I’ve heard from a couple people about a problem with commenting on other poems. I’m forwarding to our tech team in the hopes of getting the issue resolved, because I know everyone can use as much positive reinforcement as possible. Let me say this generally though; the poems I’ve been reading this year have been knocking my socks off. Keep rocking and writing it!
For today’s prompt, write a swing poem. Sure, there are park swings and mood swings; there’s swing music and swing dancing; and there are swingers. Some people swing one way; others swing another. In politics, there are swing votes and swing states. And many people have swung a bat, an ax, and/or a hammer in their lifetimes.
*****
Get the National Poetry Month Collection!
Celebrate National Poetry Month with a super poetic collection of poetry-related products with the National Poetry Month Collection!
This super-sized kit includes 4 e-books, 3 paperback books, 7 tutorials, and much more! In fact, this kit covers everything from prompts to poetic forms and from revising poems to getting them published.
*****
Here’s my attempt at a Swing Poem:
“emotions”
i’ve been swinging my bat swinging my ax
& swinging my direction on these tracks
tired of going down when i should be up
so i’m going to call you on your bluff
give me your hand or better yet your wrist
we’re going to dance we’re going to twist
electric slide yourself over to me
we’ll do the macarena & shimmy
we’ll swing to the left we’ll swing to the right
we’ll keep on dancing under disco lights
because this is now & you know it’s real
when my dancing feet show you how i feel
*****
Today’s guest judge is…
Todd Boss
Todd Boss
Todd Boss is a poet, public artist and film producer in Minneapolis. His poetry collections are Pitch and Yellowrocket (both W.W. Norton). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, American Poetry Review, Poetry, and NPR.
He is the recipient of McKnight and Minnesota State Arts Board grants, the Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award, and the Emily Clark Balch Prize from Virginia Quarterly Review. He is the founding Executive and Artistic Director of Motionpoems, a non-profit initiative that partners with major publishers, literary organizations, and film companies to turn great contemporary poems into short films.
Learn more at ToddBossPoet.com.
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Poem Your Heart Out, Volume 2
Poem Your Heart Out again!
The prompts from last year’s challenge along with the winning poem from each day ended up in an inspired little anthology titled Poem Your Heart Out. It was part prompt book, part poetry anthology, and part workbook, because each day includes a few pages for you to make your own contributions.
Anyway, the anthology worked out so well that we’re doing it again this year, and you can take advantage of a 20% discount from Words Dance by pre-ordering before May 1, 2015.
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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems.
Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
*****
Music Menu
Apple pie is like jazz
but peach cobbler is country.
Coffee beans are my caffeine, strong aroma, am radio fix;
dirty rice, my bluegrass wow.
Electronic scatters notes like puns spatter improv,
folk feels like peanuts in the shell, all salty, and impromptu.
Green apples are my happiest fruit, electric.
Home is all purples, joyous like lavender solos.
Iris bellow, in glorious eggplant robes, my gospel choir.
Juicy Zoloft-sized raisins sedate me like a tranq,
kumquats, tingle, effervescently fizzing like pop.
Legumes, I eat them carefully and seldom, like techno,
mostly while craving a sweet and familiar musical cinnamon bun,
nose pinned, I nibble navy beans, trying not to look glum.
Olives are steadfast, necessary, and traditional like classical.
Peanut butter is my snappy punk with always delicious chocolate rock,
quiet psychedelic music swirls like the reflective pools that frame the Taj.
Rap is a frozen margarita, best spicy, in open air, loud, preferably in a jacuzzi.
Sweet tea, my soul, my tradition, my standard, my Souza march.
Toasted cheese, buttery and smiling, personal, smooth, like soul, big.
Ukeleles bring island music instead, as a Pina Colada, cools me off.
Victrola arms skim the notes of big band, ballroom, swing dance,
while their grand kids eat pizza to the sounds of a garage band.
‘Xpecting dessert to be the best part of the meal is my rule for music.
You’ve got to have room for butter cream or cheesecake or sing the blues.
Zydeco won’t save you. Neither will meat loaf or the filling, predictably polka.
Tree Swing
Astronaut’s
brisk
carriage
delicately
elevates,
flying
galaxy
high,
instantly
jetting,
knifing,
leaf-like.
Motoring
Neptune-bound
off
playground
quest.
Reeling
swing,
twirls
upward.
Voyages
without
Xenon.
Yearning
zero-gravity.
(Day 17)
TENNESSEE SWING
A random mention of your name
and I pause in recollection
of Tennessee summers
hotter than the stifling city
we fled each June
to travel south to your
parents’ farmhouse
with its wrap-around porch
and wide wooden swing.
We’d sway back and forth,
catching the breeze
and drinking lemonade,
while you played rock ‘n roll
on your transistor radio,
daydreaming of the King
or some Prince Charming.
Do you remember, Olivia,
how we talked of princesses?
How you said you’d name
your firstborn Elvis?
We were only
skinny Yankee girls,
pretending hollyhocks were
pink-skirted ladies-in-waiting,
when you were crowned
Gibson County’s strawberry queen.
In the old photograph,
clipped from the local gazette,
you forever wear a regal smile.
The porch swing is empty now,
your parents gone so many years
and everyone else moved away.
Where are you now?
I only see you online,
where you are still pretty though older
than I would have thought,
yet unmistakably you,
with your pensive smile,
looking as if you still dream
of princes.
–Marcia Jaron Morley
“So Long As I Go Somewhere”
It’s the swing vote
on where these feet should go
that knocks me off of my base.
Free limbed
and flailing
body without a tether.
Different earths
sediments
and layers
cast lots to keep me
but with no promise of a map.
Only Cheshire Cat hands to point me
in the direction of my way.
So long,
farewell,
the ballots are surely still in the box
preparing for the sway.
Swing
You are here.
Safe as a car seat,
feet on the dirt,
seat on the narrow board
bird in a cage, bored
out of your mind.
You’re born and die
a dog on a chain
in a gravity well.
Might as well be a chair,
in a shrouded salon,
horsehair divan
wedged against a Victorian wall.
Knowing you end with the dust you began with
doesn’t mean you can’t thrust yourself upward.
Children are flying on chains all around you:
you’ve done it too, remember how it feels to let go.
Let yourself loose
and you can stop time in mid-air.
Try yourself out of the grasp of the earth.
Reach the place where nothing exists but the choice:
fall back or fly. Trust yourself as you fall
with your back to the ground, dropping
spine-first into your past.
If you don’t mean to rise again
what do you intend?
___
Barbara E. Young
Wrong Address
I walked into the land
of do as you please
and found the neighborhood
of hopes and dreams
where I came upon the house
of Mr. Opportunity.
I knocked on the door
and a man peeked outside
to ask who I was, if I please,
so I said I would like to speak
with Mr. Opportunity
since lately, it seems, he’s forgotten me.
He swung the door shut in my face
so I yelled and screamed and
kicked and cried.
Then three doors down
behind a blue door
came a little old man
who smiled and said
I think you’re looking for me.
Natalie Gasper
Clever concept here, Natalie.
Just a Theory
According to Zeno’s paradox
I could spend eternity
Splitting the distance
Between us
And never reach your lips
Lips that Gillespie-Nyholm theorized
Could never truly touch
If this were scientifically proven
Would you concede
That without imagination
A kiss from this kind of science
Has a tendency to suck
_Sarah Metzler
Excellent, Sarah. 🙂
SWING BACK
Jack Benny plays Gran’s
Tunes; the dance floor swings in time –
Fireflies glint flashbacks.
The Porch Swing
The little white frame house sits near the road
surrounded by the ordinary things–
A neat, green yard and stately cedar trees
a narrow gravel drive, the flowers of spring.
Its most impressive feature is the swing,
an empty vessel subject to the breeze.
It moves in creaking rhythm with the wind.
It has no loving couple now to please.
This simple wooden structure once held lives,
once cradled two whose dreams were intertwined.
Its movements seemed a song of life to one
whose restless days held little peace of mind.
For years I saw them sitting side by side.
My youthful eyes beheld them through the haze.
While walking by and squinting at the sun,
I thought of how they smiled and shared their days.
I’ve learned at least one lesson since that time:
that those who swing on porches aren’t aware
of folks like me who watch and analyze
and build them into symbols great and rare.
“I do…do I?”
Should we confine it with a ring…?
Our minds wrapped around the hustle
Back and forth we swing
Stuck on the puzzle
Swing
As teens we hiked
Over the mountains
To get to the other side
To a lovely oasis
Called Maracas bay
At the top of the mountain
Between the leaves
Little glimpse of the ocean
Draw you close to the edge
Where the trunk of trees
Grew branches that extend like a rope
And there is where the young men played
A dangerous game
That they called swing
The voices began to shout
And the wager was made
One person said
Hold on to the swing
Swing out and back in again
If you let go
You are out of the game
So the line was formed
Hold on
Push out
And he was gone
Out into nothingness
In a fraction of minutes
All stood still
Holding our breaths
He swung back in again
Young men risking their necks
In a game, they called swing
I like it! It reminds me of my childhood when siblings, friends, and I climbed trees, swung on vines over creeks, and slid down banks. No computers, no video games, only three TV channels and an AM radio. I suppose these comments put a date on me. I’m in my sixties.
WHILE WE WERE SWINGING
by Nancy Susanna Breen
We always begged for a push on the swings,
whether we played on the park’s heavy chain
and metal pipe contraptions or on our own
flimsy backyard set. As she placed her hands
on the swing seat and shoved, Grandma
loved to chant How would you like
to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue?
Stevenson’s poem was probably the first
I ever memorized, although Grandma
always stopped after the second stanza.
Up in the air and over the wall,
till I can see so wide…
Her voice swept up the waltz
in the rhythm, giving special emphasis
to Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
ever a child can do! Even if she recited
the first line only, my inner voice would take up
where she left off, my pumping legs carrying me
forward and back with each line break.
Up in the air I go flying again,
up in the air and down…
Hello, Goodbye>/b>
You took us to the neighbors’ house to play,
set us on swings rooted in the yard
and watched from the window.
I think of this
in the hum of a world gone silent
at the news of your body
found in some shallow west of home,
an unknown skeleton to all but we
who knew of your missing.
The news speaks of your remains,
but I hear the song we sang
on warm afternoons flying and dipping on swings.
Hello as we rose to meet your gaze.
Goodbye as we sank to earth
and you floated out of sight.
Oh no! Typo on the html …
Hello, Goodbye
You took us to the neighbors’ house to play,
set us on swings rooted in the yard
and watched from the window.
I think of this
in the hum of a world gone silent
at the news of your body
found in some shallow west of home,
an unknown skeleton to all but we
who knew of your missing.
The news speaks of your remains,
but I hear the song we sang
on warm afternoons flying and dipping on swings.
Hello as we rose to meet your gaze.
Goodbye as we sank to earth
and you floated out of sight.
haunting–a moving comment on how childhood can be invaded and destroyed
The Old Porch Swing
The old porch swing is idle now.
No one sways it to and fro.
No creak is heard from rusted chains.
Only an occasional breeze stirs its sleep.
Peals of laughter from the past
Echo only in my memory.
All who shared the pleasurable times
Have left this world and are at rest.
Still I remember all those times
Spent in swinging back and forth
With loved ones young and old
On the old porch swing that is idle now.
lovely, bittersweet–reminder of the joy a simple swing can bring
My swing poem has a similar theme–hope you’ll read it
SWINGTIME
Growing older has not dampened my enjoyment
Of swinging in the park, swinging on the
Porch swing, rocking gently in the
Living room as I knit or crochet.
Or swing dancing with myself to
Lovely music from my mother’s youth.
I blame it all on her, and I can believe that
She, whom I never saw take a dance step
With my father, secretly listened to the radio
During the war while she was carrying me.
That’s why I treasure Tommy Dorsey and Vaughn
Monroe’s silver tones – and any number of
Tunes turned this week’s number one – played
On the radio as I cruise about town.
I know that Daddy relished music on the radio;
I have that photo of him at a young age,
Crouched in front of the huge wood case,
Tuning a station – hoping for rhythmical news.
The official version of their love story is all about
Her playing the church organ while he sings;
Or her accompanying his baritone on the piano
During vocal contests – we have the old records.
Yet I know that Momma must have bounced a bit
To Hoagy Carmichael or Dinah Shore, Bing or Gene –
She wasn’t a soap opera fan, after all – and my love of
Tunefulness, soft harmonies, and full, rounded
Vocal tones make for great background music in my
Ears as I swing through my days at home or on the road.
Busy
My life should exist on a merry-go-round
neatly divided in to the appropriate number
of wedges for all aspects of life
home
work
reading
crocheting
singing
dancing
cooking
cleaning
TVing
getting outsiding
planting
friending
dreaming
A swing, you see
would be very impractical
a seat on two strings
with only two options
back or forth
up or down
high or low
what a boring life
to have only two choices
I prefer life as a carousel
A clever take on life – a grab for the brass ring!
On Dying
Some believe it all goes dark in an instant,
a departure with no connecting destination;
others speak of the separation of body and soul,
floating high above your own earthly form,
watching the scene unravel, dream-like,
before a glorious, glowing light leads the way.
I’d like to imagine that God is more creative,
that he pulls out wishes buried deep and plays
them out, each journey somehow personalized.
Perhaps I will go back to being six, swinging
as high as possible on the playground, legs
extending and falling in a steady rhythm,
pumping harder, faster, trying to touch
the tip of my toes to the corner of a cloud.
When the light appears, I’ll let go, propelling
myself upward, soaring higher and higher
into a world of white, wings forming in the mist.
oops! forgot my name!!!! Sorry.
Linda Hofke
And with this I am caught up!
Outside
Leaves dancing slowly
Swinging children laughing loud
Running dogs barking
Pendulum
Shiny and round
some were gold
some silver
Distorting my face
beady eyes and huge nose
close to the glass as it could get
Tick and tock
Back and forth
My favorite was bronze
with an antique patina
delicate carvings of flowering thistle
The sides of that one
were all glass
so you could see the inner workings
Cogs and catches
Intricate mechanism like its own universe
lovely saddle harnessing time itself
I begged to sleep in that room
when I was little
No one else would
They said the noise would keep them awake
Noise!
For me, a chorus of voices
reminding me I was here
every hour on the hour
and some on the half
Small couch in the center
eyes above the blanket
watching the rhythmic swinging
Back and forth
Tick and tock
Hypnotic
It was never the sound
that kept me awake
Just the beauty of the pendulum
and being an integral part
of time
“Swing”
When the ground shook
did your heart?
Did it swing within
your chest?
A. Ault
Swing-thing Going On
The neon lights of Broadway
shine not my name or photograph,
but without me
the show does not go on.
An understudy of sorts,
hard work and dedication
prepare me to fill in
absence of any member of the ensemble.
Ready on moment’s notice,
different role any night
I swing on Broadway stage
the final ovation is mine
I’ve got that swing-thing going on.
Lorraine Caramanna
You are so talented!
My Someone
at 11 pm
i talk him into walking
several blocks away
to swing at the park
he puts up with a lot
and watches me swing because
that’s not really his thing
but swinging is my thing
i’ve been swinging between extremes
for as long as i can remember
at 3 am i find myself painting on the door
cleaning the house
rearranging all of the furniture
and then i don’t get out of bed
for 3 months
except when i absolutely have to
some days i refuse to speak to him
until past noon
when i can finally feel myself begin to breathe
the next day
i call him
five times
in thirty minutes
but it’s okay because
he’s used to watching me swing now
it doesn’t even make him dizzy anymore
Faith Owen
Porch Swing
I feel like I walked here
with someone who is about
to die, he said.
You did, I thought.
I let him lay his head
on my lap, and we stared out
at the summer grass
until it turned brown and
dry, the red wagon lost
on the lawn
where the children
used to play,
buildings growing
into a city around us.
He asked me, what sense
does it make? And I wanted
to say, it doesn’t make any.
Instead, I sat silently swinging
and watched him walk away.
Julie Germain
One Morning
She watches from the kitchen window how
he lifts each round to split, his movement smooth,
a graceful dance—set log, heft ax, arch swing,
crisp crash for splintered chunks and kindling.
Again, again, his breath clouds in a puff
at each stroke’s chuck; she feels him in her bones.
She polishes a teacup ‘til it squeaks,
matching her breaths with his, graceful and calm,
wash, rinse, and dry, her hands a mindless waltz.
She sees that he has taken off his coat
and stands wiping his face with handkerchief.
She bets that soon his shirt and vest will go,
and he’ll stand bare-backed, muscled round and tight.
Anticipating heat makes her face burn,
and somehow sensing her, he stops and turns
to smile, his little wave tossed in the air.
She almost drops the cup still in her hand,
but blushes, nods. The coffee is still warm.
She may as well help him to take a break,
wait while his swallows ripple down his throat,
stand near him with her hand along his back,
drink in the morning, quiet by his side,
warmed by his heat, the dishes mostly done.
He’s lost his concentration anyway.
Swing Me
We didn’t care that joints could pop,
that we could lose our grasp—fly—drop.
We’d rather that they never stop,
our Daddy’s swings.
He grasps our ankles, waists, and wrists;
his arms are taut, his hands in fists;
we rise and float, light as a kiss
on Daddy’s swings.
Sometimes I feel them in my dreams,
his arms around me, trust unseamed,
and love flies free, a wondrous thing,
from Daddy’s swings.
The branches swing
in the wind
dancing, playing
in the soft
spring breeze.
bi=polar
inhaling paradise, it was a small wonder
no one gaped at goddess, clothed only in
talaria and too sweet springtime intoxication.
a balanced practice torn asunder,
left to blow away without a trace
under waves of her jubilant thunder.
mortality reclaims lost ground as flood,
rotting the fruits of maniacal conviction,
exposing the impermanence of erudition,
wit steals off to oblivion, tracks lost in mud.
the lightest pen strokes easiest to erase, efface.
confidence crumples, kneels to praise ground with a
resounding thud.
The loner’s swing of bliss
He climbed the highs of bliss
and used too many ropes to swing
He missed the grounding fields of love
And got his roots pulled out by all the lust.
He craved amazing sex
And missed amazing human beings
He never stayed long enough to know
The best rides came after the cigarette.
He looked for perfect
and found a perfect knot
He said “I love you always”
but always meant, “I love you not”.
By Jocy Medina
Swing
The swing of a bat
the haft of wood never
ceases to bring spring alive
baseball to others a rite, a game.
The pull of an oar
sending shells through
water
a swish through summer heat.
All games to make one sane
if not lean remain undone.
I desk bound grow older, wider
not wiser.
My mood swings lower
each day as I paper hunt
and paper bury.
Even my dreams are negative.
So
Today
I chose to swing free up
toward the sky.
Today
I choose to swing free
of negative vibes surrounding
me filling my head with
lead cotton.
I
Swing
Megan McDonald
Swing
Come, swing dance, twirl with me,
throw me on your shoulder.
Toss me to the ground with glee,
save me with a smoulder.
Spin me round the room with you,
never make a blunder
lift me, swing me, fly with me,
spread your legs and pass me under.
I will keep up, step-by-step,
I’ll bounce and sway and dance, dear
I’ll keep up with your quicksteps, too,
with no pause, doubt or fear.
I just want to dance with you,
Can’t you see my soul is bopping?
I want to dance the whole night through
and never dream of stopping.
Diana Terrill Clark