at the heart
Of every movement,
Of every machine,
Is a wheel, Spinning
In quiet isolation
Carrying our society
With each revolution
Ever onward;
Even the system
Of life-sustaining liquid
Flowing fluidly through
Our veins, and the pipes
Of our society
Is a closed loop
We built it this way,
With purpose,
Efficient and rational,
Replacing diversity
With uniform degrees-
We took the creative life,
And made it routine,
Circular
My first wheels
were skates:
I rumbled
down the sidewalk
across calculated
cracks in concrete,
clicking out
a rhythm for
ball-bearings.
Rolling along alone
under the
summer sun,
Clackity clack
was the sound
of freedom.
My second wheels,
in a different
place, were
on the used bike
my father bought,
but I was afraid
to ride for a long
time, though I
longed to, not
trusting that
seemingly impossible
balance, until
someone let go
and I wobbled off,
until that wobble
turned to a whir.
Whir, whir
was the sound
of freedom.
After college
came my
first car,
a used Dodge
that randomly
died, but
took me
farther and faster
than I could
have dreamed.
Vroom, vroom!
That was the
sound of freedom.
When a Sumerian
first put
a log under
a load
to roll,
could he
imagine
skates,
bikes,
cars,
or a distant
time
of freedom?
“Ferris Wheel”
(Palindrome Poem)
Amusement Park:
rides filled of thrill
our pulses rise
each climb high on
Ferris Wheel
on high climb
each rise pulses
our thrill of filled rides:
Park Amusement
Dreams of the Swarm
In their dark, sweaty beds they dreamed
Of light that lit up the night. Of a life spent
Dancing around its brilliance. Never-ending
Celebrations with all the members of their kind.
So off to the city they flew, drawn
to the thrill of light that lasted
all night long
Lamp-posts where they could
Wheel and circle fast enough
To become almost invisible
It was the lights , that incandescent
Attraction
Watch the swarms wheeling, circling
Round and back again
Some never learn that approaching
Too close is courting danger.
Danger, brightly silhouetted, lurks
In the anonymity of darkness. Who
Could not succumb to that siren call?
That quick elimination in a blaze of glory?
Loved it. Looking at such an ordinary thing in such a ‘Kodak moment’ kind of way.
GETTING THE MOST GREASE
Loud and proud,
pounding the poems out
like a smithy with a chip on his anvil.
The sure way to be noticed
is to make the most noise.
It is your choice, it’s up to you
the squeaky wheel always gets his due!
Wheels
What on earth is it, do you suppose,
about guys and cars? I’m sure I’ll
never be able to understand the
close appeal that seems to render
every masculine personage utterly
speechless in the face of something
that, to me, provides transportation
from one place to the next to the
next. Maybe the reason I hate cars,
or at least don’t adore them, is that
I spend so much time driving one
around from place to place to place
to . . . you get the idea. But, really,
what is the difference between a
serviceable SUV and a Lamborgini?
In the male mind—the difference
between utilitarian and its opposite,
whatever you want to call it today.
EIGHTEEN WHEELS
Four cars
and a motorcycle,
that’s about right.
Diary of a Dervish
The me-ness that is not you.
The part of me I can’t reign in—
like a hive of hornets—
poked. Bouncing off
each other, buzzing in a thousand
different voices
all at once all
the same but different.
Uncapped, untapped energy.
The me-ness that I think back with later,
when I am alone, and
replay those conversations in
my mind.
Realizing the enduring,
the patience you must have
letting me prattle
on about whatever at the time—
not childish—but child-like.
Your nodding in approval
and understanding even as
my swirling swarm
has left you whirling
in the dust, as the
me-ness that is not you
(but perhaps yearns to be, if even for a while)
roils away, agitated energy, in
search of a new target.
The me-ness that is
not you, still trying to win
your approval (as I have my whole life)
must finally come up for air,
allowing the dust
to settle.
And the only tools that my me-ness
(the one that is only me) has
are these words—and
if I can but place them properly
you will come of your own you-ness to
seek me out when
I am not
swarming in your face.
Ellen Knight
This brilliant piece comes with its own mood. EXCELLENT, Ellen.
Thank you so much for the specific feed back!
Day 19
11-19-12
Prompt: Wheel
Forever, Amen
Seasons roll over,
world revolves.
What goes around,
comes around.
Endless wedding band,
life’s circle.
Death and resurrection,
eternal life.
RE-INVENTING THE WHEEL
They call me “Renaissance Man”.
I laughed when friends saddled me with that name.
I’m the guy they’ve always known, the same
soft-spoken poet, slightly broken and on the mend.
But there are a few modifications in the works,
for this one who in poetic circles lurks.
Diet and exercise are the thugs that lurk
in the dark alley waiting for me. Baiting me to become the man
who is leaner and living cleaner. I hope it works.
I’d just and soon change my pants size, than my nickname,
since anything with the word “BIG” in it sends
me over the edge. But all the same
it is a necessary adjustment. I’m trading all-beef patties on sesame
seed buns for a more sensible menu. With turkey lurking
I’m working on maintaining life on the back of deep knee bends
and friends encouragement to make me a better man.
And cancer can kiss my ass if it thinks it will keep my name
on its insidious “honor roll” any time soon. A return to work
has my head spinning like a Ferris wheel on speed, I need to work
on getting my strength and stamina in line. I’m fine all the same
but I feel tame, not the ferocious fellow, just mellow. I can name
others more fiery that I, but my desire will not fade, left to lurk
in the back of my mind. So this time, I will become the man
who changes all he can and stay within himself. One of those men
who will battle until all the fight is gone. Still, I’m mending
the parts of me long in need of repair. It is there where I will work
on re-inventing who I am, this supposed “Big Wheel” kind of man,
(no big deal in my mind). I find that I am still the same
clown who insists on penning poetry and will lurk
in writing circles where I can reestablish my name.
What’s in a name?
Despite all these flaws I plan to mend,
I will stand strong against maladies that lurk
in my depleting shadow, and continue to work
on getting well. You can tell I remain the same
guy who’s starting to believe he is a “Renaissance Man”.
Just a man; the same face and name,
on the mend to become the same kind of guy he’s always been,
with all new working parts who will lurk around life a while longer.
A brand new “wow.” And this? This is key: “the man who changes all he can and stay within himself.”
Stay within yourself. We count on it.
Is this your real story? If so, WOW.
Poor Cover
Hunkered down,
taking aim through spokes,
a bullet
takes his life.
Wagon wheels make poor cover
except in movies.
Breakdown
We were haring through Hartford late at night
when something sharp reared up from the dark earth
leaving us on the hard shoulder trying
to change a tire without getting hit
while our friend just gave up and called a cab.
Nowadays I wonder about symbols
and if maybe it’s just our destiny
to be laughing on the side of the road
because we’re too proud to admit defeat
and no one else remembers we exist.
Wheel Sowwy
Hewe’s a wed wose
I’m wheel wheel sowwy
I’m sad and I cwy
Because I had speech thewapy
Oh, I thought it was a “Fuddian Slip”
lol yeah I couldn’t think of his name
I wheelwy, wheelwy wike it!
lol
POPPING WHEELIES
Once a Huffy Angel,
banana seat, low-rider,
sissy bar reaching skyward,
my father preaching the dangers
of such a monstrosity,
and me secure in my pomposity
riding on the double-forked “chopper”.
The bald “slick” in the back
was right for traction action.
Getting the front tire off the ground
was the treat. It was truly neat
until the lugs came loose
and raised my voice two octaves!
lmao been there done that!
SPOKE WHEELS AND BASEBALL CARDS
Chatter and flapping,
spinning and grinning at the sound.
The wheels go around,
the faster your pedaled,
the louder you “motor” revved.
It was cool then, but from what I know now,
this fool lost some major jack
on the Mantle card mounted in the rear.
But, your should have heard
how loud Mickey hummed!
Laughing out loud!
Roundabout
He couldn’t say the words,
so he showered her with kisses.
He couldn’t say the words,
so he brought her little gifts.
He couldn’t say the words,
but he was there when times were rough.
He couldn’t say the words,
but his constant presence warmed her heart.
He couldn’t say the words,
but he would protect her with his life.
He couldn’t say the words,
even when he was old and gray.
He couldn’t say the words,
but she knew he loved her.
He couldn’t say the words,
because he was a dog.
OH! too sweet! My doggy’s getting gray and i can’t stand the thought of him getting older….
Wheels
11/19/12
The wheels of time spin faster
the more years you add.
Milestones of celebration,
birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays,
become a blur.
Is God speeding up the clock,
or does it just seem so?
I’ll be glad when time is no more.
When I can sit on a log to visit
an old or new friend
and not be bound by
the wheels of time.
AT THE HELM (poem for children)
While at the helm of Daddy’s boat,
A storm begins to brew.
Big waves come in – they rock us hard –
But I know what to do.
I’m at the helm of Daddy’s boat,
But he shows no concern.
He knows he’s taught me very well –
I know it bow to stern.
I’m at the helm of Daddy’s boat,
I’m strong and have no fear.
I bravely guide us through the storm
Until we’re in the clear.
While at the helm of Daddy’s boat,
I shout out, “All aboard!”
He lets me steer it ALL the time
As long as it is moored.
I love this Marie!! It is just perfect! Love the ending! The style reminds me of a Robert Louis Stevenson poem.
What Michelle said!
I like it a lot. Grew up sailing on my daddy’s boat so all the fun and scary emotions here were all the more palpable. Love the twist. Well done!
You guys are so sweet! Thanks much!!
The Pup
Amazing as it was to watch,
The pup seemed more amazed,
For every time he dropped the ball,
The ball just rolled away.
On down the hill,
Oh, what a thrill,
He wagged the whole way down.
Raced and raced,
To end the chase,
And clutch it in his mouth.
Over and over and over again,
The pup seemed full a joy,
At having found a playmate,
In this automated toy.
But what a shame,
To need this game,
To be the one and only.
How would it feel,
To make the wheel,
Just because you’re lonely?
###
Awww! Cute poem – sad ending. Great rhythm and rhyme throughout !
The NeverEnding Saga
The Wheel spins ever on
Taking its characters from one country to the next
One Way or another
Spinning a tale too large to take in
Capturing its visitors with prophecy and intrigue
Description of splendid palaces and humble villages
Men and women of Power
Villains masquerading as heroes
Heroes found among villagers, wolves, and savages
Love entanglements and hatreds running deep
From one Age into the next
He held us captive even beyond his death
The NeverEnding Saga ends this January
Much to our anticipated dismay
Cart-wheels in the Sky
Dear little child, you don’t know it yet
A moment to you is simply a breath
A necessary means
To reach The Beckoning ahead
Moments spiral and gleam
A subtly disguised requiem
Wheeling through your thought
To the melody of a dream
You do not hear the rush
Of time moan in the autumn hush
Pushing to an ever-expanding hollow
Disguised by living’s underbrush
Reels of pleasure and pain
Glimmer through Time’s ephemeral vein
Children become women and men
In its rising-falling refrain
Run, dear little child, run
Your intangible deliverance has begun
Into the vexing arms of life
And the jaws of the waning sun
Nay fly, dear little child, I say fly
Cart-wheel on clouds in a neon sky
Lest your Moment deflates
And your dream-well runs dry
Oh, Janet — this is just so lovely in every way. You amaze me!
JaneRuth,
Beautiful!
JR, Ditto above!
Wow, really lovely Janet!
Flying Jenny
The idea must have come
from one of our parents
but when it took root
in our girls club, The Sunflowers,
it was our own and we took after it
like a bulldog to a bone.
We claimed an old piece of farm machinery
lying abandoned in the weeds.
Our Uncle Jim, who often helped us
with his tools, cut the axle in half so we could
have a big wheel, about three feet in diameter,
with the half axle as stem.
After procuring Pappap’s permission,
we proceeded to dig a hole under his willow,
not too deep, but deep enough.
Then my sister and I took Sunflower money,
walked the mile to the feed mill
and bought a sack of cement.
It was twenty pounds or so
and we paced ourselves, counting
out the steps and taking turns
carrying our burden back to Pappap’s
where the oldest of us mixed it up,
put the axle in the hole and let it set.
We painted the wheel from leftover paints
in Pappap’s basement: mostly blues, greens
and whites avoiding his beloved battleship gray
and had Uncle Jim make us some
wooden seats so the metal spokes
wouldn’t wear ridges in our bottoms.
When the cement was set, the paint dry,
we gave the wheel a spin
and eureka it worked!
We took turns riding and spinning
till the trees, the road, the houses all blended
together in a smear of colors.
The kids passing by on the school bus
were inquisitive when they saw our Flying Jenny
and some even came for a country visit to try it out.
We whirled about on our wheel until we got older
and didn’t notice when it became so neglected
Papap dug it up and threw it away.
Connie,
What a fun story!
Indeed! I love your family stories, and the details you give. Rather sad ending, but the memories obviously live on richly. Nicely done!
Great story Connie! Love it.
Connie, you dredged up childhood memories with this, of things my brother, our neighbors, and I played and played with and invented while growing up together. Thanks. = )
Wheel
Everyone keeps talking about
the invention of the wheel
but I want to know
who invented the axle
and what makes it possible
for one wheel to share its travels
with another
and not just be
another
rolling
stone
*
The wheel in the sky
keeps on turning
like an old clock
before digital
and who wouldn’t think
we humans are the teeth
in the gears
of time
but I want to know
what winds us up each day
and how do we remind them
not to forget
and never to
stop
*
One must have the mind of a wheel
to live on a round earth
under a dome of infinite stars
I like this, especially the first strophe
love this – so happy!
Wheel
My arms spread wide,
my children at my side,
we fly through the field
the grass passes by
and cerulian sky
as we whirl and wheel
and spin and dive
and laugh and
grin
and
spin.
Diana Terrill Clark
Diana, this just exudes happiness! LOVE it!
lovely
Thank you so much ladies! <3