Quick note: I realize quite a few of you are having historic posting problems with this blog. If you fall under this category, I hope I’ve found a (hopefully) short-term solution by using the Writer’s Digest Forum. Beginning with today’s prompt, I’ll start a new thread for each day’s poem. Click here for the Day 8 prompt thread.
Today’s prompt comes from Daniel Ari.
Here’s Daniel’s prompt: Talk back to a dead poet. Choose a poem you like by a poet who is no longer living and offer a rebuttal. Dickinson’s line, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” is just begging for a response. Maybe, unlike Shakespeare, your lover’s face is EXACTLY like the sun. And don’t we all have something we’d like to say to Sylvia Plath?
Robert’s attempt at a talk back to a dead poet prompt:
“Before the Light”
“Traveling through the dark I found a deer/dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.” – William Stafford “Traveling Through the Dark”
And you stopped, not for the deer, but other
folks you hoped to save. The dead doe waiting
to roll or be rolled, you lowered your lights
and felt the fawn, not alive and not dead–
not yet. Yet, there was nothing left to be
done but push them both into the river,
and maybe we’re all faced with these moments
alone, afraid to ask God what to do
until after everything’s been done.
*****
Thank you, Daniel Ari, for the super prompt! Click here to learn more about Daniel.
And remember: If you have trouble commenting here, check out the thread for Day 8 on the WD Forum to avoid the frustration of trying to post multiple times.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Only 50 left!
Make a Name for Yourself premium collection kit of the month for November.
Day 8
Prompt: Talk back to a dead poet. Choose a poem and offer rebuttal.
Reply to Emily D.’s “I’m Nobody”
You wrote those words believing
you were nobody and would remain
such, obscure and safe.
What a fuss would surprise you
if you showed up today and your name
rolled off the tongues of everyone
seeking to impress you at parties
where anybody who was somebody
gathered in admiring clumps in your “bog.”
Original poem:
old pond…
a frog leaps in
water’s sound
– Matsuo Basho (translated by William Higginson)
My response:
old pond…
after the frog
only ripples
Oh, William!
Oh, William, metaphor is gone from view
Your sonnet is with snickers lately sent.
The Moderns now make mince-meat out of you.
Computers now make ‘summer’s day’ a vent.
Oh, William , where must soulful poet step?
The Moderns have no heart for thoughts of love
They know not of pentameter, those shleps
or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.
Now, rhyme, they say must be a gambler’s chance.
And all the words, wired, juxtaposed through air;
the line is not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, each poet shares.
“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each bard copies other like a hawk.
Come on now, a
Raven?
I think you could have given more
Thought to originality.
I mean your other poems shout
Quality. On the other hand the form is
Uniquely well poeish,
Each line dripping darkness.
Rebuttal
From what I’ve tasted of desire / I hold with those who favor fire. – Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice”
You think earth and all its
impressionable people will
end in flames of passion,
something insurmountably
precious, forged like a steel
blade in the furnace of
want. I disagree, and here
is why: fire cannot burn
forever, and when it smolders
cold, in flickering embers
and suffocating ashes, then
the chill will come, the
inevitable icy cold that
freezes any hope of passion
or remembered warmth far
into the blistering future
and prevents even the most
determined little embers
from burning, living, again.
In Answer to Dickinson’s line, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?”
I am a child of the King,
bought back from the slave market of sin.
I am a servant of the Most High God,
created in His image, for His good pleasure.
I am known and planned
long before I breathed my first breath.
I am loved beyond measure,
kept by His power.
I am His beloved
and He is mine.
I am looking for His return
on that great and glorious day.
Thank you for the excellent prompt, Daniel….and to everyone else prompting and writing as well. Smiles and happy writing!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/09/day-eight-answers-for-you-mary-oliverin-haiku/
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 8
Talk back to a dead poet
Written to Matsuo Basho
“Oh! skylark for whose carolling
The livelong day sufficeth not”
Sing Into Dreams
Oh! to keep writing
Filling pages with my thoughts
Persisting through dreams
Left Behind
Moonlight tumbles beside
the ancient road in China.
A child left by her parents
by the river to die is crying.
Why didn’t you stop to help
this young girl, Basho?
So many times it is hard
to decipher another’s land,
another’s tragedy.
CUMMINGS AND GOINGS
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
- e.e. cummings
I have sprouted like a wildflower
in a summer patch of green,
stretching tall in the happy sun.
I have wilted and drooped,
a sad, forgotten weed in the
midst of a dry, lonely winter.
And I have shriveled to dust,
a speck in the breeze that carries
away what is left of me.
And still I remain – weed and wildflower,
ash and seed, underfoot and in the air
as you breathe in a lung full of hope and promise.
A very moving and poignant poem–well written and beautiful.
“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky.” John Masefield “Sea Fever”
the sea’s come up,
swamping dock and pier
lashing road and foundation
covering us in salt and foam.
it’s torn off rocks, beams,
walls and pillars
from anchors, roots,nails,
and all that’s held us down.
soon we will be loosed, too,
uprooted and set free,
and into the sea we’ll go;
to the gull’s way,
the whale’s way,
pushed by a wind like a knife.
Excerpts from Ted Hughes’ Lovesong
“He loved her and she loved him ”
“His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to”
“Their little cries fluttered into the curtains”
“In the morning they wore each other’s face.”
Mr. Hughes
Was that the height of your heart’s existence?
Was your future bitter like vinegar as it rolled
in your mouth? Did the past come in separately
like eggs, flour, baking-powder and milk
later blended to bake sweet-bread?
Did the room’s frame also quiver
in the light of morning, like an inmate’s
body out of solitary confinement?
Did the afternoon return your countenance
with a sly smile as straps of shadows
hung off daylight’s shoulders
like a ruffled undershirt?
Since I am posting this soooo late, I am going to post today’s poem on my blog at the whatnot shop.
“Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixt”
Shakespeare
What colour is your elusive history
As centuries pass, scholars squabble
To what are you privy
Have you offered hints in your furtive prose?
You remain a mystery
Of whom, nobody quite knows
I am not sure this is really talking back, but I tried… By the way, it is the second poem that meets this prompt. http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/08/365-creativity-project-day-304/
‘With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.’
From “The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus
Colossal Deception
The masses huddled beneath
Her mighty gaze,
Looking out
At the maze of streets and wires,
With hope
As the dream of the New World,
A new life,
With new desires,
Is dangled just beyond
Their fingertips,
Bringing a slight quiver
To those once silent lips,
Guarding the masses
While they shiver at their reception,
A callous introduction
To new sights and sounds—
Machines pounding on every floor,
Power just out of reach,
Whistles and horns and bells—
This is simply another hell
In a new place,
Similar almost to the tyranny
Just escaped, but more invasive,
And faceless,
Unlike the deceptive statue
That so eagerly welcomed them
From foreign shores,
Only to turn her back
Once they reached hers;
A cruel ruse played
On those who seek refuge,
But crueler still to the lady,
An artifice of forced performance,
Made a fool by those
She represents
A Message from the Owner
a response to Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
I know you know I own this wood,
And yes, the view is awfully good
When snowflakes fall on wintry nights
On land where birches long have stood.
If you had only looked, you’d find
A wooden “No Trespassing” sign,
Hung in plain sight upon the fence
That serves as my dividing line.
From this day forth I would prefer
To keep my privacy secure,
So find another road to take,
But first, clean up your horse manure!
“No Reluctance, Mr. Frost”
Hell, no, I will not acquiesce and
see my life with reluctance.
The view from the hill is still fine,
quite clear now with leaves off the vine.
Dead leaves may dance on the path you wend,
but I shall crush them to spice the dish I tend.
“Whither” your feet have carried you away?
My feet will dance and rejoice in the day.
I think this is a wonderful response. Nice cadence.
Dear Robert: I Agree
Fire, ice, what does it matter?
When it happens, we’ve all had ’er.
Firenza (for Gaspara Stampa – Italian Sonnet)
What if this fire be straw and flame?
Should we say this flame was wasted,
now these remains of loves we’ve tasted
whose lips burned and turned to blame?
By these embers, we’re not the same
as when this blaze is stoked and naked
and by its tongues we’re licked and tested.
If virtue should be born from torment
then virtue be your robes again
The memory of bonfire is not sin.
with ash we wash our bodies clean.
Never spend one night’s lament,
nor repent the burn you’ve earned, so keen.
Gaspara Stampa (1523 – 23 April 1554)
(small typo corrected)
What if this fire be straw and flame?
Should we say this flame was wasted,
now these remains of loves we’ve tasted
whose lips burned are turned to blame?
By these embers, we’re not the same
as when this blaze is stoked and naked
and by its tongues we’re licked and tested.
If virtue should be born from torment
then virtue be your robes again
The memory of bonfire is not sin.
with ash we wash our bodies clean.
Never spend one night’s lament,
nor repent the burn you’ve earned, so keen.
Wow, I left out an entire line on the first stanza – oops!
Firenza (for Gaspara Stampa – Italian Sonnet)
What if this fire be straw and flame?
Should we say this flame was wasted,
now these remains of loves we’ve tasted
whose lips burned are turned to blame?
By these embers, we’re not the same
as when this blaze is stoked and naked
and by its tongues we’re licked and tested
and by each test the flesh laid claim.
If virtue should be born from torment
then virtue be your robes again
The memory of bonfire is not sin.
with ash we wash our bodies clean.
Never spend one night’s lament,
nor repent the burn you’ve earned, so keen.
For Gaspara Stampa (1523 – 23 April 1554)
Embrace the softening of that good night.
(with love for my own father who stepped from this world beyond and with enormous honor for the great Dylan Thomas as I encourage him to rewrite his reflection on his leave-taking)
*********
Do go gentle into that good night
Old age should bank and calm at the gentle close of day
Embrace the softness of the quieting of the glare of light
Though wise men at their end know dark is right
Because their words had forked righteous lightning they
Can and must go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave bye
Sighing smiling how strong their deeds danced in a green bay
Embrace, embrace the softening of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight
And learned early on they savored each sunbeam on its way
Run to embrace the softening of the light.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight.
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay.
Embrace, celebrate the softening of the light.
And you, my father there on that magnificent height.
Sing to me now with your moist eyes, I pray.
Help me let you go gentle into that good night
Embrace embrace the coming of the gentle arms of dying light.
After fourteen attempts to post this paltry offering – I was bounced back to the first poem by Walt … OMG as our young’uns might say. Firstly that of course, as so often happens, Walt and I tune into the same frequency … but oh my goodness Walt your take was sheer genius – while frustrated with the attempting posting and in a bit of a funk from the day – you put a huge smile on my face… So dear sir – I apologize, but you shall not suffer a wit from any comparison. Brilliant work. Bravo! and thanks for the smile! Now if I can post this….I will be filled with gratitude and call it a good night!
Wonderful tribute Pearl.
Your first one. Appreciate the second one!
Forever, John?
“A thing of beauty,”
You say, John,
“Is a joy forever,”
But when it’s gone,
Where are you left?
What do you do?
Is the beautiful
Always true?
Say it’s fickle
And darts away.
What then? Do your
Affections stay?
And what if forever
Is just too long?
Can you hear
The same old song
The same old way
Year after year?
It loses beauty,
John, I fear.
Perhaps the beauty
That you saw
Can’t be seen
By eyes so raw
And mean as mine.
Perhaps yours are
More pure than these
By large and far.
Did you mean those
Words you wrote?
Are they true
For me to quote?
Eternal beauty
And joy without end
Seem far away,
John, my friend.
Richard Brautigan wrote “30 Cents, 2 Transfers, Love”
I reply with:
INFLATION
(A Haiku for Richard Brautigan)
(c) G. Smith
—————-
Bus fares have risen
Twenty-fold, but the cost of
love remains unchanged.
The News
“It is difficult to get the news from poems,
yet men die miserably every day
for lack of what is found there.”
― William Carlos Williams
Doc, it’s even worse today
when some of us get
our “news” from sources
that tell us we are
the bee’s knees,
and everyone else is scum,
that art is for
women and faggots
and we should buy
the latest pickup truck,
home security system,
prescription drug.
We’d rather watch
housewives behaving badly
than study the nuances
of the veins on a leaf,
or the brushstrokes
of a late Van Gogh.
And poems – well,
they’re just too hard,
aren’t they?
You have to dig
to get their news,
the deeper message,
the cellular charges
of connections,
opening the senses
like a barn door
swinging out on
an autumn morning.
But so many walk on by
not becoming richer
for the revelations,
unaware that “news”
means what is truly new,
a fresh perspective,
a metaphor dancing,
a lovely alliterative,
an image to stop the breath.
We need news that says,
not “Close your eyes”,
but “See”.
“Some day, when John Berryman meets Graffiti 6”
“Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.”
– John Berryman, Dream Song 14
“With a stone in my heart, I stood up and I got strong.”
– Graffiti 6
This battle,
waged so plainly on paper,
and
finally lost,
sent
echos | echos
into this world,
my world,
blown apart by loss,
and eyes
which had become bored with color
somehow seemed to notice
blue
blue
blue.
Horizons.
I’d like to know what this whole show
is all about before it’s out.
— Piet Hein
And so would I, my friend – it’s true –
every bit as much as you.
— PSC
Be My Guest, Mr. Frost
By now you know these woods are mine.
I watched you from not far behind
as you were pondering the snow
and I, the county easement line.
My village isn’t far from here,
but there I see no foxes, deer,
no horses stopping just to rest
at this or any time of year.
Next time you stop, may I suggest
you walk to where the view is best.
The air is clean, the climb is steep,
the sights breathtaking. Be my guest.
I come here nightly in my sleep
into these woods so dark and deep,
so beautiful I almost weep,
so beautiful I sometimes weep.
Well folks, I was trying to comment on each and every poem, but at this rate it will take me until midnight. What fabulous poetry Daniel’s prompt beckoned!
It’s been a crazy day. I LOVE Daniel’s prompt, and I finally got one done:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/08/swearing-by-flowers-arguing-with-cummings/
Rebuttal to Emily Dickinson’s “I’m nobody! Who are you?
Poet-in-Transit
A poet-in-transit is my self-proclaimed label.
I go up to the mic every time that I’m able.
My poems are not deep; in fact, they’re quite funny.
I won’t be terribly upset if they bring in some money.
I’m not pretty like Taylor or sexy like Britney.
If anyone stalks me, it’ll be for my kidneys.
So the problem with fame is an issue deferred.
I just want everyone to fall in love with my words.
Kudos for the prompt, Daniel. ^^
“If anyone stalks me, it’ll be for my kidneys.”
LOL!
I have eaten
the plums…
…which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast…
William Carlos Williams
You Are On Notice
I was keeping
those plums
which you ate
last night
to slice
thinly and place on
the top
of a tart
In an hour
we will be having
tea with
your mother
Thanks Robert, this is an especially fun prompt! So many great responses!
Sonja, I laughed as soon as I read your title. Fun, creative response!
“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.” ~ Henry David Thoreau
~and on her marker~
‘twas ink that flowed through every vein -
the doggerel that bled, urbane.
From love and life she did abstain,
a narcissist, and all in vain
a narcissist, and all in vain.
Love the embedded music and the repetition at the end–well penned!
Be sure to go fiercely toward this evil day
(Can You Guess to Which Poem This One Is the Rebuttal?)
Be sure to go fiercely toward this evil day
Young ones shouldn’t tarry or yawn as night ends;
Cheer, cheer for the dawning of the ways
Fools at the beginning are unaware the light is grey,
Since they have struck on some dullness still it sends
Be sure to go fiercely toward this evil day
Bad women, the first wave by, laughing now all the way
Their strong works may be crawled to if one only bends,
Cheer, cheer for the dawning of the ways.
Tame women who lost then lamented the moonbeam’s ray,
Knew soon to cheer the orb wherever it wends,
Be sure to go fiercely toward this evil day.
Jolly women, quite young, blind with insight grey
Clear eyed saw steadily like children or peahens,
Cheer, cheer for the dawning of the ways.
And I, my mother, here upon this glorious clay
Bless, cuss, you now with my gentle chuckles, you say.
Be sure to go fiercely toward this evil day.
Cheer, cheer for the dawning of the ways.
The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars.
Sylvia Plath
The Day after You Were Gone
Stars fade in dawn’s light
outside the kitchen window,
now clear of the gasses
that killed you.
Your children look out the window
and cry for you,
for you are no longer a star in the sky,
no longer the light,
only a dark shadow of your demise.
Every morning for them
promises to carry a degree of sadness
about the morning you executed your demise,
when you sealed the kitchen,
turned on the gas
knelt in front of the oven
and said your last prayer,
while you acted to accept the fate
you always felt you deserved.
Dear Dorothy
With your unsentimental eye,
and that firecracker wit,
I would’ve been a goner,
especially as I prize
brains and humor
highest.
I would’ve followed you around,
as would a puppy dog,
waiting for you
to see me as more.
Were that the case,
I might’ve broken through,
and with my feelings
reciprocated,
you might’ve changed
course,
and all the classic verse,
the tales of unrequited love,
might have gone
unwritten.
It’s best
that we never met,
except in the
pages of a book,
for if you loved me
way I loved you
there’d be
no need
for your
longing and poignant
poetry,
and perhaps
as you entertained
my petitions,
I might’ve even
made you laugh,
and that would be
a gift
only the cosmos
would be able
to summon.
What a romantic heart you have, Buddah. Love this!
“r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r”
-e.e. cummings
I have to say,
I have no words.
Apparently, neither do you.
What did you mean when you
ran words and letters together
like a torrent of liquid water?
Are words to be written to be understood
or does some of your pleasure
come from knowing that
the next person who picks up your books
will be doing so hanging from the ceiling
and holding your book upside down?
Brilliance, they say,
is a spark of recognition that the
world is one big equation.
We are the variables while the breeze, the
seas, the wonder of the sky
are the constants.
You touch the chaos
that wants to escape from the tip of your pencil.
You hold it at arm’s length
just to show it you can.
And yet,
when I try,
f-u-c-s-n-o-n-i-o
we (star)e at the
COLd,
left
right
words wrITten (10) on your page,
it spills out in a way only a mother could love.
Put that one on the fridge…
Chaos.
Just simply chaos.
THIS.IS.BRILLIANT. LOVE IT!
HAHA! He’s my fave, and I.Love.This. I only understand 10% of his poems. This is fantastic, JRS.
“Is there no way out of the mind?” – Syliva Plath, “Apprehensions”
She breathed in nevertheless dust,
demon fingers plaiting cloven sorrow
through her thoughts but she
could see the bread crumbs
through the forest, and they tugged
and begged her calmly back home.
~Misky
Great images and imagination shown throughout your poem.
A Candle In the Dark,
In response to The Door In The Dark: Robert Frost
A candle lit would have shown the way
Or better still, Tom Edison would say
Find the switch, that’s on the wall
And light the way on down the hall
And save your head from jarring blow.
And things would pair again, you know.
LOVE this prompt.
Me too.
Three
“Tell Me, Mr. Frost”
I thought I would give this poem a go
by chatting with Henry David Thoreau
yet found my mind stuck on your fateful road
pondering consequence we can’t forego.
So now, in place of a Walden talk
I find myself with you on a walk
traveling through another lush wood
to contemplate how choices unlock.
Did you ever, in days of old
wonder how the story’d be told
if you made a different opt
and down the other path you strolled?
Have you since this crossroad revisited
and to yourself honestly admitted
you truly wouldn’t change a single step
even if second chance was permitted?
Oh tell me, won’t you please, Mr. Frost
do you think something could’ve been lost
or do you consider fate leads home
and remain unconcerned of its cost?
Well executed! Loved the walk through the past.
i write this with only the utmost fondness for my fellow PADsters, the PADmasters.
YOU SHAKESPEARE, ME JANE.
To Walt and others, Marie Elena,
Robert (of course) what the hell’s a sestina?
Daniel, of me you’re miles ahead
since Dr. Seuss (I THINK he’s dead)
is pretty much the only “poet”
freely found where my brain might know it.
I’d love to share the kindred smiles
you Real Live Poets share in styles,
like tantric—NO, TANKA!—(my face is pink!)
so many more than I can think.
Of course I’ve heard of sonnets, haiku
(that I’ve no idea of how to do)
so I’ll show my ignorance instead
by answering what the Doctor said
and skip the box and fox and such
since Sam’s answers don’t matter much,
and take them, green or blue or red,
I’ll have my eggs and ham in bed.
Thank you.
Julie this is FABULOUS! I feel so, so honored to be included!!
Walt is the Sestina King. Personally, it takes me about a week to write just one.
I’m seven of eight this November, but I plan to catch up to bring my batting average up.
i’m just trying to be okay with my ignorance, as i didn’t understand many of these having not studied poetry beyond my “high school in the 70′s” era. You two are definitely part of what i affectionately think of as “The PADmasters!” LOL!
love it!
AS PERSON SUCH AS THIS
You are a good-man;
not a god-man
possibly a man of God,
but good as much as good
is not bad.
You are a kind person.
The kind of person
that is kind to all mankind,
with a mind for forgiveness,
and forged in the fires of truth.
You are a blessed person.
The receiver of many great gifts
given by Him who has made you
the kind of man, the kind of person
He always expected of you.
You are a loving person
who by the nature of your love
is loved in return. A yearning to be
what hearts and souls aspire to be.
Bonded in the love of love.
You are a giving person,
a generous man who offers
his time and mind, his logic,
his cents (in lieu of dollars)
and ask for nothing in return.
And as such, you are a respected man.
A man who has earned his bread,
the manna of self worth offered
to a good man, a kind man,
a blessed and loving person,
a respected person in all eyes
until the day he dies.
Pardon my fat fingers: A PERSON SUCH AS THIS
Fast fingers, although….
An amazing piece, Pard. BEAUTIFUL.
Daniel, I love the prompt. What a clever way to get us to reread and share some of our favorites.
Fresh Thoughts on Leafmeal
“It is the blight man was born for…”
Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Spring and Fall, To A Young Child”
No doubt your kindly sympathy, so sweetly coupletted,
expressions like an aged warm hand that patted the head
of young Margaret by the window who insists on weeping
about (so you would tell us) a light wind sweeping
gold leaves from the trees in a pile on the lawn.
Oh, how well you explain being stag to a fawn,
how our yearly encounter with autumnly seasons
can dull every sense we possess with good reasons:
we know we must deal with those leaves, blow or rake,
chop them all into mulch for our lawns’ greening sake.
It might have been useful to Margaret and others
to warn that their futures in leaf management bothers
the shoulders and back, raises blisters on hands—
maybe those tears would prove that the child understands
that nothing so beautiful, blushing or golden,
exists without labor, for hard work can embolden
the lord of the manor or the digger in dirt,
‘the blight man was born for’ is grinding hard work.
There’s no doubt that young Margaret needs now a friend
to explain how to grow up, be true to the end,
but today as I passed, I heard Margaret’s nurse shout,
“Miss, you’re naughty and sneaky and need a time out!”
CYNICUS TO W. SHAKESPEARE (James Kenneth Stephen, 19th Century)
You wrote a line too much, my sage,
Of seers the first, and first of sayers;
For only half the world’s a stage,
And only all the women players.
Perhaps that’s so, but I can only speak
for myself, and not for all my gender.
But ‘ere J. Stephen gives such sly critique,
he thus should ponder, who’s the pretender.
###
My rebuttal is as follows to Stephen Crane’s ‘Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.’
Weep Maiden for the Fallen and Those Who Return
Unpopular was its kindest description,
That outrageous conflict so far away,
With its jungles, guerillas, and death
That came from pits, spikes, and traps
Unseen until a false step took its toll.
Weep, maiden, for the fallen, given little
Choice but to proceed, to follow orders
Or risk all by ignoring commands.
Boys with homes, families, lovers
Fought conditions and enemy
To their last breaths or, like some,
Their last freedom before disappearing
Until release years later for return home.
Weep, maiden, for the fallen, given little
Choice but to proceed, to follow orders
Or risk all by ignoring commands.
Soldiers fighting for freedom of others
In places they’d never known before
Fire bombed, defoliated, ambushed,
Airlifted, swamped under, ridiculed,
Or left behind to find a way home.
Weep, maiden, for the fallen, given little
Choice but to proceed, to follow orders
Or risk all by ignoring commands.
Weep, maiden, more fully for those
Returned to dispassionate reception
Or tirades, unsympathetic doctors,
And misunderstood emotional distress,
For these are ones who suffered the most.
This is a fantastic piece of writing Claudsy, and too, TOOOOO true. So many broken men and women have returned and then left to rot further, because we just do not care enough to reach beyond the one or two individuals we know. This should be required reading in every school, workplace and home. Thank you for sharing this.
A wow, Clauds. Powerful, heart-felt piece.
On A Magazine Sonnet (Russell Hilliard Loines, 19th Century)
“Scorn not the sonnet,” though its strength be sapped,
Nor say malignant its inventor blundered;
The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped
Had otherwise been covered with a hundred.
I would not for the world a sonnet scorn.
A sestina is a much crueler beast,
and ‘though a fourteen line corpse one might mourn,
‘tis easier than thirty-nine, at least.
###
“..don’t overexercise.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on time.
remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50 (in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first…”
-from “How To Be A Great Writer” by Charles Bukowski
.
“Talk to Chuck”
Hearing you.
Would say how lucky
you got, famous,
Hollywood-paid
and all,
but I know
about the medical drills,
horrendous hill to jog
in the rain,
overtime robot work,
and the storms of hair
and hose,
chemical swayed—
you braved it all
without
shoes,
and behind that:
the progenitor
(take all other
words from him
because I couldn’t begin
to summarize your ties).
Famine set the clock
of your life,
but see:
you got permission built in
to talk
as though not even a rusted penny
was at risk
and years later,
your rain dance howling
cut the ribbon
on the highway
of my life’s
work. Here I’m
twenty-five years later
still shedding
the timidity from my words,
letter by letter.
Yet, Chuck,
so you know
I’d give up
the key you gave
me if you’d have just
done
your work
somehow,
with counseling,
with debt consolidation,
gym membership,
and chiropractors
instead of prostitutes,
endorphins instead
of alcohol.
Love
Is a Dog
From Hell—
it changed my life,
but if you’d been
at peace,
I’d give up
the key.
Oh, man. So much to savor in this one. Famine set the clock of your life… Love is a Dog from Hell made a huge impression on me. His unflinching choice of words, arrogance, insight… all tied up in an incredibly messy life. If only I could write like him, but I don’t think I could pay the price of the life he lived. My loss, perhaps. In the meantime, I join you in shedding the timidity of my words, letter by letter. I’m rambling here, but obviously your poem hit home for me. Your compassion at the end names it so well. Thanks.
Wow, glad to share this sense with you Andrew.
Bros in Buko
Writing back at Wendell Berry (who isn’t dead, so I’m already behind the 8-ball)…
“It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work.” (The Real Work)
Our real work
Our real work puts on a hat and knits
outside a café, takes a drag and spits
into the wind, grinning like it can see
something we don’t – about mortality,
futility, about the shoe that fits
so perfectly we love it while it splits
our soul like weathered skin, until it hits
us in this stranger’s gaze – this cannot be
our real work!
And we are empty, scared out of our wits
by ticking clocks, by love, by snake-filled pits
we never chose. The figure strikes a knee
and we both laugh at our absurdity,
and then trade hats, while on the table sits
our real work.
Made two attempts… first two poems that sprung to mind.
I Am Someone
No! I’m someone, this I know,
My mother even told my so.
Where two are gathered in my name,
It’s just the start of my great fame,
How dreary to be nobody,
As similar as frogs,
So what makes me, a somebody?
Just check out all my blogs!
Plastic Tree Revenge
This plastic tree is splendid,
All the birds come to my yard,
Woodpeckers say, “Since when did,
Maple tree bark get so hard?”
Their woeful bird expressions,
are a source of endless laughs,
As I spray a coat of Sevin,
On the real trees and the grass,
Then all the ants and termites,
Use my woodwork for their chow.
I’m going to raise a sure fight,
Watch the bank foreclose me now!
Reverse Etheree (Satire) my answer to
George P Morris’s poem
“WOODMAN, SPARE THE TREE’
I
am the
new woodsman,
the contractor,
project manager
planning best your future.
Here to cut down trees, clear land,
cover it with roads, shops and man,
blot out the sun. You really must know
that a tree is just a tree, it must go.
Its wood could help house a family.
Slash burns will blacken sky and lungs.
Skyscrapers will give you shade.
Lamp post –place for bird’s nest.
Dirt lots for child’s play.
Who needs trees, grass?
“Progress” we’re
doing
here.
Here is the poem that prompted the prompt:
“No, THIS be the verse” in response to Philip Larkin’s “This Be The Verse”
http://imunuri.blogspot.com/2012/10/no-this-be-verse.html
And Michel Poet made a rebuttal to Larkin’s poem too:
http://poems-2-share.blog.co.uk/2012/11/08/a-poetic-rebuttal-to-philip-larkin-15181851/
THE MONOLOGUE OF A SELFLESS SOUL
We stand above the abyss and sealed with a kiss
we take our love for others to another
level. No angel is right, or devil wrong
that in our conscience strong prevails, one
with our hearts and thoughts and the real
sense to listen to the voice inside.
There is no one at your side
to assist you. It’s as if they kissed
you off, another wretched soul with a real
desire to ignite a fire under his brother.
You stand alone, the silent one
with much to say, but you’re wrong
if you think they’ll hear you. Wrong
to feel that all you hold inside
of you is the one
thing you cannot articulate. Your heart has been kissed
by the words of poetic sisters and brothers
who stand clear of the cliff, poised to reel
you in if the decision to leap is made. A real
tragedy when what is right, proves to be the wrong
choice. Lost within your voice is the chorus of others
who lift your selfless soul and resides
within the depths of your caring. A heart kissed
by the tender refrain of these poetic ones.
Offer your solution so that every one
knows your intent. Do not lament or feel
the need rebel. You know darn well that you’ve been kissed
by fate’s tender lips. There is nothing wrong
with standing your ground. Reach inside
and give from all you have for the sake of others.
Hold this truth above all others.
You begin the process; you are the one
who will share the life you keep inside
of your loving heart. You can feel
things changing, and know that right or wrong,
the abyss cannot consumed what love has kissed.
The kiss of true love is given to another,
it is not wrong to offer your heart to one in need.
The real deed dwells inside the truth you offer.
Yay, Walt!
I KNEW you would have a lot to say, and so appreciate your flow today.
Buddy, you served up a great one today. The dam has burst and the flow is most welcomed. Thanks for that, Daniel.
Oops, lost the last line.
TAKING HER BACK
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
- Sylvia Plath, “The Arrival of the Bee Box”
Black cat, Possum, adopted from the shelter –
we brought her home, she disappeared through a slit
in the box-springs lining. I would have taken her back
but she emerged to curl in a purr on my lap.
Years later she disappeared of old age, to return,
sometimes, as shadow.
Then there was Piper, little bitch
puppy who chewed out of her crate in cargo,
Sacramento to Maine; who placed a map
of that flight on our bed, as reminder. Impossible
dog who still visits my dreams, so I wake up
calling her back.
And now this impossible puppy, Loki – all
leap, grinning teeth, grabbing paws. She understands
every word we say. Lying on her back now,
offering me her chest; quieting as I stroke the fierce
heart under fur. Isn’t it the difficult ones who
teach us the most?
Love this. Especially relate to puppy lovin’
“fierce / heart under fur.” Mm!
Brought a smile and a tear to the poem–one of love and lost of our small fur friends. Enjoyed every stanza but the first was my favorite.
TAKING HER BACK
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
- Sylvia Plath, “The Arrival of the Bee Box”
Black cat, Possum, adopted from the shelter –
we brought her home, she disappeared through a slit
in the box-springs lining. I would have taken her back
but she emerged to curl in a purr on my lap.
Years later she disappeared of old age, to return,
sometimes, as shadow.
Then there was Piper, little bitch
puppy who chewed out of her crate in cargo,
Sacramento to Maine; who placed a map
of that flight on our bed, as reminder. Impossible
dog who still visits my dreams, so I wake up
calling her back.
And now this impossible puppy, Loki – all
leap, grinning teeth, grabbing paws. She understands
every word we say. Lying on her back now,
offering me her chest; quieting as I stroke the fierce
heart under fur. Isn’t it the difficult ones who
“
“Recuerdo by Edna St. Vincent Millay
We were very tired, we were very merry
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
Ah, yes, the merry ferry where some guy starts playing
An accordian and some other folk share a gallon of wine
So when you arrive on the other side you don’t want
To stop dancing because everything is so merry on
The ferry and it’s just back and forth until no one
Can remember which side they wanted to get off on
And you can’t remember the side you started from
Either. Yes, you all are getting a bit tired but that
Guy with the music keeps on playing and the wine
Hasn’t run out yet so back and forth you go until
The darn boat runs out of gas.
Love this, Marianv. Millay’s is one of my favorite poems, too, and it feels like you’ve really expanded that roaring 20s sense of abandon she sparks.
DYING TO JOIN THE CLUB?
(a shadorma)
I wonder
if you knew you would
one day be
part of the
Dead Poets Society.
And…who will join you?
Evntually each and every one of you! Then we poem in heaven. Or…
Great poem that leaves the reader with a question to ponder.
Love and an Answer
in answer to Robert Frost’s “Love and a Question”
A stranger came to our door last night
He bespoke my husband true
His stick in hand, he was a fright
What he wanted, well, I had a clue
He looked weary and so footsore,
needing shelter from the storm
That’s why he came then to our door
where we were safe and warm.
My husband went outside to speak
to the stranger by and by
I saw the weather, dark and bleak
I saw the darkened sky.
I saw the yard with branches strewn
and leaves and litter cluttered
on this the night of our honeymoon,
our windows fast and shuttered.
I went to tend the fire then
and bent to add some tinder.
The fire warmed my face again
and the fresh wood caught a cinder.
Outside my husband looked about
considering the heather
And I could see his lingering doubt
about the stormy weather.
I knew he might consider it right
to send the stranger onward
with food and coin to ease his plight
and then feel sorry afterward.
I called them both to sit by the fire
and take a warming meal
Compassion can true love inspire
and all misgivings heal.
Diana Terrill Clark
I posted the original Frost poem on my blog. Clicky on “Domino” above, and it will take you straightaway. ^_^
To The Daffodils
It comes as no surprise
Such wonderful imagery
From a country so beautiful
The grass so green,
The country roads meandering
The majestic oaks and willows
Adorning roadsides and the
Gently rolling landscape
And then a sudden host of golden daffodils
In dance along the margin of a bay
Adds to the glory of the imagery
Makes me fall in love with the words,
The never-failing blessing
Of enjoying the daffodils
When they flash upon that inward eye
Bringing up sweet memories
Of a by-gone day or
By-gone people even
Some more loved than others
Creating ripples in the mind
Of joy and sorrow
Both the gist of life.
Mar-ga-ret, Gerard Has Just Forgotten
Mar-ga-ret
the man has
been inside
too long
to remember
the joys
of running
barefoot in dewy
July grass
under the long
sun or swimming
in a mild pond
with laughing
friends who
don’t want anything
but fun. He
sees you crying
as leaves
fall down
and tries to stop
your tears
with a flood
of verbal invention,
but he even
makes your name
fall a syllable
at a time
like leaf-meal
flutter. Go ahead
and grieve, child.
Then, stand
outside, open
your mouth
catch snowflakes
on your tongue.
Great take on the prompt–enjoyed reading your poem. Also enjoyed the way it flowed down the page.
Hi everyone,
Just a note – not sure if this matters or not, but I use Firefox and the maximum amount of attempts I have had posting is 5. Today they are going on the first try. Just thought I would share in case it makes a difference. Have a great day everyone. Michelle
I honestly don’t understand the frustrations. Most times, it goes through on the first try. If I get the “posting too quickly” message I just hit refresh and resend and it usually goes through on the 2nd or 3rd time…using Internet Explorer as well as Firefox.
Mostly I use Firefox, and sometimes IE. I nearly always have trouble posting here anymore, and sometimes have gone over 20 attempts.
“Let us then be up and doing.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life
A Psalm of Flu
Let us then be up and doing
Sorry Henry not today
I’m so sick I feel like dying
So it’s in my bed I’ll stay.
Awww, poor Connie!!
(But cute poem) Get better!!
13:42
Your seven part oration
takes too long to read
so a standing ovation
with Bruce singing lead
will suit me just fine.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Homeward Bound
“Where Go the Boats”? Robert Louis Stevenson
You sent them down the river
when you were young of heart.
Pass mill, valley and hill,
thinking forever to be apart.
Thinking other children
would bring them ashore.
Did you know you were right?
I once had four.
I wondered where they came from,
what stories they could tell?
I shared them with my friends,
we fell under their spell.
I reach for your little boat,
now I’m old and bent.
Heading home together
after a life well spent.
Michelle, this is just outstanding. Find a home for it.
Thanks Marie!
A LITTLE BEHIND
edward, your works inspire,
but they move too slow for me
to keep them in tow.
why must they tarry?
i will carry them if you’d let me,
but that’ll get me in trouble
if i double up too many poems.
they have to be in front of me
so i can see that they stay
out of the fray. they offer
persistence in their resistance.
i carry your poems.
i carry them in my heart.
**”if you like my poems let them”~ e. e. cummings
This prompt suits you, Sir Walt.
Agree with Marie Elena. Always enjoy a poem that can make me smile.
Wake, butterfly -
it’s late, we’ve miles
to go together.
- Basho
I am with you,
Basho, awakening
to life.
Simply beautiful, Andrea.
Aha–another haiku lover–great one!
Trees – Aftermath
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
Unless the tree is but a mess
and downed (in Jersey) I confess.
(After Trees, Joyce Kilmer [1886 – 1918])
###
Good one RJ. Love it and sorry for the mess.
Awww, sweet RJ … so fun, yet so sad. Hang in there.
Conversing with Robert, part 2
The road not taken
worked for you.
I simply got lost.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Ha ha ha – love it! Thanks for the laugh.
Teeheehee!
Good one!
Conversing with Robert
Sir, I’ll agree that leaves
no longer on trees
are still wonderfully light,
though not quite as bright,
but one must be obtuse
to say they’ve “next to nothing for use”
if ever one has watched children play.
Gathering Leaves by Robert Frost
this was sweet and cute !
Smiles !
I simply love this!
Love this, Rob. LOVE it.
Chasin’ Dreams
From The Black Riders
XXIV
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never – ”
“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.
~Stephen Crane (1871 – 1900)
“Wait!” I cried, “It’s just surprisin’.
Think that you can reach horizon?!”
But that man continued chasin’
all those dreams he’d been embracin’.
If I coulda finished speakin’,
woulda told him, “Keep on seekin’,
even if it’s all out-pacin’
all those dreams you’ve been embracin’.
Instead, he told me that I lied.
He coulda took my words in stride
and not have thought I was debasin’
all those dreams he’d been embracin’.
To chase horizons? Heaven knows.
I much prefer to chase rainbows.
You can never…know what’s facin’
all those dreams we’ve been embracin’.
###
RJ, you are simply brilliant. What a great way to TRULY respond to the prompt. Wow.
Hope, Wings and Flying Things
By: Meena Rose
Oh, sweet Emily, would that I can
Summon you here to mankind’s
Hellish future – the stuff of nightmares.
Oh, sweet Emily, how I cling to
Your myth of hope forever flying
Upon wings of eagles – the skies of possibility.
Can you see mine? – tarred and feathered and
Coated by an oil slick from Gaia’s hemorrhaging scar;
Wounded and depleted – humanity’s progress explodes.
I looked for it the other day
That thing you call hope,
All I found was resignation – a wounded spirit’s scar.
Sometimes when I am raving mad and
Lucid enough to forget,
I offer a breeze to this airborne hope – a willful soul’s amnesia.
In the end, Emily, I rise
Not lifted by Hope’s winged flight;
I rise because I must – a mother’s promise.
In Response To:
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers, Emily Dickinson
Wow, Meena..
Thank you, Daniel… You made my day
Wow, indeed. My Meena Rose, this is surely one of your finest.
Marie, thank you very much. This one just flowed out of me as though I have been rebutting this for years.
The road less traveled
a mysterious adventure
a journey few have taken
there might be a reason
why no one travels
on that overgrown path
it may lead you astray
or send you in circles
but the point of a journey
is the trip
and not the destination
unless
you have GPS.
The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost
ESPECIALLY if you have GPS! which once took my son East to Rouen by back roads when he should have gone West by motorway! He took 4 hours for a 90 minute journey. Fortunately, there were no traffic jams!
Good one!
“Kiss me and you will see how important I am.” – Sylvia Plath
If only you would let me,
or I could have you here,
I would tell you in as many
words,as I could spare,
how ridiculous I felt,
saying this to that guy there,
who kissed me deep,
like its a life-death matter
and yet walked away.
Well then,thanks for the
kiss ! I guess.
Oh, the mood you created. Nice work.
Sometimes we offer
too much information
about strangers and friends
and their sickly obsessions
So please stop me now
if you’ve heard this before
many have tried this
all ending up sore
There Was a Young Man From Nantucket – Anonymous
Hear, hear!
This poetry business is new for me.
I don’t know your names.
I don’t understand your words,
but I feel them,
if that makes sense.
Do you send messages with your images?
Were you trying to light a flame with a little spark?
Did you care if your reader suffocated in the fumes
you created with your pen?
Can you hear me?
I don’t know
what you tried to say.
Should I care?
Will listening you stifle my own creativity?
Does it really matter?
Art always inspires,, so no worries
Loved this take !
“Did you care if your reader suffocated in the fumes you created with your pen?” Wow. Great line.
YOU DRUNK, FOOL!
You gonna catch your death of cold!
How many times have you been told,
you gonna sink if you think by the river.
Ain’t nobody gonna hear you holler,
I don’t care how many times you yell!
That water cold! Are you high?
You have a lot of living to do,
ain’t you thinking about your baby?
I don’t care how fine that wine!
I’m gonna cry if I see you die,
so get outta that river or your ass is mine,
and your life won’t be so fine!
You drunk, fool!
**Life is Fine ~ Langston Hughes
Your “voice” is perfect. Well done!
YOU CAN’T WALK THERE!
It hasn’t started yet and you can bet
the soft, white grass has lost its hue.
the sun is right, red and bright
and the birds bask in the balmy breeze.
Things may not stay just so,
Asphalt flowers surely grow
And Shel my friend, you’re walking
Too damn slow for my taste.
We’re wasting time; this measured pace
Has gotten me all in your face.
We’ll have to cross the road ahead
And walk that path a while instead.
Over where the dark road had bended,
on this stroll which we’ve befriended,
the road crew has the street all mended
but we can’t walk there, the sidewalk ended!
** Where the Sidewalk Ends ~ Shel Silverstein
LOL!!
Walt and Shel in the same space? What more is there to love?
Updated News Item
News Item
Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses.
~Dorothy Parker (1893 – 1967)
I don’t agree. I think you’ve missed
the point. In glasses, I’ve been kissed.
###
Love it.
I do love Dorothy Parker’s wit, and also your clever riposte!
Emily Dickinson asked, “I’m Nobody. Who are you?” I answer…
[b]Nobody[/b]
Who am I? I am the unseen –
I am the woman who cleans your house
I am the man who cuts vegetables for your favorite meal
I am the child too afraid to speak
I am the old man picking through your trash
to garner your waste – subsidy for life
I am the old woman jostled by the crowd
with feet too feeble to resist
Who am I? I am the unseen —
Beautiful write. Love it! Three thumbs up.
Strong voice. I like it.
Well said! What a beautiful tribute to the unseen.
A truly exceptional piece, Linda. Bravo, and thank you for this needed reminder.
Robert, I’m not sure how to use the WD Forum. You want us to post our poems there — can we comment on them there as well? I don’t see where/how to comment. Thanks!
At the end of the thread, there’s a Post Reply button that allows you to leave a comment (in the Forum). It’s not a mandatory to use the Forum–it’s just another option, since I’ve heard several complaints about the comments for this blog (for a while now).
I just want to offer as many options as possible, while helping people not pull out their hair (too much).
But you can’t attach your reply to the poem you are commenting on. I put mine there, but wonder if it should be here? Do you think the WordPress gurus could help with the reply/post/nesting problems. It is such an awful time-waster.
A Clarean Sonnet to a dead Poet, written with tongue very much in cheek
Dear John Clare, a nineteeth Century Poet,
whatever made you think you could improve
on sonnets of Petrarch or Will Shakespeare?
Punctuation, essential if we want
to understand each nuance of a poem,
is sadly lacking in so much of yours -
a bad example set to ee cummings.
Seven rhyming couplets unadorned don’t make
a perfect sonnet, so I hesitate
to imitate your own peculiar style
And then there is the tale of your conceit,
in thinking that you were a late repeat
of Byron, Shakespeare, others of that ilk:
You lack their inbuilt beauty and their lilt.
Ouch, but I agree! Well written piece, Viv.
Thanks Robert! (Yet, here I am in my regular “seat.” Creature of habit.
)
lets try that again without the errors…
Let Me Count The Ways
Oh Elizabeth, I counted all the ways.
Now my mind is in a daze.
I’ve finished adding up the score.
I really thought it would be more.
So here’s to having better days…
How do I love thee?
Three , different ways.
By Michael Grove
Just lovely.
Let Me Count The Ways
Oh Elizabeth, I counted the ways.
No my mind is in a daze.
I’m finished adding up the score.
I really thought it would be more.
Do here’s to having better days…
How do I love thee?
Three , different ways.
By Michael Grove
LOL, MG. Reminds of an old comedian, I can’t recall who, reciting,
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. One, two, three, four, five, six….”
What a hoot, Mike!!
Oh.My.Word. SUPER prompt, Daniel, and outstanding examples from Robert and Walt. Robert, this is one of my all-time favorites of yours. WOW.
Off to an extremely busy day. Can’t wait to get a break to peek back in to read and hopefully write.
DYLAN, YOU’LL WAKE THE NEIGHBORS
It had been a good day which has eased into an equally decent night.
The skies have taken their pall and is covering all;
a cloak to cover you until the morning arrives.
But, you insist on this clamor with the pounding and yelling,
there is no telling what the neighbors will think,
such a rage. You’re tired, we’re all tired but this din
must be stifled. You’re being a trifle dramatic aren’t you?
Shut the bloody hell up, you’ll wake the children.
Go gently, it’s been a good night. Don’t spoil it now!
**”Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” ~Dylan Thomas
Walt that’s brilliant! He was quite a hell-raiser, wasn’t he?
11th attempt: it doesn’t get any better! I’ve put my poem on the new link, and yippee we get to use bold and italics and who knows what goodies. And it posts straightaway without making us go through hoops!
Love it.
a work in progress – response poem to At Fifty by Eric Rawson
“At fifty: they run a scope up your ass…”
Great,
just what I need
with my birthday coming up -
in 4 years and 27 days
I’ll be 50
and I know you know
your poem hits like a gut punch
through the ass,
viscerally, like a tube in your
viscera,
quite literally
and yeah I know it’s a little too
late to cram for that kinda test
hard to uncram all those
Little Debbie’s I enjoyed way too much
But really
I can go against all my natural
inclinations
and make nice nice with the doctors
and convince them to give me more
than the therapeutic dose of the forget
about the tube
we just stuck up your ass
medication
and blood, age spots, bad skin
I can blame on genetics
or at the very least say
I look better than
my brother,
maybe,
or phil, the fat neighbor,
for sure
that homeless guy living by
the courthouse
yeah, yeah, I know
lame
and
you’ve got me feeling oh so
uncomfortable
in my own skin
which according to you
is gonna start deserting me
bit by itchy bit
quite
visibly
in less time than it takes to swear
in a new president
4 years and now
26 days
away
So damn smug aren’t you
about this test
you keep going on about-
I imagine your little Rorschach analysis
of the first line
of my poem-
“Great,
just what I need
with my birthday coming up”
was that sarcasm or a healthy thankfulness ?
way too much tone and interpretation
for me
No, no mr. tube up the butt poet,
in the end, our end, it doesn’t really matter
what we think,
the only real choice we had
is who we chose
to grade this damn thing -
this life we all call
some great
test -
4 years and 26 days away
we’ll see
then
I guess
got a little carried away – uh he’s not dead as the prompt asked but…
At fifty by Eric Rawson
At fifty: they run a scope up your ass
and snip out the precocious pretumors.
You bleed a little. It’s a kind of test.
By then you have had minor surgery
on an elbow or eye, and at least one
pharmaceutical dependency to
remind you, having lost your religion,
that the body only barely belongs
to you and is easily corrupted.
You find hard patches and soft patches and
red new patches on your shoulders and scalp.
You can picture your bladder convulsing,
or if you can’t, they’ll show it on a screen.
The equipment is mostly silent, which
gives a feeling of floating in water.
From now on you’re something between salvage
and experiment. Everything hurts.
You bleed a little. It’s a kind of test.
sorry put it in the wrong place initially tried to say walt’s poem was lotta fun and well done
Whoa! Way to start us out, Walt! Got me grinning.