The April PAD (Poem-A-Day) Challenge is designed to help poets do one thing and one thing only: Write more poems! The process of revision may go on for weeks, months, and years later, but this challenge is all about getting that first draft. Please poem along with us–either in the comments below or silently at home.
For today’s prompt, write a broke poem. The poem could be about a broken record, broken relationship, or someone who is just flat broke (no money).
Here’s my attempt at a broke poem:
“he tells me no”
he tells me no way to tell you
what you’d like to hear it’s all true
the other girl her hands & mouth
knowing when confessions head south
i throw him out & search for glue
this broken heart purple & blue
wanting to ask what can i do
feeling that small twinkle of doubt
he tells me no
there’s no way to prepare this stew
that does not involve crying too
over the loss the need to pout
he is a jerk with a nice mouth
but when i want him to stay true
he tells me no
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Writing poetry is exciting, but the hard work of poeming is working through the revision process. The best way to work through this process is to workshop the poems with other poets, and that can be done with the Writer’s Digest 6-week course, Advanced Poetry Writing.
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Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
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Quick note on commenting: Please always save a copy on your computer. There have been moments in the past in which comments have disappeared, and I don’t want anyone to lose their work. Heck, I’ve lost some of my work here in the past, and it’s not a great feeling. That said, commenting here is a lot of fun, especially in April. If you’re completely new to the site, you’ll be asked to register (don’t worry, it’s free), and your comments might not appear initially until I manually accept them. However, after that initial phase, your comments should appear without my help.
Want some more poeming fun? Check out these previous Poetic Asides posts:
A BROKEN HEART
She was such a perfect soul
Made from a perfect mold
Until he took her heart
Tore it all apart.
Her spirit, now, he broke
Treated it like a joke
She never wanted it to be more
Than a swinging, open door.
He holds the key
But refuses to see
How beautiful the relationship
Until he made the slip.
LaSteph
Paris P. Ogilvie
what does it matter
if the world’s in shambles
if our lives are shambles
so long as we have
wine, cigars, chocolate,
shade on these hot sands
we can see a mare of fresh
water just past the horizon
and this desert becomes a beach
LIVE FROM THE EMERALD CITY
There ain’t no Super Glue,
That can fix the things that you
Did to this heart of mine,
When you up and said good-bye.
There ain’t no paint and patch,
No way to fill or match,
Or cover the scrapes and scars,
You left on my heart.
No, there ain’t no Bond-o;
The cracks will always show.
If I try to hide ‘em all,
Face the bent and dented side to the wall
I’ll still be the Tin Man from Oz,
I know I’ve got a heart because,
I can feel it breaking,
Always aching,
To see your ruby shoes,
Next to my cowboy boots,
Again.
EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT
Everything
Was perfect
Till Adam
Watch’d Eve take
The apple.
“The Ponderings of a Ponderer”
In halves
In two
like me
without you.
Separated
Split apart
like a Lois Lane
without her Clark
Yet, Superman always
finds Lois Lane
so they’re back to two,
or is it three?
Now for the more important question,
Doesn’t that make you feel
broken,
without me?
Mosaic
She bends at the waste
to pick up shards, small
bits of color scattered
like forgotten ashes
of the dead resurrected
into tesserae. She sees
where each broken edge
should join another to
make something new.
Advice
I knew you wouldn’t know how
to fix what was really wrong—
admit it, you’ve never been good
at owning up to your shortcomings,
and she stopped taking time to
listen when you wanted to talk, for
once, as rare as that was, and spent
more of her time in other places,
other rooms, maybe other sets
of arms—probably—because she
knew what you refused to admit:
that there wasn’t anything to fix.
“Broken Words”
-KB
Broken signals death;
irreparable defined.
But you may find tape
or adhesive of some sort;
Give your life another chance.
the first broke was okay but did some deeper thinking and came up with a “poetry breakup poem”
In the Carnival of Desire
We dream dance
our troubles away
drift in a daze
Waiting reality reef
Knowing that dreams are untruth
in the carnival of desire
emotions break free
we are open even catty
and we walk away
We are stone faced
angry at departure, but
in the carnival of desire,
we confront if only in
the inner recess of once closed minds.
Logic has no place for breakups,
emotions raw burning
cold and festering brew
up and out of once sealed lips
in the carnival of desire
this tent has closed.
Poetry must be shared
lived breathed,
But it will not be ignored.
It will be closed to your vain heart
and poets will depart
the carnival of desire.
Broken
Broken bits of
Rubble are strewn
Only I can no longer
Keep up shoring memories
Even saints break and I am
No saint
It’s Broken
The thread that held me
to my girlhood is thinning
and soon it will break completely
Sure I still see the smooth face
of a young girl in the mirror, but
now it has lines and cheeks no
longer plump as a peach
My body sags too
and suddenly I am looking
at a caricature of what I used to be
The firm and taut child body no longer
is mine replaced by a stranger
In the distance
I see the girl I was and the
thin line that holds me to my
former self as it stretches
tighter each year
Some will say my thread is
still strong and I am still that
young girl, but inside I know that
soon I will be left on the other side
of age
Soon I will be old with hair no longer colored
to hide its true essence
and an acceptance of the me of today -
who is holding the girl inside as a keepsake.
A little bit late…
My broken haiku
With no direction
Falling down so many times
You stole all my time
casting a call
the target
riddled with bulleted lists
is not a bull’s eye
My troubled mind I’m so confused
My thoughts are more scattered than the evening news
Brain is overloaded with information I knew
Emotions frazzled with the things I wish I didn’t do
My heart is trembling from left to right
Only God knows my worries so together we’ll fight
Taking each step one day at a time
Taking the time to know that I’m fine
Screaming inside as I see the signs
Fear and rejection pose a fine line
Move it along there’s nothing else to see
Just a broken spirit and little old me.
Broken
Before I knew you, life was uncertain
The road that laid ahead way sad and broken
Remembering the moment when our eyes first met
Knowing nothing would ever be the same , while watching you walk away
Over and over I tried to fight what was there
Every excuse, every line, every reason to say goodbye
Keeping you near, while keeping you distance
The thought of you haunts me endless, plaguing my mind
Eventually I gave in to the best thing that could ever be
Happiness wrapped its arms around and held on to me
Never again will I deny what my heart yearns to have inside
Never again will I be broken, never again
Broken
codependence
we dance in circles you and i
starting tenderly even shy
and i can’t help but wonder why
we push each other to our best
supporting each other in our rest
but things tighten around our chest
we see only what we want to see
arguing our opinions blatantly
not letting the other person be
we ignore each other’s pain
feeling the other is to blame
until we cannot hide our shame
we cautiously seek each other out
expressing our personal doubt
understanding what we are about
we dance in circles you and i
starting tenderly even shy
and i can’t help but wonder why
also published on hcfitzpatrick.com
Brain Broke
Not as broke as I was
in the early days. Broke
is what we use for a bank
account or a car, but for me,
broke was my brain.
There are days, nothing
but broke, and when I’m
broke all the way, I cry
hard, and the blubbery
actions help relieve me.
Broken.
Cold.
Always running.
That’s his life.
A cycle of violent nights.
Relying on the weakness of others to survive.
He spends his days in the darkness and
the shadows busying his eternity.
They said, “…let no man divide,”
divided they are…
“…until death do us part,”
death divided them and not by man.
She spends her days being outside in the
world keeping her mind busy.
Relying on her very own strength to survive.
A cycle of sleepless nights.
That’s her life.
Always wondering.
Alone.
Broken.
Broke
My refrigerator won’t freeze
and a doorknob came off in my hand.
A lightbulb just went out and
I smashed an antique wine glass.
My car door clicker doesn’t click,
the computer just went dark.
The washing machine is overflowing
and the disposal’s stopped up.
My lover has broken my heart,
so I’m trying to write this poem
but the lead in my pencil has snapped off.
Tell me….what ain’t broke ?!
Rhyme Time Love Story
She broke
her spoke
and a bloke
stopped to help.
Frog croaked
spilled his Coke
shirt got soaked
so he removed it.
Hot like smoke
no joke
preacher spoke
and now they’re married.
Broken, we try to fix each other’s cracks,
the ones we caused to suffer, pasting
homemade remedies on still bleeding
wounds, with broken smiles and pain-filled
eyes that readily acknowledge
the hopelessness of our sad efforts,
forlorn slivers of small talk caught
beneath the thin layers of skin on
broken hands, already red with infection,
still trying to piece together the shattered glass
that had once protected our love.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Say we break for lunch
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
It’s noon almost, high time we get up out of bed
but we’ve not that much out to be getting.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
The day’s getting on. We should get something done
but we’ve nothing useful needing doing.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I’m out of cigarettes, smoked your last one last night
but we’ve no good reason to be smoking.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Between sky’s blue and the river’s black we should float,
but we’ve nowhere in mind to go drifting.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Where’re those bills we got in yesterday’s mail? Beh
but we’ve no spare cash to be paying.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Some internet’s always good for blowing some time
but we’ve no web sites worth the surfing.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
There was this poem I was really wanting to work through
but we’ve no unused words waiting the writing.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I say we reschedule everything the whole rest of the day
until things get in sync with their timing.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say we break for lunch.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Yesterday
Was it yesterday you broke my heart?
You turned away, without a sigh,
Didn’t wait to say goodbye
Didn’t notice all my tears
Never thought about my fear
My fear of losing you.
When yesterday you broke my heart.
Give me your raincoat
Homeless under the vydok
Glazed eyes whisper pain
Broken Home
I let everything in our house
Stay broken for you.
I left everything
In our house
Broken
For you
Now that you’re gone,
Slowly,
Like springtime arrives this year,
Broken latches,
Broken railings,
Broken chairs,
Are cured.
I fix them
Then
Make dinner
Make a poem
Make a home.
PKP says:
April 13, 2013 at 7:43 am
Hi to all – if am in error and have simply somehow missed this wonderful poet before -apologies to her and regrets for me! In either case – DO NOT MISS this beautiful blog and terrific writing. BRAVO!
: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2013/04/day-12-cracks-in-wall.html
NATASA BOZIC GROJIC – WOW Beautiful site and two wonderful and linked poems. Welcome (?!) I believe you are new to PAD (?!) wonderful writing Bravo!
Reply
PIECES
These days
it seems everything
is cracked somehow,
an eggshell chipped
lightly against glass
a petal torn from a daisy.
I see nothing
whole only parts
ripped the fatal flaw
apparent in everything:
this world, this home,
you, and I.
Is nothing sacred
or whole?
Broke
framed by mountains
combed lines of vines
trellised and heavy with grapes
rich and bursting
terra rossa and sandy loam
warm nights
and harsh days
sweet earth and leather
pepper and spice
the psyche stained
with purple-red juice
You bustled into my life at the start
and immediately I lost my heart.
Your deep brown eyes I could never resist,
and I was simply longing to be kissed.
As time wore on my love grew deep,
and I would watch you fast asleep.
I’d be slumberless, counting sheep,
worrying my long night away.
Years later I began to weep,
knowing that I could never keep
you, my love, from going astray.
Our life would always be that way,
until finally, resignedly, I’d say
“On your bike, you’ve had your day!”
knowing as these words were spoken,
my loving heart had been broken.
Breaks
Oh for a break in the weather!
Rain is the new normal.
At least the marigolds
are thriving in the wet,
and the leaves of the weeds
are large and glossy.
Where have you gone,
getting away before this rain began?
To leave in Spring was damn graceful,
right at the start of the gentle season
before monsoons and heat.
Time to break up, you said.
But you said it kindly, knowing
what I refused to admit.
Now, seven months later and more,
I rage at time going past,
afraid that at last it will break
the threads that stretch between us.
My friend said of a neighbour
the other day, ‘Her husband
has been dead nine years.’
And I wonder about that.
How does one break from the past
enough to go on living?
I think my mother was only half alive
all those years after my stepfather’s death.
I don’t want that for me,
and yet I don’t want to forget you.
Not that I can. Memories break out
like ghosts all over the house.
This poem is inconclusive.
There is no resolution yet.
I am taking a little break
from ghosts and weeping
to sit in my garden and write,
during a small stop in the rainy weather.
Rosemary -an exquisite sparkle of respite in this hard journey – a human question that expands from the practical to the mystical and in so doing describes perfectly the pathos and beauty of the human experience as symbolized here by you taking that well needed break in the rain amid mystic marigolds in bloom. If this were not poetry but simply one heart crying out – it would be poetry – you have captured a prismic interlude – all facets shining with light – plaintively, powerfully, empowered and vulnerable, the budded parts of self reconfiguring – opening at the brink of bloomimg -exquisite writing on a topic at once profoundly personal and connected to each and all. Wonderful on all levels.
Dear Pearl, your comment is poetry too! Thank you.
Hugs across space – unvirtually
The day was chilly, overcast,
it seemed appropriate it was cold
Every part of me was cold
There seemed no warmth.
She had been to communion so many times
had heard those sacred words each time
“he broke bread and gave it to them say this is my body
which is broken for you”.
But today, it became personal
The grave had been dug,
the coffin had been lowered,
she just couldn’t toss dirt down.
It was final, and she knew it would never end
She walked over and picked three flowers.
Instead of dirt, Rose began to
to toss rose petals slowly,
one at a time onto the coffin.
She had whispered the words
that poured from some deep well inside her.
“These are pieces ripped from my heart today.
They have been given freely
as you are precious to me
and these pieces have already been committed to you
while your were alive.
Now your memories will fill these pieces
with gratitude that I knew you and
that I had an opportunity to give you
some pieces of me”.
In that moment brokenness was not sadness and pain,
but an umbilical highway to our connected lives
which made me more alive despite the sadness
and filled me with awe and appreciation.
You really nailed it in this one.
Before we moved in different directions
Before we moved in different directions
Remember those nights on the high school rooftop
Orion’s gaze deliberately clouding our senses
Knowing that freedom comes with sudden starts and stops
Each rub on the rosary followed by at least two “God blesses”
Naively believing forever was our permanent backdrop
You tell a whole story in these few succinct, yet leisurely lines.
Broke, Broken, Braking
I
Was
broke
I was
Broken
I was
Braking
Why
Was
I broke
Why
Have I
Been
Broken
Why
Do I
Need
to
Brake
I
Was
To
Broke
To
Fix
My
Broken
Brakes
To stop
Me
A Very Small Tree
The first time I fell that day
the left crutch became a roller skate
and I went down, helpless
like a tree felled in a forest
crashing against the underbrush,
in this case, the bedside table.
All around me, the detritus
of the lame and bed bound—lamp,
clock, coffee cup—went flying, and I
lay on the floor, purple flowers
blooming on my arms and legs,
feeling like pulp at the lumber mill
only not as useful and not nearly so
beautiful.
An early morning walk and this prompt conspired to inspire… http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2013/04/13/creativity-project-year-two-day-94/
Breaking News!!!
By the time that I retire,
SS funds will have expired;
so my broke ass will have to labor,
(and pardon, please, my crass behavior),
till my wrinkled shell gives out.
Dear Grim Reaper, take me now.
Broken Dreams
Broken dreams litter life
Like broken beads in the street
Dreams of Alaska with wild Caribou
Or of a Key West sunset
Dreams of family and friends
Or of growing old with one’s true love
Sometimes our dreams are torn
From our heart and hands like
A necklace is ripped from our neck
Other dreams slowly roll away
As do beads from a carefully preserved
Necklace breaks and scatters with age
Despair or a sense of death often
Follows broken dreams robbing life
Of beauty and joy and excitement
Likewise broken dreams cultivates
Appreciation of promises kept, of goals achieved,
And the hope of the future
PERSONAL AD.
Words in search of symbolic phrase
would like to meet nice poet
with living muse.
Love it.
Haha! Thanks.
That was fun to write.
I BROKE MY HEALTH.
My fences
in dire need of repair,
leaked
leaving boundaries
undefined
(poor protection
at best)
So these days,
fruit
by vegetable
by medi-
cation (and therapy)
I strive to
firmly set my posts
and boards
so I may walk long
enjoying
the earth on which
my
fences stand.
Broken
into
a
million
little
pieces…
Can’t
speak
a
word
or
think
a
thought.
Brains
scattered
like
ashes.
Tell
me
when
I’ll
be
“normal”
again?
And So All Good Things Must End
We sat under
a broken sky,
marveling at the
charred wreckage
of our crumbled
roof top.
We talked of
forevers,
now nevers,
finger-locked
waiting for the end.
We remembered
that first apartment,
the broken futon,
spilled candle wax
like blue blood splatters
on egg-shell white.
Eating crossed legged
on our mismatched plates.
I thought about
our first fight,
and wondered if
you knew how
close our end was
even then, in that
white-hot beginning
when our sky
began to burn.
Rocket-fueled, our words
are beyond recalling,
the missiles aimed for
the place where
all our possibilities lie.
None of it was meant to be
and we neither of us
mourned for what
we have done,
as we sat,
finger-locked,
under a broken sky.
‘”Rocket-fueled, our words
are beyond recalling, – powerful!
“Broken sky”. Never seen broken sky used in this way…powerful, poignant and wonderful.
Under An Oak
I’m broke
No joke
Can’t afford a single smoke
I woke
Some bloke
said my license was revoked
No cloak
Got soaked
At least let me have a toke
She spoke
He poked
They both thought I must have croaked
I’m broke
No joke
Poetic Asides
April Challenge – Day 12
Write a broke poem
BROKEN.
Their family broke the other year
now I, the house, am waiting
the dust lies lank, a beggar’s coat,
over scattered left-behinds
their family broke the other year
and each one moved away
and left what was–or might have been–
a home, now dull and silent
their family broke the other year
and I, the house, am waiting
for voices, footsteps once again
to let me give them shelter.
good use of repitition
Good one!
Thank you both!
This dam it seems
Just will not break
Three days now
No poetry can I create
I cling to the lions
They sit at the gate
Patients and Fortitude
That’s what it will take
Break not my commitment
Myself that I made
A poem a day
No matter the what
That it may take
This term I’ve heard writers block
Feel I’ve hit that damming rock
Creativity imagination they seem lost
Busted no fun broken by the block
Tis those roaring lions
Deep in my heart
Patience and fortitude
They’ll break that poetic block
Dam spell check…sorry everyone
correction…..
“PATIENCE AND FORTITUDE”
(THE TWO LIONS THAT SIT IN FRONT OF THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY)
NOT….”PATIENTS”.
What chance of a sign of the spring?
The wind is blowing from the east.
And it’s fierce cold.
She said with determined death defying determination
to the equally defiant grey male beside.
Flashing silver educated lucky in their decent Terenure stride.
And good on them.
But nobody fed me
My defiance today.
And listen here.
I got the Solzhenitsyn shivers.
Genuinely.
I got that Stalin dread.
I got Dostoevsky horrors.
Man.
I got Gogols in my head.
It’s so fucking Siberian.
God damn it.
It’s so Artic around here.
I could really do with some sunshine.
Sted of this blood soaked below zero lithuathian nationalist affair.
Sweet mother of jesus
Sweet mother of jesus
I’m the last to talk of the weather.
But what chance of a sign of the spring?
What chance of a sign of the spring?
I am broke
It’s no joke
I am more than out
Of money, I shout
Just no money
I ain’t jokin’ honey
I’m in a pickle
Please hand me a nickle
If I were a mime
Would you give me a dime
If I scream and holler
Throw me a dollar
If I start to shake
Could you just give me a break?
Starving artist
Starving artist will poem for food,
will gladly take your quarters.
I live right in your neighborhood.
I entertain your daughters
and sons. How about some gratitude?
If my art makes your mouth water
this starving artist, who poems for food
will gladly take your quarters.
Broke Poem
Before healing comes,
breaking must occur;
a blessing in disguise.
For if we are unaware
we are broken,
we will not seek wholeness.
“Broken Connections”
The earthworm has five
hearts. Contrary to Old Wives,
each single heart fails
when the worm is sliced in two:
I’ve had five hearts cut that way,
friends who’ve died too young,
teenagers, twenties, and now
I’m at the bell curve
age when it’s starting over
again, but this time for all.
B Peters
Okay, my last one only used Robert’s prompt. This one also uses the NaPoWriMo prompt, which is “write a poem consisting entirely of things you’d like to say, but never would, to a parent, lover, sibling, child, teacher, roommate, best friend, mayor, president, corporate CEO, etc.”
Napoleon
You stride up and down the aisles
like a town crier on Doomsday,
barking orders impossible to follow.
Your e-mails are all in capitals,
with more exclamation points
than anyone deserves to use.
You bully and condescend,
threaten and belittle, and then try
to be friendly, with that rictus-smile
and some lame term of endearment.
And by the way, I don’t want to hear
any more about your freaking cats.
You cannonball, you gnome, don’t you know
this place is broken, or are you too busy
playing little dictator to notice?
“The Unbroken”
Beneath this stone a broken heart:
here, hidden, in this silent place,
Low hangs brave moss this tree imparts
a shining grace
Where once my youthful boaster beamed
and I did kiss him ‘pon his mouth.
He laughed at all our broken dreams
that did go south.
But O, if I could love again
those broken dreams, remembered well:
the dream of him would be my end
for any hell.
Punched in the Gut – Heart Broke
cut his hours
with a new baby
at home and
citizenship
papers filled
out
thirteen years
working never
missed a day
cut his hours
to part-time
in a full-time
life
bad enough
to tell the story
to a guy in the
next town
“Send him over”
“Lord I need help!”
“Lord I need help!”
“Oh he’s from the “Islands”
“Black?”
“Eh – I take it back -
but… if you have somebody
else -send them over
“Lord I need help”
punched in the gut
I leave heart-broke
wind knocked
out of me
rich kids
“poor not broke”
or “broke not poor”
not sure
which way it went
but in those no sleep-
away-camp days,
sharing creamsicles
dripping the stoop
sweet – watching the
ants conga lining
over our bare feet
cold hydrant water
on our soaked to
skin heads
watching the street
spray misted sizzling
like a perfect dream
we wasn’t neither
we
was
just
smiling -
rich kids
Wonderful imagery Pearl
thanks Iris – out for the day – much appreciated … Catch you later
Friday Night
A full calendar is cheaper than therapy.
I was waiting in the cold to go to yet another dance
and the bus never came.
Went home. Undressed.
About to nestle up with disappointment.
Stared at my naked neck in the mirror.
Where is my turquoise pendant?
Damn.
I paced the floor. Nothing.
Shaking my things out before hanging them up,
a wisp of silver fell at my feet.
My pendant!
The clasp must have been loose.
I closed it back and hung my necklace up.
It is not broken,
and neither am I.
I felt the relief myself!
Once again, I wrote two poems, but in the first one I used the prompt: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2013/04/day-12-cracks-in-wall.html
Hi to all – if am in error and have simply somehow missed this wonderful poet before -apologies to her and regrets for me! In either case – DO NOT MISS this beautiful blog and terrific writing. BRAVO!
NATASA BOZIC GROJIC – WOW Beautiful site and two wonderful and linked poems. Welcome (?!) I believe you are new to PAD (?!) wonderful writing Bravo!
Broken support system
You know that man with the boxer?
With the dog that was chasing
the puck on the lake?
That was so cool
That dog can take off
and run across the ice
He times it just right
He stops running
Goes into a slide right up to the puck
Then scrambles to his feet
and digs his nails in
Brings the puck back so his master
Can fire it again
with a slap of his stick
He is looking for you
Why?
He thinks it was you two
Who broke a hole in the ice
The boxer fell thru
Dog came up but missed
Man pounded his stick
But couldn’t break a new hole
He saw the dogs face blowing bubbles
Like from a glass bottom boat
All we did was watch and admire
the dog and the puck
Well look out for the man
Because he thinks it was you
That chopped the hole in the ice
That his dog fell thru
Shard
(a shadorma)
Be. Hold this
piece up to the light.
Shine in scars
and bankrupt
song; shelter one stolen wing
in flight. Stay. Belong.
.
Broken
(triolet)
This poem is broken
and I can’t piece it back together.
It must’ve been the weather.
This poem is broken.
Tho’ the poet is soft spoken
and the piece is light as a feather…
This poem is broken
and I can’t piece it back together.
Jac, this made me smile big…which means it ain’t broken, in my book.
Breaking Things that Glue Can’t Fix
Records, dawn, routine and news,
bread and waves, the law, taboos.
Resolve and fasts, sound barrier,
codes and rank and character.
Promises, engagements, hearts,
training, silence, wind (that’s farts).
Amish, Bad, and Benjamin,
up and down and out and in.
I am a man, following a broken dream.
I keep following the dream knowing it is broken.
Because I have no other dream to follow.
On a broken road I travel.
Searching for a broken dream.
With a broken spirit I follow, the broken road,
Searching for the unbroken path.
An unbroken path which I know must exist.
Up ahead an unbroken dream on an unbroken path.
I knew it could not all be broken.
Vinyl Villanelle
Broken vinyl, spinning on, crackling echoes of the heart
the music transformed, spilling song, splintered reel
keeps the beat with dusty time, living swelling art
drums thump along to our living pace, guitar hands strum
like plucking at veins pumping through our fragile steel
broken vinyl, spinning on, crackling echoes of the heart
warbling, trilling, crooning, thrilling voices come
out of machinery of gods praised in the 1950’s deals,
keeping the beat with dusty time, living swelling art
scratches and skips become anachronistic sums,
my ears twitching with uncomfortable appeal,
broken vinyl, spinning on, crackling echoes of the heart
generations, poor or wealthy, world audiences succumb
to the blessed prayer of music that bleeds so real
and keeps the beat with dusty time, living swelling art
holding on to intangible fantasy, the artist becomes
an everlasting symbol of what it is to truly feel
that broken vinyl, spinning on, crackling echoes of the heart
that keeps the beat with dusty time, living swelling art.
Break Down
She was a ’72 Toyota Corona
faded yellow with
primer highlights.
At $250,
she was a decent buy
in ’82.
89A from Kanab
to the North Rim
would be her
downfall.
Iggy and the Stooges
couldn’t mask
the death knell
of loose parts.
We topped out
on the Kaibab,
her time was marked.
She made it off the plateau
into the beautiful wasteland
East, then died.
Miles from nowhere.
From the trunk
I pulled
a stolen bottle
of Chateauneuf Du Pape and
a Smith & Wesson Model 59.
A la Mauldin,
I shot her in the grill,
to put her out
of her misery.
Then we sat down
And drank the wine.
Broken Glory
The sky broke
and fell into the sea;
a million stars in pieces
sprayed across the latent green.
And I watched their spirits rise
against the darkened bay
to come together all as one
like broken hearts to pray.
I could not look into the light
until the form of her appeared;
I felt her arms surround me
then quietly she broke clear.
And just like that the sky returned
to my eyes in former glory.
It’s broken pieces cut the ocean
in foamy waves of memory.
The moon bled into the sun,
as the night became the day,
and everything I heard
broke the words we didn’t say…
‘And just like that the sky returned
to my eyes in former glory.
It’s broken pieces cut the ocean
in foamy waves of memory” – this is beautiful
Wow. I’m very impressed; this shimmers like a Van Gogh painting.
“Out of Box Failure”
The baby started to cry and whine as
First wind struggles to inflate previously
Water laden lungs that struggle for
A chance to be part of something greater
Accepted within the norms though norms
Are not always really the ethical side
Of the playground laws the child
Asks mom for the keys to the car
Mom not lucid forwards request to man
Too drunk to really care about this person
Who walks through life with nothing but
A perverted version of life slammed hard
Broken and no one sees the ghost in the crowd
Disillusioned in reality and disgusted by
The inability to conform or even
Be seen as productive, this person
Lost in the turmoil of disdain that sometimes
Life can amount to and decay to
Something the semblance of an orphan
Forgotten by everyone
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Of countless/em> things I don’t do well,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀PAD/b> comment code’s one. Can’t you tell?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀My poems can’t get fixed up
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀once they’ve gotten mixed up
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀with my broken
HTML.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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So clever! And so true!
Ooops!
I dropped it.
It was too late to save it.
There was no hope any more.
There it lay
in a thousand pieces
on my kitchen floor.
I stifled a scream.
I didn’t want my dog to rush in
thinking there was something amiss,
for fear she would paddle
in the blood red mess.
She might walk through it,
and cut her paw, I guess.
A whole bottle of
good French red wine,
I had been saving
for the right time.
Not one of mine,
but one given to me
by a special friend,
had met its end.
And there it was,
scooped up in a dustpan,
all mixed in
with slivers of green glass.
Why did I choose to move it?
Why hadn’t I already drunk it?
Why did I save it?
Oh what a waste!
Broken
torn apart
broken
destroyed
my body is not my own
they demand it
as though I owe them
I owe them nothing
and yet
they took everything
what did you gain?
RIP Rehtaeh Parsons
A Hard Habit to Break
================
Your perfect eyes light up the hall
I never thought you’d be a mistake
You pin me up against the wall
I never thought you’d be a mistake
You made me run, you made me crawl
I never thought you’d be a mistake
The rise that came before my fall
I never thought you’d be a mistake
I never thought you’d be a mistake
I never thought you’d be a mistake
I never thought you’d be a mistake
You were a hard habit to break.
(I think I just made another rock lyric!)
Broken Luck
“The mirror crack’d from side to side…” ~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott
The mirror crack’d from side to side.
I suddenly was sore afraid.
Would dreadful fortune soon pervade
my life? “Oh, it’s just bosh,” I lied
to my reflected face. Wide eyed,
the pros and cons of fate I weighed.
I suddenly was sore afraid.
The mirror crack’d from side to side
and I knew not where I could hide.
So, to the gods of luck, I prayed.
I swore my debt would be repaid.
I think my plea has been denied………..
The mirror crack’d from side to side.
###
I stand (well, sit) in real awe of what you can make this form do.
Right? She’s a FormForce to be reckoned with.
“Breaking at touch”
I dance to keep my body limber so
I can be opened like a treasure box.
My body moves its musts through staccato
shakes and strikes, shedding my stiff stuff, old rocks
of muscle to meet the practice gung ho—
then all this jammed, dammed up sadness unlocks
to waterfall on any loving shore.
The manmade lake refuses the dam’s locks—
surprised fish flop on a wetslick dancefloor.
It’s all because my two friends let me know:
I am home, their hands as front and back door
opened me for business—the sluicing storm
that was pent up in my self-made monster
roared through the canyon, erased every form.
wept to reconstruct from what wreckage wrecks.
I had to borrow the buzz of the swarm.
I dance to commune, deconstruct, transform.
Daniel, this is an astounding piece. I especially love:
“My body moves its musts through staccato”
Thank you, De.
I worked this a little more. Here’s a re-post:
“Breaking at touch”
I dance to keep my body limber so
I can be opened like a treasure box.
My body moves its musts through staccato
shakes and strikes, shedding my stiff stuff, old rocks
of muscle to meet the practice gung ho—
then all this jammed, blocked up sadness unlocks
to waterfall on any loving shore.
The manmade lake refuses the dam’s locks—
surprised fish flop on a wetslick dancefloor.
It’s all because my two friends let me know:
I’m home here. Their hands make front and back doors
blowing catharsis through me—sluicing storm—
unpent torrent of the self-made monster
roaring through canyons, erasing all forms,
weeping to reconstruct from the wreckage—
because my child forces me to transform,
because this dancing life’s lost every norm..
He Dropped Her Heart
He dropped her heart onto the ground
It neither cracked nor made a sound
but smiled at him as there it lay
He shook his head and walked away
It followed him up to his door
Love me please it did implore
He frowned and said I do not care
and then he kicked it down the stair
The heart called out from down below,
You loved me once, I know it’s so
You loved me long, you loved me true
He said You haven’t got a clue
Then as he turned to use his key
the heart climbed upstairs silently
It reached for him and with a frown
It pulled him back and they fell down
and down and down until they hit
with such a force his own heart split
and hers said with its final breath
I still love you in life or death
Love’s Secret Truth
Love grows from
a seed
to a sweet
tasty fruit
richer and riper
but oftentimes bitter
and broken
at the root
Ricky is Gone
How do you turn over the shock to words
and let them explain what death has done?
What do words know about blows to the heart?
I don’t need you now, language. My voice won’t
always be broken. When it heals,
I’ll fix this matted silence.
Oh, Yolee. This is powerful.
Somewhere in my phone there is a terrible, terrible text. All it says is “Ty passed.” The 34-year-old husband of a dear friend. Those words will haunt me always.
This is a sobering reminder that poems, for all that I love them, are, at times, intrusive
Thank you, De and PressOn. Poets do understand, don’t they?
Yes, that is hauntingly sad, De.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
A Fractured Piece
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—for Denise
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
That was the night I busted up my hip.
I blacked out with his fist’s blood on my tongue,
him boasting how you thought him so well-bred
and you hot and ready to be giving him time
while I lay helpless. Poetry need not hurt
so bad, except my muse treats me like bone
made to be crushed, so I remained out cold
for hours, as he gave you things to keep
as if yours to have. Such dreamless dark
that black hole stretched into! This scar
here’s from then, and this, this too. We do
no more than who we are—me, you as well
and him too. As for him, the hottest burn
can’t burn hot enough. Beh, live and let live…
Without sin there’d be nothing to forget,
such as how I’ll limp and break into a grunt
that smiles at being called D’s little C.
So I get busted up, and so we let him win
making beauty for you of one ugly as me.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—Cyn
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Heavens. This stings, and stays. Goodness, clarior. I am learning that words in your hands are powerful, powerful things. Stunned, and blessed to be reading you this month. But whew. This one hurts. Well done.
BROKEN BLESSINGS
“Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.” — Camus
As a child, I never thought of
anything as broken, but rather
divided into new and useful
pieces. When my walkie-talkie
went silent, I cracked its
shell and there gleamed its
green circuit board, a silver
city of the future neat and miniature
and its telescopic antennae
became a pointer that I used
to teach the dog to read. I’d search
the toy box bottom for exciting
fragments, lost heads and hands,
knobs and levers, remnants plastic
to my unhindered bent to
make my busted universe
a place of opportunity.
This is great, and real. Boys (maybe girls too) always found good stuff in the trash and junkyards.
Brian, my son is 11, and boy oh BOY does this hit home. Perfect.
Love it!
‘Fist First’
her hands cradled stiffly against
her face
they drip drenched in tears and
snot
eyes stay deeply gazed shocked, into her
no words right now
while her body shivered from
the aftermath
many wanted to be superhero and
rescue her from thoughts
what has been done has been done
no moment in silence can erase it
the fate of so many now vanished
at the other hands, of him
who now lays banished to the
decision and judgements of 12 others,
this is our broken world
this place where babies die
this place where children are killed
this place of starvation (in mind and body)
this is our broken world,
can You see?
©RhaeSeals2013apr
©2013ARS
Oh, Rhae. I CAN see. And I mourn with you. Powerful piece.
Only Adolescent Friendships Die
It was the lifting
of his shoulder,
only the flipping of his hair,
the sigh.
He turned away.
The weight of it
pressed her stomach
till she felt scarred
and blackened
like the imprint
of a Hiroshima victim.
Only the dust of her
left to cry.
Oh, my. Patricia, this is beautiful, and so sad. That last line is a stunner.
Oh, yes.
You managed to capture exactly the way it feels. I love it, and feel my heart rend again after all this time. <3
Beautifully written
The storm
has broken
at last,
Across the
valley
swings the
broken arc
of a rainbow.
Listen!
An overjoyed
finch has
broken into
song.
Ahhhh…bliss.
Thanks, Domino : )
“overjoyed finch”… exquisite
Aw, thanks : )
The broken girls
They live in small towns in Canada,
in big states like California.
They get told to suck it up,
get told to grow thicker skin,
get tossed aside like soiled rag
dolls by boys who act like disinterested
puppies. They aren’t to be believed.
They all said yes, or they changed
their minds. They were drunk.
They’re all sluts. They all wanted it.
They enjoy the attention, they posed
for the pictures. They took off their
shirts. They asked for it, but didn’t
say it. They never acted like it bothered
them. They didn’t report it. They just
want to get those boys in trouble.
They find a strong rope. They give up.
This is so powerful, Raina. And how ridiculous it is that the victims are to blame…This must change.
Amen to that.
Unfortunately, so true. Well said.
The title got me interested right away. This is so the norm these days. So sad. :\
OH. So well done.
This is an anti-broken poem:
Yoga Beginner
asana
spine flat on floor
arms extended palms up
cruciform preparation
overhead
a flower nucleus
gleaming pistils searing retina
spreads a parasol of petals
incandescence
dissipating bleeding coral
curling edges inward
breath controlled
spirit
unbroken life force flowing
through everything
communion
Love. <3
The Wrist Watch
The Father asked, “What gift do I bring, from there, to you my child?”
The child, as coy as a child can be, smiles, and knows no joy.
But does not speak, only motions through her head, no toy will do,
Oh Father, choose to come back soon, no gift I want, but you.
The Father smiled, and hugged his child,
He knew her well, that she beguiles.
No words were said, but thoughts exchanged,
And the Father brought back with him, a beautiful wrist watch, silver framed.
She knew no joy, to the door she ran,
The Father saw her, and began,
To unwrap the gift he brought to his child.
Slowly, as each layer opened, with excitement feigned,
She watched spellbound, and yelled in joy,
It was a watch, and not a toy!
It shone on her tiny wrist, the watch,
She wore it through the day;
And through the night, till she went to bed,
So to, the next few days.
Then one morning she ran to bather, with her gift upon her wrist,
Two dips later, she recalled, and her tender heart near split.
Very poignant story, told tenderly. Makes me ache a bit.
TO BREAK AN EGG
A simple supper,
break an egg, a crack, a tap,
a chip, a rap, knock
a chock’s egg on its side, bonk,
clonk, ping and ding, break an egg
into bitty grit. Stir up
an omelette ‘cause
we never cry over
broken eggs
..or spilt milk, I hope. As charming and lovely as always. ^_^
Very cool, I dig it.
A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS
Small dissonances remain.
The councilman’s gavel echoes,
the word “trap” taps at your ribs.
Zoning and easements, right-of-way.
Something’s broke.
Imagine yourself machete-thin, breaking
a trail through tall grasses.
Watch the black phoebe
make short work of gnats.
Survey stakes and manholes.
All the markers sink of their own weight.
Few names last as long as ordinance.
A stroke of time and weather,
and those names erode, a chip
of marble face broke off. What remains
to argue after sunset?
All day the clouds passed like
variables, the sky its own silver lining.
And now dark fills in the blanks,
each question
asking another.
This calls to mind vanish wetlands and grasslands, and the creatures therein. I love the line, “… clouds passed like / variables, …”
Advice
There’s one thing
One piece of advice
That I want to pass down to you
Just the one.
Here goes:
Don’t break your mother’s vase
And lie about it.
And you learned this wisdom how?
Dig
Deep in the pits they work
dusting centuries’ soil away
with whisks and picks like toys.
Glacially slow, exacting, they sift
and move silt searching
for proof of what has been—
bones, potsherds, weapons
impacted like teeth in the earth.
Days, weeks, months, they sweep
years away, collecting broken things,
bits and pieces that might yet
coalesce into a patchwork whole,
believing just below their feet
are tombs untouched, terra cotta
armies on the march, priceless
remains of dynasties untold,
and each of them is Indiana Jones
at a fraction of the glory or the pay.
Love this one, Jane, and your descriptive details are amazing.
Thanks, Connie.
Sun Up
Gold shot with color.
It broke the horizon
Rising slowly
Washing the world
With new light
Lovely!
Broken Wing
I’ve spent thirty two years
undoing the damage
you’ve done.
You were dead by the time
I was crippled by shame and rage – now
I’ve spent thirty two years,
flashbacks twisting in their razor wire cages,
body clenched tight against a hug, a kiss; a lover’s touch—a lifetime
undoing the damage
of your sickness, your depravity:
a lifetime overcoming what
you’ve done.
Powerfully said. And if this is your personal story, i’m very sorry.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Fool’s Golden Rule
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I’ve heard it oft spoken
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀rules are made to be broken,
and at least for you that rule seems true,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀since rules you keep making
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀for me not to be breaking
are the rules always broken by you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Resolutions
Lose at least ten pounds by May
(broken)
Work less, find more time for play
(broken)
Make that call I loathe and dread
(broken)
Take back angry words I’ve said,
(broken)
Work out at gym three times a week,
(broken)
Finally fix that drippy leak,
(broken)
Submit tax without delay,
(broken)
In April, write a poem a day,
???
So far, Dini, smokin’!
Loving your work here.
You can do it!!!
Broken
The serpent sweet
Eve entertains
she wants to eat;
the serpent feigns
in the trenches
conscience slips
the nectar drenches
lovely lips
now she’s caught
not her own
determined not
to fail alone
enticing him
indulging too
on just a whim
the Father knew
Broken, baby
broken now
broken hearts
and broken vow
Broken Father
broken ones
broken promise
broken Son
I like ” I the trenches conscience slips the nectar drenches lovely lips”
Good one, love how you end this.
~Broken Heart and Broken Dreams~
It was sixteen years and six
At the Pearl of the Orient Seas
When you told me you love me
And you told me you truly care
Unforgettable moments and happy times
Time passed without us noticing why
While of different religion and culture
We tried our best to weave a future
While some people were against us
I tried to bridge you to them for us
I blamed myself for lack of courage
When in fact you who had no courage
As you suddenly had to say good-bye
To travel back to your home through the west
To marry someone arranged for you
Whom you claimed no love feelings from you
Remember I cried and begged you to stay
But no emotions from you on that day
My heart was broken with nothing to say
Part of me has died on that very day
Broken heart and broken dreams
Bleeding heart and uncontrollable tears
Time indeed has healed all wound
Smiles dried those precious tears at full moon
With courage gained back after the fall
Bounce back I did and now standing tall
No more broken heart or broken dreams
Only laughter heard ringing through the streams
if you’ve ever been broken
by some misspent token
of love undone
or a battle unwon
or dreams unspun
loose, spinning in space.
i hope
you’ll still know
absolute truth
when you see His face:
you’re loved.
yes.
that’s
what’s so
amazing
about
grace.
Grace – we can’t live without it!
Amen, De, amen.
amazing grace, amazing poem
Broken
Bits and pieces of her heart
Remain untouched but scattered, needing to be
Oiled and polished again;
Knowing she’ll risk it, over and over
Even though it might break every time, because
Not taking the risk would be a lonely, slow death.
Love this, Michelle.
Ooh, good one, Michelle!
Thanks Toni and Connie!
Storm-taught
A streak of yellow sky laid under
blue-black clouds, distant thunder,
and high wind bodes a reckoning.
Whatever tender plant or flower
newly born but for an hour
faces a beating April sting.
Old women learn to read such skies
like three-day bruises, alibis
for mischief loosed across the earth.
They think to harbor things they love
from hail and downpours from above,
knowing the scars from one outburst
can wreck a garden’s trust in good.
Old women know it’s understood
that heaven will have its way below.
Whatever power we think we own
is blasted by skies hard as stone.
We’re humbled by what we can’t know.
Bullying clouds with angry fists
prove some old women optimists
searching for spectrums arced in blue.
Old women know that broken plants
survive the direst circumstance.
Storms break, and sun shines through.
I like this a lot. It calls to mind the traditions of the Crone.
I love this Jane.
Thank you, William and Michelle. I embrace my inner Crone
Clay Jars
But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this power is from God and not from us.
- 2 Corinthians 4:7
They’re fumbled, and fragile,
and the tops don’t fit quite tight.
But their broken is beautiful
when the sun shines through just right.
.
So simple and sweet and right. Dang,, De.
Amen to that
Dying Sea Bird
Legs splayed behind
feathers bedraggled
its beak in the sand
the only thing
keeping his head erect
Like others I stop
to assess the obvious
Two men discuss
if anything can be done
The tide is going out
the sea at its edges
lavender and aqua
A woman circles
shaking her head
down the beach a couple
getting married
a small girl running
her arms askew
as other birds scatter into the air
the rest of us are concerned
but powerless when I come back
the bird’s head
is at an angle
only death can achieve
all that remains
is for the tide to do
what all of us are wishing for
and take the sandy lump away
alana
Beautiful imagery
Sad and powerful.
This is another hard-to-read piece, not for the writing but for the imagery. Very absorbing stuff.
beautiful Alana – sad but the imagery takes you there.
Busted, Breached, Bankrupt, and Beat! Oh my!
Entering the halls of academia
has become a task gargantuan -
tests created by computers programmed
to find the chinks in students’ armor
have successfully caused an avalanche
of closures with students and teachers left far behind.
To add insult to injury, the mega-giants of
commerce and finance have pushed for
testing teachers with the same genius computers,
leading to an end of creativity, spontaneous learning
and critical thinking, which the corporate Goliaths see as DANGEROUS!
And, threatening to their profit margins.
Truth is, education is broke –
Kaput – fractured into millions of pieces.
Parents, students, teachers reel at the lockdowns,
lockouts, rip offs and lies that hold them prisoner.
The verdict is still out – can Education be fixed?
Can the mouse outsmart the cat?
Your description is so apt. As a professional educator, I wish I had the answer. (I think it has something to do with getting back to personal interactions.)
Powerful one, Linda.
The Tree
Wind felled the stately tree
Whose strong limbs secured the swing
That childrens’ spirits pumped to soaring heights
Clouds shade once sparkling eyes
Inconceivable surprise
Pervades the ghostly spector of last rites
“specter”
and “children’s”…Time to do something else!
It’s the silence that gets to me,
how we sit across from each other
not like we used to, not across from
each other with scrabble letters
and crossword puzzles, not the same laughter
not canned or tinny, not silence in the way
that silence becomes loud and obnoxious.
There are the moments, a brief flash,
photopsia before we fall back, before bed time
and more quiet, and leaving before you wake,
before the house comes awake with children and animals,
when the lights are off, before the water boils on the stove
before you hit snooze three times,
I am gone and on the road and you are alone
and I miss those moments when I could call you in a break
in a minute and say anything
tell you about the irregular curl of a danish,
how the cream in my coffee looked for a minute
like a hurricane, how the silence is filling
every space between us, like gulfs, that crosswords
and cream cannot fill.
A beautiful and powerful (and true) breakage. Wonderful job.
Ditto
I can relate to this a lot
Still a Heart
“The heart once broken is a heart no more.”
–Edna St. Vincent Millay
The poets—even great ones—
are sometimes wrong
in matters of the heart.
A broken arm, after all,
is still an arm.
About a broken man,
bearing his scars
like badges of honor,
I’d say the same.
What I love, I’m willing
to repair, mend though
not make new. The fissures
of my once-broken heart
I now read like laugh lines.
Wonderful wisdom. Thank you.
Good one, Nancy.
Well said!
Just now discovering your work, Nancy. Already a huge fan.
Thank you, Ann.
Broke(n)
We were poor for many years,
you and me.
Babies came along
and made three,
four, five.
We did what we could,
we managed.
Eventually, all your
schooling paid off.
You got raise after raise,
the kind of praise
I never heard at home
with the kids.
And that was when
all my suspicions
proved true:
You weren’t.
True, that is.
So when we left,
the kids and I,
we found a new life
of poverty
and struggle.
It is amazing what it is possible
to juggle with so little help
from back east where you
and your young wife lived.
But, strangely, when I look back
at the time that’s flown, the hard work
to make something of myself
and raise those kids
alone.
Long days, longer nights
often tired to the bone.
I find they are the best years
of my life.
And you missed them.
And I pity you.
Diana Terrill Clark
This is powerful writing. Clean, sure, simple. Thank you.
Thank YOU. ^_^
Commented on your blog, too, Diana, but just have to say: WOW. To this poem, and the strong, amazing woman behind it.
You weren’t; true, that is…
Nicely written, raw and beautiful
<3 Thanks De. <3
Great poem.
I agree with all the previous commenters!
<3
Poem a day #12 is a response to prompts from NaPoWriMo and Poetic Asides: (1) Write a poem consisting entirely of things you’d like to say, but never would, and (2) write a “broke” poem.
When We Went Broke
You were never good
with money, I mean
more than just splurging
on hot dresses for new
dates with the unavailable
men who cuddled less
than distant parents going
for broke in new houses.
You showed your father
auctioning off your fortune
in too many thoroughbreds,
horse-crowded barns you made
us kids clean always for free
since all the cash was gone
and we waited for checks.
I wonder if the weathers broke
enough to write I love you in the snow
or watch the robins on the window sill
as our tummies rumble awaiting the gumbo
I love this little piece.
Me, too.
And me.
“Words Unbroken”
Broken hearts
for broken things.
Bones broken,
dreams and chances
lost and gone.
All can be
mended, reclaimed,
except for words
unbroken when
opportunity has passed
or recipient is
dead.
Unbroken words,
silenced
haunt – and break
again.
https://GypsyWordsAndWhims.WordPress.Com
The old man and me, we was out the other day clearing brush from under the house.
We don’t want no house fire,
not after the McKinley’s lost they house ’bout a month or more back.
Sad tragedy that. They had three dogs and a son that
was lost in that blaze. Could feel it for a mile ’round.
But we was under the house, like we usually is,
chippin and clearin. Ma was upstairs. We could hear her feet
tip-tappin like some giant dancer or that telegraph machine that
makes it so’s we can talk to one another from across the country.
Why anyone would want to do that, I don’t know.
Ain’t nobody there but Yanks anyways.
But, she were up there, tip-tapping, dancing like Ginger Rogers,
we could tell because that’s what she does when she’s baking,
and dad gets this look on his face. He gets this look like he’s just finished
painting the barn doors. I look at him funny, and he says to me, he says,
“That woman…” and shakes his head.
I know ma and pa sometimes get into it real good. Last year,
pa threw a chair out the window. Shattered the window right.
There was glass on the floor for months. But, he ain’t never laid a hand on ma.
He knows I wouldn’t let that happen. But, still, the chair went out the window
and I spent the summer trying to put the chair back together.
Pa left for a coupla days, came back smellin like whiskey,
which was his poison of choice, of course. He’s a Kentucky man.
Things been strange for the past few weeks, but it ain’t my place to be
buttin in to another’s life, even if it is my pa.
“That woman,” he says to me again. “She is just about the dumbest woman
I know.” And before he lets me open my mouth he says, he tells me,
“She and I are separatin. Thought you should know.”
Well, he done told me. Guess I should know.
We cleared the brush from under the house in ’bout three hour.
Then, pa packed his shirts, pressed (ma did that while we was under the house),
and he left. She looked at me as his truck left a trail of dusty ol’ tire marks
and the smell of woodsmoke, and she says “you don’t have to stay neither.”
Well, I looks at her and says, “if it ain’t broke,” and I got back to the chair
I was rebuildin.
Broke
broke,
no money and no care
watching as the cars go by
wishing to wish no longer
just go
That penultimate line is a stunner, in my opinion.
High School Reunion
I hadn’t touched a drink in years.
Been real good and sober.
Saw my buddy standing near,
had to wander over.
Buddy handed me a beer.
Decided I would drink it.
Lifted glass, told Buddy, “Cheers,”
He lifted his to clink it.
I had a hollow leg to fill.
Must have downed a barrel.
Buddy says things went downhill
when I spotted Carol.
Carol still is really hot,
so I went up to her,
Gave her a hug right on the spot,
went somewhere to screw her.
Came on back without my pants.
Don’t know where they’re laying.
Carol knows, or so Bud says,
but she isn’t saying.
Delightful!
Broke
Sitting quietly in the den,
sipping my morning coffee,
deciding between poetry and
the L.A. Times crossword.
Suddenly a loud thump,
from the kitchen,
all too familiar.
It can only mean one thing:
a broken window or
a broken neck.
A quick dash and glance,
no shattered glass.
A slanted peek at the patio,
no broken bird.
No birds at all at the feeder.
Well, one, a cooper’s hawk,
a big one, smiling that smile
through its eyes.
Missed that one, it seems to say.
Next time.
Oh, and thanks for the feeders.
I’m always hungry.
“Annette”
She was the leader of the club
that’s made for you and me -
Dad’s wall held her poster in his younger years.
She played bingo with beach blankets,
and her innocent smile melted hearts.
Her smile never broke.
Her youthful marriage, three children, and almost 16 years…
until the marriage did.
But the smile did not, the children either.
Then the glue of time brought in Glenn.
He gave a ring and a promise
to the smile that warmed America’s heart.
“Until death do us part” sealed the vow.
He didn’t know what would come,
a thief would break into the one he loved.
“The crippler of the young,” some call it.
She saw MS enter her life the day she tried to play bingo,
with Frankie and the blankets at the beach.
Why couldn’t she walk straight? Why the numb hands?
How could she explain this? Was she crazy?
Glenn kept his promise. He loved his sweetheart, her smile, her spirit.
Over twenty-five years, he walked the journey with her.
A cane, a chair, dark glasses – he loved her.
Then a chair, a bed, a hospital – he loved her still.
MS broke her health, but not her heart. And not his promise.
’Til death do us part… that’s what it took.
We’ll all miss you, Annette.
(Annette Funicello 1952-2013)
This is the first I knew of her passing. Your poem is a lovely, loving way to learn of it.
Hey Angie, it’s Shelly Neal.
Hello there! ) love the poem.
Hey Angie, Shelly Neal here. Lovely poem.
Woops….I didn’t think the first one posted. The second is from the Department of Redundancy Department.
Breaking Sky
Roiling in heaven,
A lattice of tempest clouds
Bear evil intent.
Wrestling with light from above,
Crepuscular rays break through.
Vivid image: “wrestling with light” I like that!
The imagery! I like this!
You guys are the ones I feel sorry for
I get all the food I need from the dumpster
Its good stuff too
These stores throw away perfectly good food
But you guys with your homes
With your mortgages
And car payments
And your wives
With their credit card bills
And your jobs
With no time off
You guys have no freedom
I can go to Mexico today if I want
Or I can hop on a fishing boat and go to Alaska
You guys are stuck
In your ruts
You guys I feel sorry for
This reminds me of an old movie, Hallelujah, I’m a Bum, with tongue in cheek.
I can see this guy’s point – sometimes all we work for seems pretty empty when one looks at how free one really is…
Threes
Dripping faucet, snowy TV
Child with badly broken knee
Three by three, they rain on me
Friend’s compassion, blooming tree
Birthday party full of glee
Three by three, they shine on me
What a pleasing little way to think on it!
Words with no meaning
Providing false hope
Painting an illusion
Creating confusion
Between the mind and the heart
Broken promises
Broken people
No wonder silence is golden. There’s a lot of power in this little punch, in my opinion.
GUILT
How hard it must be
To furnish sympathy
For the guilty.
We surmise that guilt
Equates with ineptitude
An overabundance of confidence
That went awry
Poor decisions in an increasingly
Robust world that lacks innocence.
Not feeling sympathy is the norm
We take for granted with the guilty
But if we stop and think
Isn’t pity a form of sympathy?
Our justification for not caring
Is certainly warranted
For those who commit so many wrongs
But shouldn’t we feel somewhat bad
For those who have broken their lives
Remaining stuck in the
Personal injustice
Of being segregated to a life of
Guilt?
Much empathy here. Very thoughtful piece.
You are a kind person, Beth, to even think about this side of it. I do feel sympathy, but empathy is a harder beast to master. You seem to have done that bravely.
Rhyme Break
For quite some time
I wrote in rhyme
I thought it necessary
And then one day
Someone said, “Hey,
Don’t be so ordinary.
It’s like romance
Just take a chance
And write straight from the heart.”
It was my time
To break from rhyme
Get off the sound-alike cart
So I broke the rhyming curse
For better or for worse
I took the leap of faith
And escaped the rhyming race
Now I’m free
To be me
I can be what I want to be
I can rhyme if I wish
Or not
Time
Long walks to nowhere
I weep in the daylight
I weep in the dark
stay awake to postpone the sad dreams
or else mask them with melatonin and wine
It takes so long to open your door
to see the remnants left of you
nothing to hold on to
Time can be an foe
today it was a friend
the sun broke through the clouds
I get a cup of coffee and go on
oops! – make that a foe, not an
Wow! So beautiful and so true – can go on.
How can it be fixed
When the fixers know nothing
Of that which is broke
Precisely! I don’t know what haiku is “supposed” to do, but I like this. Thank you.
From Slumber to Reality
I awoke to a tail of orange fur
Breaking me from my slumber
Slapping me into reality
But I still want to sleep
My feet hit the grey carpet
Shuffle to the porcelain potty
Still drifting between worlds
I sit in a morning stupor
My monstrous four-legged feline
Breaks my trance with a head butt
To my calf as he wraps his tail
Begging for his morning meal
Time to hit the next station
Meds, shave, comb, and teeth
More head butts and tail wraps
Persistent little bugger, he is
Long hallway and into the kitchen
Begging meows of anticipation
Can opens, dish clinks with tuna
Monster munches through purrs
My twenty-two pound alarm clock
My Maine Coon food processor
Content for the moment
Now that he had his way
But now that I’m awake
Guess I’ll get a move on
Might as well face the day
While my cat sleeps it away
Sweet
Yup! I know this one – but why does he ALWAYS wake me long before I want to get up???
I’M FIXIN’ TO…
(a piku)
If it ain’t
broke
y’all, don’t touch it!
Haha – my first thought along these lines – love what you did with this!
Thank you, Pearl.
Breaking Bread
“Revenge is a dish that’s best served cold.” – ancient Klingon proverb
Come to my table
and speak of days gone by
before guns and knives
and actions you can’t take back
Come to my table
and speak of a future
of living side by side
and working together
Come to my table
and speak to me
in words I can understand
where forgiveness is an option
Come to my table
and break bread with me
mano y mano
I am the enemy no longer.
Come to my table.
Beautiful sentiments. If only we would all heed them!
This is very touching, very simply stated. Very nice.
Beautifully said. The repetitions lend power and dignity.
Dear Moosehead,
You are such an ass!
I did not say I was glad Greinke
broke his clavical (or whatever it is).
I said I was glad he was a Dodger
and not a Yank. Besides, if it says
DODGERS across ya chest, ya might
wanna learn to dodge the odd punch
now and again! Well, enough of rainy
Cleveland for our boys. Home Sweet Home!
It’s bird roasting time! Crispy Orioles with a side
of humble pie will do nicely. By the way,
I was right about that scalping thing.
Big Joe slapped me with a wrench!
Damn near broke my arm!
Pick me up at 6 would ya? The cab is in the shop.
Yours breaking out the cooking fat,
Ringo the Howler
That makes me happy, Domino
I love Ringo! I’m besotted with him.
It Opens
The engine suffocates, finally stops
as she pulls into the driveway.
Upset, she slaps the steering wheel.
The car door screeches
as she pushes it with her shoulder.
It opens.
Fresh air.
The door dawns mightily over her
as she rummages through her purse.
The phone rings.
Her keys hide under her make-up bag.
The phone rings again.
She hurries to unlock the door
with her shaking hands.
It opens.
Adrenaline.
Photographs in the living room stare at her
as she picks up breathlessly.
“Hello?”
She sees a crack on the old the window
that has been shut for too long.
She pushes it with her free hand.
It opens.
“Wrong number.”
The kitchen shadows dinner time
as her tummy grumbles.
She hasn’t eaten since this morning.
The floor creaks with her every step
while she takes some bread in the cupboard
and wonders if the toaster still works.
It opens.
Tummy grumbles.
She looks at the clock hanging by the stairs.
as she waits for her toast.
Sometimes, its right, but not this time.
She checks her cell with the stubborn button.
She taps it repeatedly and finds a message.
It opens.
“The house is sold!”
Nicely done, MissJoyce! I like the repetition each each stanza; something is broken, at least one thing. And then happily, “The house is sold!” ^_^
Thank you!
BSOD
My computer crashed
while I was writing this poem
My Computer My
Documents
(hour glass) Blue Screen WELCOME
I hate those things!
Yes, the fabled blue screen of death. :/ Hope all is not lost, Andrew.
You! it Was You!
It was you!
You broke my windows!
You broke my locks!
You broke my door down!
It was you!
It was you!
You broke the rules!
You broke the silence!
You broke the Golden Rule!
It was you!
It was you
You broke my glasses!
You broke my nose!
You broke my nerves!
It was you!
It was you!
You broke the record!
You broke the mold!
You broke me in pieces!
It was you!
It was you!
You broke my heart!
You broke my spirit!
You broke my will!
It was you!
It was you!
You broke my original mint-condition, packaged as new,
Captain Marvel action figure, you evil scheming, no-good, worthless, piece of….
…yeah!
And my heart!
It was YOU!
Iain
Captain Marvel puts a too-often-realistic twist on this theme.
Love this! And yes, Captain Marvel puts just the right spin on this. ^_^
Thanks! I was looking for a context that made it relevant to today
I’m glad it wasn’t me!
A Broken Man
She opens her eyes
like the sun breaking through the clouds
and smiles
My heart breaks
because she used to be mine
and I wallow in self pity
Breaking my fast
on stale bread and cold coffee
because I don’t deserve better
Tears fall slowly
like morning dew
on a waking leaf
And I sit
in the broken chair
and stare out the cracked window
of what my life used to be.
I think my heart started to break reading this. Nice poem.
Thank you.
“Tears fall slowly
like morning dew
on a waking leaf”
Love this line!
Amen
Touching
Abused, despairing
Spirit like her fingernails
Torn, broken, bleeding
so much pain in so few words
Great analogy.
Superb
Thanks, all!
Broken Lies
Crying eyes
broken lies
scars that cut
deep within
torn disguise
Falling alone
hearing your voice
all in its tone
never wanting to feel hurt
to the bone
Wishing simple thoughts
spreading wings again
finding life is different
trapped in a den
Blowing back the colors
pulling across the sheets
nothing ever lies there
not even the heart beats
Sudden rafts of rivers
flowing up and down
always feeling like a fool
feeling like a clown
Rapture holes inside
each tunnel a memory
forget the past and present
the futures now brighter
you see
Craving more and more
grasping at the edges
forget the here and now
fit inside the wedges
⠀⠀⠀⠀
Pathological
⠀⠀⠀⠀
Anything I’ve had to have, I broke
⠀⠀⠀⠀ways things ain’t broken before. It’s true
enough, I promise. I’ll wreck you too. No joke.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
I was married that time before. Used to choke
⠀⠀⠀⠀my throat on his grip, bust up black’n blue.
Anything I’ve had to have, I broke
⠀⠀⠀⠀
to prove I could. Take yesterday. I woke
⠀⠀⠀⠀in time to break morning. Had to. Wasn’t new
enough, I promise. I’ll wreck you too. No joke.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
Grandma’s will? Ha, That went up in smoke
⠀⠀⠀⠀and what she didn’t leave — I smashed that too.
Anything I’ve had to have, I broke
⠀⠀⠀⠀
so no one else could use it. My master stroke
⠀⠀⠀⠀had to’ve been parole. Hard time? Can’t do
enough, I promise. I’ll wreck you too. No joke.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
So here comes something you call home. Provoke
⠀⠀⠀⠀me, why don’t you. Remember once we’re through
enough: I promise I’ll wreck you too. No joke,
anything I’ve had to have, I broke.
⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀
Melancholy
Tears that once flowed free
Fall back on my aching heart
And lie there, burning.
That’s as good a description of melancholy as I’ve heard. Burning to black.
Thanks for the compliment. I love your screen moniker, by the way.
BREAKING NIGHT
Dead of night feels so alive-
Hushed silhoutte whispers
Purple imaginary feathers
Silent starry treks beyond the feeding vision
The moon, grieving its transient light
Broken and scarred
beyond my grasp,
Looking for the horizon
Dew drops in a slow trance ,
as dawn fights its sleepy slumber
Stirring my thirsty soul with warmth and sunlight
without the sun in sight
Waiting, reflecting, melting some frozen drops
in anticipation
The broken night ,now, lives in light—-
For me, this is a great example of a piece whose opening line commands attention for the rest of the poem. Thank you.
HEARD IN THE USED-CAR LOT
I meant to stop the car,
but then my brake, it broke.
I tried to steer the car
with one sure-handed stroke
but only drove the car
toward a lonely oak.
The tree detained the car
and motor in mid-stroke;
it neutralized the car
from fan to pump to choke
and that is why the car
went up in clouds of smoke.
I need another car.
Don’t mean to make no joke:
don’t want no bloomin’ car
that has a brake that’s broke.
good one!
Hahaha! Darned broken break! ^_^
BROKER OF HEARTACHE
If you think you have been broken before,
she will open you up
to a world of hurt
making old pain seem almost sweet.
If you think you have been broke before,
with loose change seeming like largess,
she will pluck even that from your hand,
leaving a quarter for laundry.
If you remember life’s broken toys,
from crayons to iPods,
be prepared for what she will teach you
about smashing and ruining lives.
Susan Dean Wessells
Your lines work well, making me hope never to meet her again.
Nicely done.
wow she’s a real piece of work huh lol
Broke but not gone
Sweet grey muzzled dog
Lies far too still
Shaggy head
Held between
Her little one’s
Insistent hands
Shaking
in early morning
Light
Toddler voice
Calls
“Mama! He’s broke”
Watching from stair-top
Mama’s heart cracks
You caught that moment well. Again, your last line is so arresting. Nice job.
Very touching.
sad
DELUSION
Long ago and far away
a lover dreamed a dream one day:
fidelity will light the way,
come what may. Come what? May,
for promises of April days
are broken, sometimes, when nature plays
its jokes on hormones. Such a daze;
it’s all a maze. It’s all a maze.
I like your use of repeated lines.
What form is this? I like it very much, and I like what you’ve done here. ^_^
This is a “monotetra,” which I learned about on this blog somewhere. I like to play with it.
Ah! Found the link too. Will have to learn about this. It seems like a fun little form.
Writing this poem while a poem writes me
Started with love ended with why
Time waits for no one love has no limit
Questioning your truth and is your heart really in it
Stances inside the lies that were told
Descriptive fears of when we get old
Smiling at plum feathers dancing in the sun
Smiling at the thought that finally I’ve won
Short and sweet I free styled my words
‘Mommy’ she said is all that I heard
beautiful!
“Another Gray Morning Story”
Today begins as though
it were yesterday
with a broken colorwheel
which only lands on gray–
ash gray
gunmetal gray
cadet gray
charcoal –
I find myself looking for silver
which at least sounds like
a happier gray
but I am turned away
by a splash of rain
against the window
and an image
of daffodils
beaten down
hanging their heads
to the ground
and their sunshine yellow
tinged with gray soil.
Vivid (despite all the grey) description. It’s like that here, too; sounds like our mornings are broken.
Fabulous.
Love this!
Very visual – though I enjoy rain. Be assured, those same daffodils will shake the dirt of and bloom even more bravely once the sun comes out again. ^_^
‘Broke’
One, two, three silver dollars
With one I shall pay the rent
Two shall buy me a glorious feast
The third I shall save for a rainy day
Wayne Murphy
4/12/13
Thank you for putting the prompt in earlier! I tend to write more in the early a.m. before work!
Ditto – Thanks as well – except before I go to bed
THE LAST ROUND
I left
the old golf course
with a feeling of peace:
my head held high and all my clubs
broken.
At the risk of sounding like one of my kids: LOL
Golf: a nice walk ruined by a little white ball. Truly a frustrating game!
Thanks. I’ve felt it before:
SIX-FOOT PUTT
Who would have thought
that a ball and a hole
were the perfect prescription
for trying the soul?
Ah hahahaha!
BLIMEY
I once knew a bloke who was broke;
he would bum all the fags he could smoke.
But the blighter had style:
he went out with a smile
in a coffin all trimmed in baroque.
Daddy Fix It
“Broke. Daddy fix it,” two year old lifts her hand
Tugging a bent spoon from the playpen of sand.
Last week she wiggled in her chair,
While I attempted to brush her hair.
She broke a comb and then just grinned,
“Broke. Daddy fix it,” she calls to the wind.
As she grows older, it remains the same,
More refined words but same refrain,
Broken heart, she will run to Dad,
He will hold her and make her heart glad.
Oh, the sweet trust of a child….
Oh. Lovely Iris. <3
I’m broke.
My only consolation,
everyone else is too
and I really don’t think
I need to explain to you
why this is.
Simple broke folk know what
it’s like to be bad off
and the need
to be looking out for
and helping
each other out.
Mean broke folk have everything
they need
but only think they’re bad off
and compared to
everyone else
they are -
always needing to take what’s theirs
before anyone else gets it
and if you ain’t got yours
there must be something
wrong with you
Ah, yes; those are the folks who pass by the poor box.
I like this. It shows what a difference one’s attitude can make.
“God save the Bean!”
The cogs of progress, begin
With the turning of coffee grinders
And if they ever broke down
All of our gears will fall, silent
Sleepy minds, chilled creativity
Lifeless souls
Nice Power!
Not a coffee drinker myself, but I love the poem.
Lovely amber fluid of life – yes, god save the bean. ^_^