For today’s prompt, take the phrase “This Is What (Blank) Looks Like,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Example titles might be: “This Is What Awesome Looks Like,” “This Is What a Poem Looks Like,” or “This Is What Love Looks Like.”
Here’s my attempt:
“This Is What Settled Looks Like”
Wedged in the cushions of your couch watching “The Office”
and telling me how you could never work in one at your age
(mid-30′s), how your chance to go to college has passed–
and besides, you’ve never been one to play by the rules,
though in the old days (when America was great, you say)
people could expect to show up for work and be able to get
whatever they wanted without any hassle, but yeah, if any
guy wants to make it now, he has to go to college or kiss up
and you say you’re not one for that. No, believe me, I know
just by watching you burn through another pack of cigarettes,
crack open another beer, and man the remote control, I know
that you’re not the kind to do anything but bitch and whine
about your rotten luck and settle deeper into your recliner
as America buzzes along outside your shuttered windows.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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This Is What I Look Like
“Okay, this is what I look like. Okay?”
“Um, oookay . . .”
“What?”
“It’s just . . .”
“Just . . . what?”
“Well . . .”
“Ugly? I know.”
“You said it, not me.”
“I am you.”
THIS IS WHAT MEMORY LOOKS LIKE
From a linen closet she carefully extracts a box
of rags. She needs a magnifying glass, now,
to see the fabric patterns – sprays of lilac
that appalled her daughter, whose 5th grade class
was wild for horses; the scrap of red sash
salvaged from a kindergarten tussle; sky-blue
rayon from the borderland of high school’s
senior year. The thick glass trembles light
between her fingers as she smooths each worn
square. Here’s nothing she could throw away.
This is what Tyranny looks like
Absolute monarchy of an undesirable kind
The coronation of an insolent mind
Medieval notion
In modern quotient
How often must we drink the potion
Pervasive evil, restraining democracy
Unwilled rule of insufferable autocracy
Nietzche reacted
Rand redacted
Still suffocating rules are enacted
Flesh Field released their personal edict
While we await the final verdict
Tireless force
Spiraling course
Screaming til our thoughts are hoarse
Arising to a new tomorrow
Will they exist with us in sorrow
Shiver don’t blink
Indelible ink
No one can tell you what you think
So many wonderful poems here. So much talent represented. Kudos to each and every one of you!
As I sit here alone
I contemplate.
How I let you walk upstairs
Away from my screams.
How I let you start to pack a suitcase
Including the cologne that makes me forget how I hate you.
How I let you fold one shirt after another.
Let you carry that suitcase down those three flights of stairs.
How I just let you walk out the door without a complaint.
Because maybe I don’t care,
Maybe it’s not you I need.
Maybe I’m past help,
Because this is what lonely looks like.
THIS IS WHAT COUNTRY LOOKS LIKE
(c) 2012 – G. Smith (BMI)
——————————————–
A red dirt road,
Mud on the tires;
A red neck girl,
A ring of fire.
Good old boys,
John Deere green;
A long black train,
Tight fittin’ jeans.
A man in black,
A coal miner’s daughter;
A neon moon,
Stars on the water.
Blue eyes cryin’,
In the rain,
On the banks,
Of the old Pontchartrain;
This is what country looks like;
That’s whatever it is.
This is what country looks like;
That’s whatever it is.
Tennessee whiskey,
Waylon’s guitar;
Tall, tall trees,
Your cheating heart.
Midnight in Montgomery,
A lost highway,
Amarillo by morning,
Marina del Rey;
High cotton,
A boy named Sue,
Family tradition,
Good ol’ mountain dew.
A mansion on the hill;
A house without love,
Praying for daylight
On the wings of a dove.
This is what country looks like;
That’s whatever it is.
This is what country looks like;
That’s whatever it is.
Yes,
This is what country looks like;
That’s whatever it is.
This is what country looks like;
That’s whatever it is.
This Is What My Crippled Heart Looks Like
your perfumed tidings, obscure
your barmier requests, absurd
a chocolate covered lesion
scornful of love’s mischief
evasive of solicited passion
self-governing erratic flightiness
Come-hither, christen these parched lips
your sweet poison doth taint
my crippled heart
©~ Randy Bell ~
Oh, Randy … so poetically powerful …
Just checking in to let you all know that I have three poems accepted in upcoming online journals: two in Lucid Rhythms, and another, “Careful in the Fog” (originally titled “Let’s Be Careful in the Fog”), which I wrote for this April’s PAD, will be in the next issue of Tilt-a-Whirl, a journal for repeating poetic forms.
CONGRATULATIONS AGAIN, BRUCE! KEEP IT UP!!
“This is What Chaos Personified Looks Like”
Her laughter was brittle
As she stared at the stars
Thinking of how very little
It all means, insofar
As why people crave passions
And wish to catch a lover’s eye
When Love so easily fashions
Itself to wither and die
Was it right of her to use
The golden apple, a gift
As a device to abuse,
To make a jealous rift
Between three goddesses of grace,
And to drive a man of power
To start a war and deface
Troy, for some feminine flower?
However, it all did spurn
An orchestra of chaotic chorus
Which she so hungrily yearns
For, for madness to flourish
Her mantra spoken in murmur,
While at the universe she gazed,
“Love may cause a joyous fervor,
But it’s more fun when Hell is raised.”
THIS IS WHAT VALOR LOOKS LIKE
“On October 27, 1967 I met with my mother. She’d been dead since September 30, 1959. At 8:00 P.M. local time, Con Thien, Vietnam, as artillery shells landed within inches of my position with the Third Marines, my world, my body and my mind explosively turned upside down and inside out.” ~ Daniel Paicopulos
What do I know of my mother
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
D e a d
at my teenage feet.
What do I know of being
blown
a*p*a*r*t
in body and spirit
at the hands of an enemy
I didn’t choose.
What do I know of channeling
raging pain
into charity for my fellow man.
What do I know of love,
benevolent and boundless,
born of anguish.
What do I know of smiling
eyes
lips
heart
for every being in my path.
What would I know of heroism,
but for you?
I kind of hope Daniel doesn’t see this, as he’d be embarrassed.
But truly, he is a hero whether or not he sees himself that way. If you wish, you can read more about him in his interview at http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/07/12/poet-interview-daniel-paicopulos/ .
This is hauntingly beautiful. What a truly moving, memorable way to honor Daniel. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks so much. I feel like my little poem does absolutely no justice to who he is and what he has been through, but I felt like I just had to do something to honor him.
THIS IS WHAT CONTENTMENT LOOKS LIKE
I see your head on my breast
Eyes closed in peaceful rest.
A smile’s splayed across your lips
As you dream of life’s simplicities.
Your weight warms my heart
And comforts my soul,
With the knowledge of your existence.
My love for you is constant.
It has neither a beginning
Nor has it an end.
My sweet daughter
You were part of me before time.
So lovely. I feel the contentment, and there is nothing else like it.
THIS IS WHAT LOSS LOOKS LIKE
The rueful moon has gone away. Last month’s
moon. It’s dead. I walk out under night-sky
guiding on Saturn and a few faint stars.
The old dog leads the way. Wist Tramping-Song
in my head from dogs and hikes gone by.
Old folk songs never die. The new puppy’s
on her first dark walk, sniffing how the night-
world smells when everything’s passed by, every
thing we knew before. Here’s the rock-pile
loved by foxes. No foxes live here anymore.
THIS IS WHAT SEEING LOOKS LIKE
On the road from here to there,
two-lane winding downriver into the next
county, a glimpse
out the corner of my eye –
narrow strip of littered shoulder,
flurry of rust-red wings –
hawk? scrabbling gravel for a field mouse?
Already, I’m past. No
turnout. Too late. I don’t brake
my car in the middle
of the road, get out. Intervene in a hawk’s
honest hunger?
I might have grabbed
my camera, but keep on driving,
hawk-strike developing behind the eye –
if nothing else, a poem.
WHAT SILENCE AND UNDERSTANDING LOOKS LIKE
The black granite shines
reflecting upon the edge of the harbor
and reflecting the harbor back.
The water’s gentle churn resounds,
a sound imperceived as the moments pass.
Embossed in chiseled stone
memorarums to the fallen; some forgotten.
Row after row; panel after panel.
An open air chapel for the altar of sacrifice,
on a nice day the agony still burrows deeply.
Glints of sunlight, bright; a beam of light
shines down on a solitary soul.
Wheel bound, he has found his way to the place
where the name matches the face emblazoned
in his head. His dead friend; his deceased brothers -
others given up for honor and freedom.
Leather straps securing legs repurposed,
service cap drawn closely, mostly to shield
the tears his worn eyes yield for his comrades.
Sobs pierce the solitude, rude interrupters
of his memories so haunting. A daunting
task. Head lowers to hand inconsolably,
the toll inflicted on the so afflicted.
I place a hand softly on his shoulder;
his head swivels swiftly to my nod and sad smile.
He covers my hand and I stand in silence.
His tears fall; all he wanted was for someone
to understand. Knowing he wasn’t alone.
Pride that has long been squelched
finds a chance to shine again.
“Thank you for your service, my friend!”
Walt, your words are compelling and touching. I’m tearing up.
Tearing up in part because of the power and sentiment of your piece, and in part because it means so much to me to see your strong poetic heart is not lost in the physical and emotional pulls on your health.
Stay strong.
This will stay with me, both because of the wisdom of the message and because of the beauty of the composition.
THIS IS WHAT SURVIVAL LOOKS LIKE
It’s a long drive to get there.
Left behind a husband, a faithful old
dog. Got away so fast, you left
your baggage, do’s-don’ts sit-stays.
Just an untrained puppy.
Past the outskirts, up the two-
lane till it unpaves. No compass map
no rations leash. Boots & paw-
prints in dust lost
to granite up grinding river. Horizon.
A pup lives by its teeth, you
by your hand. Voice a new inventing
language. This is how you become
yourselves, partners. It’s all
about the drive. Away, to. Prey,
pray. What you can catch
to keep the two of you
till you arrive. Survive to go at last
back home.
THIS IS WHAT WALKABLE IS
You have to be above the ground to know
to distinguish the landscape as it lays
before your eyes. Where green and yellow plays
where purple flowers wave, watch pollen flow
around you. As you glide through wispy clouds
following the tree line on the fault,
descending, broken branches somersault
down the hillside, fleeing from the crowds
of the thick foliage. Here a soul can spin
the raw material of a fertile mind
let the strands of thoughts converge to find
the unimagined truth that lies within
you. Nothing planned, or plotted out, or drawn
drafted onto spaces, custom made,
no, not geometrical, nor straight or staid . . .
Gradually descending onto a lawn
your back upon the grass. You look on high,
lick your finger, figure where the breeze
is blowing. Find a good spot, seize
the wind and soar beyond, let loose, and cry
out, “So this is where I’m bound to set my feet
on land that doesn’t tell me very much.”
to seek it out, as you are wont to touch
the objects that my eyes reach. There to greet
what you have surveyed. It’s time get back down
now that you understand the place where you
are. The paths lined with flowers blooming, true
to their roots beneath, sharing with them, you own
this turf together with everything that lives
here, partners in creation, each one strives
being the thing they are and never alone.
Zev Davis
What Peace Looks Like
Sunlight softens its glare,
Animating air with florescence
Through rose-tinted clouds.
Birdsongs grow silent,
Crickets delay their chatter,
Nature, steeped in awe, pauses,
Absorbing the glow that caresses,
Lightens, renews the soul.
Tensions fade.
The glow’s secure shroud
Softens my furrowed brow,
Clears my cluttered mind.
With certainty, I see
All is as it should be.
This is what peace looks like.
Yes Hannah –
I am SURE we were trying to overlap each other’s posting a knocking each other off.:( Will try again later.
XO MMT
Thank you for the prompt, Robert!!
Will post and run for now. Lot’s of error posting too quickly comments tonight. No patience for that jazz…maybe the machine will be less temperamental tomorrow.
Here’s my thoughts if you like:
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/07/12/this-is-what-anger-looks-like/
Happy writing everyone!!
KYRIELLE abcb 8-8-8-8- PA 7-18-12
This is What DISPAIR Looks Like
Ann is the sunshine at office,
Boss calls her, which is surprising
‘”…helping your hubby go to school.
but…the company is downsizing.”
Next old Ben, his wife has been sick,
Nineteen years, work he’s been doing,
Suddenly aged. Who will hire old man?
but…the company is downsizing.
I get the call. It’s hard to breath.
Son was set for college going.
Scholarship, savings just fall short.
but…the company is downsizing.
Lost Med’s, plus benefits are gone.
Plans put on hold, no more dreaming.
Payments due where no job exists,
but…the company is downsizing.
I am getting here a day late, but I hope you will find and enjoy my poem at http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/07/12/365-creativity-project-day-185/
This is what no power looks like
A heat shower with no relief
Another run to the nursing home
Throwing away food and hiding the fact
Yes he would have eaten green cheese and ham
This is what a lie looks like
Sharp and small cutting and true
Power and heat go hand in hand
And we say everything is fine and can we move on.
This is what Alzheiemers looks like
Blank blind stares unknowing of the heat and shadows.
`blank blind stares’- makes this poem touch my heart, and I am sure many others were touched by this as well.
Yes, touched deeply. Hits too powerfully, and too close to home.
This is What Sorrow Looks Like
Mornings are the worst
For each awakening brings
A few moments of forgetfulness
When everything is at it was …
Then as sure as the sun is rising
So is the grief ready to spring
Back into place reminding her
Not one part of her world
Remains the same, not one part
She is tempted to roll over
Try to go back to sleep; has promised
Her doctor there will be no more of that
She staggers to the kitchen, starts coffee
Sits and stares out the window, wonders
How she will get through another day
Why she should bother – she finds herself
Looking at their photos – her kids, husband
While she sips her coffee and asks them
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”
The same question every day.
She knows how unhealthy it is that she keeps
Going over that day again and again
But she can’t seem to stop and really—
Who could blame her?
Once they were a family of five
Now she lives on alone …
They were all set to go camping
But she had to work late
She begged her husband to wait
He wanted to get an early start
She gave in, said she’d meet them
At the campground—no-one
Could have predicted a tornado
On that blue sky day in that part
of the country especially
She was on the freeway when she heard
The news and in a flash of insight she knew,
She knew they were gone
She almost drove off an overpass deliberately
Then told herself to stop being ridiculous
Drove on until she reached the campground
In time to find it cordoned off – demolished
It is hard to grieve the dead
When no part of them is left
To identify or lay to rest
The doctors explained to her
Part of her recovery process
Is stalled because she expects
To see her children still
She doesn’t think that’s it
She knows they’re all gone
Blown to infinitesimal bits of nothingness
She knows she’s not recovering
Because she doesn’t see the point
She does agree with the doctors
Who say she’s angry
She is that — awakes in the night screaming,
“Why couldn’t you have waited for me?”
If only they’d waited, she thinks
Dead or alive, at least they’d all be together
That much she knows.
S.E.Ingraham©
This is what middle-aged nostalgia looks like…
Yearbooks pulled from dusty old shelves:
our youthful portraits from the past.
It’s funny how we saw ourselves.
Yearbooks pulled from dusty old shelves.
We’ve aged: we’re not some magic elves.
Would we go back? We can’t recast
our youthful portraits from the past.
Yearbooks pulled from dusty old shelves.
###
RJ, Just what I needed, a trip to Nostalgia.
This is what the Pursuit of Clean Arches Look Like
They are crescent moons that pinked
over and lost their light. Eyebrows,
raw by the aftermath of hot wax,
draw undreamed-of attention.
Stripped skin may be the window
for fear to show its scars,
where vanity’s hands
are stuck to their design.
What this Dream Looks Like
A collage of faces behind closed eyes
appears along roads well-travelled
and those left to be taken, if ever,
reflections of choices made
and those left for another day
mark my passage
as I run along,
mull among murmuring crowds
and throngs of people along the street,
never quite arriving at the places
where I think I should be.
Resentments turn to understanding,
and consternation turns to peace
while dawn leaves inner conversations waiting
for another night to come
while my haven hides behind the sun.
Good one, Mike.
Thank you, Sara.
This is what sorrow looks like
Sunshine beams down on the dying grass.
The spot where the wading pool rested
Almost all summer long, is already bare.
The tree has lost the branch where the swing
Once hung; the cluster of forsythia bushes
Where the younger girls played with their
Barbie dolls has been cut to the ground.
Softly, from another block, we hear the
Tinkling melody of the ice cream truck.
My friend, who is driving, wipes her eyes
With a tissue, then turns the ignation. We
Drive away in silence, quickly, before the
Piper’s call has unleashed a batch of children
That are not our own.
What this Dream Looks Like
A collage of faces behind closed eyes
appears along roads well-travelled
and those left to be taken, if ever,
reflections of choices made
and those left for another day
mark my passage
as I run along,
mull among murmuring crowds
and throngs of people along the street,
never quite arriving at the places
where I think I should be,
while resentments turn to understanding
and consternation turns to peace,
while dawn leaves inner conversations waiting
for another night to come
while my haven hides behind the sun.
What This County Road Looks Like
Two lanes of concrete
of a county road
reflect sunlight
mirage dreams
of destinations still unknown
while surrounded by fields
of towering corn.
Signs with unfamiliar names
gridding the scene
mark my way
while I ease my passage
through a pastoral landscape.
Some may call it God’s country,
as another morning of reflections
stirs undying memories
of a life spent
in another time and place.
I recently visited the Antietam Battlefield in Maryland. It is stunningly preserved Civil War battle site and is the bloodiest day in American history.
“This is What War Looks Like”
Nobel cannons alight
upon historic hills,
peek over manicured ruins,
picket fences, swaying fields,
resplendently wrapped in honor.
Sing a valiant warrior’s song,
one of glory well worth the loss
of an ideal vanquished.
This is what war looks like
when what lies beneath
gleaming waves of grain
and shining rows of corn
is forgotten.
by Margaret Bednar, Art Happens 365, July 12, 2012
Wonderful poem, Margaret.
Poignant. It speaks to me.
This is what time looks like…
…an old woman, cold and grey, sitting on a park bench, feeding opportunistic pigeons.
…a lonely, middle-aged bachelor,
closing the door to his 4th floor walk up studio apartment
and then listening to angry couples battle it out
in a counterpoint to the evening news,
as it passes through the thin walls.
…a baby who just discovered his or her toes for the first time.
But what does it really look like?
We wait for it to arrive
and then, before we’ve gotten a good look at it,
it passes right in front of us
and leaves us bobbing in its wake.
We believe
time slips through clouds and crevices
only to reappear
in a later version
of its earlier self,
But this newer incarnation
may not find itself
necessarily changed for the better,
since time, like the rest of us,
doesn’t always learn from the past.
So, does it really march on,
on little foggy cat-feet
or in polished jackboots,
waiting for a chance
to reassert its quicksilver persona?
And if it does, can we paint a portrait of it with an expensive sable brush full of eloquent words?
“Had we but world enough, and time,”
or “A day: a period of twenty-four hours, mostly misspent,”
or is it just “love in the time of cholera?”
So what does time look like?
I’m not sure at this point, but I won’t just bide it until it’s gone.
###
I like this choice for the prompt. Well done.
This is What Grace Looks Like
It’s falling
not from
but into
some fine downy place
where there are no mirrors
and forgiveness spills soft like quiet rain.
It’s flapping
worn, wobbly
patchwork wings
flinging baggage
to the whispered wind
and never having to see it again.
It’s failing
and finding
that flailing
can be flying
if you only know how very much
you’re loved, and where to set your eyes.
.
This is what Passion Looks Like
The long fingers absently stroke
A stray lock of hair from curtaining the eyes
The eyes sparkle with an inner light
Life in a face otherwise locked in fierce concentration
Dew breaks out on already flushed cheeks
Long moments when breath is forgotten
Muscles act on their own accord
Arms flail in the moment of crescendo
Genius breaks forth, for a moment visible
As a human transitions into divine joy
That moment of perfection for the Conductor, the Professor,
the Philosopher, the Scientist find truth from utter joy
A Dog Looks Like This
It is only a lump
of cold clay
in my hand – fine
porcelain from a slab
plunked down
in the middle of the table
after dinner
I mash it a bit and twist
out the curve
of utter recline
up pop the knobby peaks
that always protruded
behind the last rib
giving way
to a landscape
of smooth belly rolling
a ball by the fire
under what appears
to be knuckles I pinch
up and wet brush
an oversized head
to produce
the enormous ears
of which we were proud
I can almost
hear him sing
It is a body I known well –
from the screw of crooked
tail broken, I suppose,
in a door or something
unanticipated
(by previous owner) – to the muscular
forearms that run
carelessly
up chest and rock
jawline – Then
a hint of hind leg
pokes from under
the longer one stretched
out like a yawn,
parallel to the penis
he never thought about
much at all
“knew” not “known”
This is what the sun looks like
have you ever chanced it
have you ever dared it
to look to the brilliance of
the noon day
people say
there is no turning back
once your head is turned
to the horizon at dawn
the rolling fog at dusk
the zenith
when the sun just begins to
become weary
and rubs its eyes
clean of the sandman’s bag of tricks
i have
once
stared straight into the hollow
mess of goldens and greens
and she stared back at me
to behold the glory is to behold the pain
breathless i sagged
transfixed upon the swirling
surfaces which up to that point
had never drawn more than shielded sight
there is a moment when you ask yourself
is there where i should be
have i seen through the gates of hell
and peered upon the land of burning towers
then the beauty
the majesty
this is no hell
this is no purgatorial story
this is the end of it all
she smiled once
for after that moment
my face bathed in a new kind of warmth
she is the only sight i can see
she fills my eyes
when the lights go out
for my days and nights all look the same
with her in my eyes
shadows have run in fear
for i hold the secret to their demise
she is all i see
THIS IS WHAT BREAKING LOOSE LOOKS LIKE
I am the last peanut in an empty jar,
rattling and bouncing around this empty ol’ life.
I am a bit of a nib tucked up under a wing,
securely watching years skitter along
like notes plucked on my heart’s string.
I am a falling star, my path wide with the light
of promise beyond this empty ol’ jar.
I am the last peanut.
Clever, Misk.
“This is what God looks like”
We can see God if we know where to look.
The beautiful azure sky
The deep oceans
with all the fish swimming gracefully in them.
The moon, stars and sun.
The wind gently blowing the leaves on the trees
the thick green grass.
Our amazing blue planet that has all types of life.
the vast universe.
People.
All creatures big and small..
Everywhere you look, God is there.
This is what the evening meadow looks like.
If you look, you can see it.
The meadow, it shines
If you stand quietly in it, in the middle of the purple vetch, beside the thistle, it’s clearest in the evening, when the sun shines slanted and there is an urgency which cuts more sharply across the meadow and reaches out to the small places inside your heart.
Listen
To the low soothing hum of the bumble bees, vibrating out over the vetch and yarrow, disturbing moths just winding up and butterflies just winding down, bending blossoms and dusting pollen into the oblique daylight moments layered upon each other; a lullaby hum for the night.
Look
At the swallows swooping thru the thick, still air, long shadows rolling and weaving over the clover, lifting and bouncing off grass stems, wings disturbing, seeds scatter, lift up in a flutter on umbel wings to float the golden light.
Feel
A calm growing as the light fades and the stillness begins to cover the meadow, cool descending into the warm air, lifting it gently, drying the blossoms, sticky from the day’s effort, the hum, the buzz calming, sinking, fading.
Stand
And say nothing, but watch the last orange sunlight reach the tallest tips of the tallest grassy blossoms, arch over the meadow and glimmer like so many fireflies and wink out.
http://veronicaroth.com/?p=1269
This is what meaning looks like
a tree
in winter
known only by its
smooth
or rough bark,
its patterned
branching
towards
the light –
no fruits, no flowers, no leaves
a mirror
reflecting
the mirror
of our jeweled self,
we press hard on the glass,
tapping, knocking to be let in -
this marriage to the world
a fractured, splintered image
of our own
wanting
Please visit me at – http://unevenstevencu.blogspot.com/
Slight change – sorry
This is what meaning looks like
a tree
in winter
known only by its
smooth
or rough bark,
its patterned
branching
towards
the light –
no fruits, no flowers, no leaves
a mirror
reflecting
the mirror
of your jeweled self,
pressing hard on the glass,
tapping, knocking to be let in -
this marriage to the world
a fractured, splintered image
of your own
wanting
well done – i love this and i love the difference in meaning with hope from the very slight change from “we” to “you” – thank you for sharing
Love this, Steven.
This Is What Our British Summer Looks Like
rain, floods, wind, more rain
the heating on in July
summer clothes unworn
Sigh!
KYRIELLE abab 8-8-8-8-
This is what a Non-dancer looks like.
Often have I wondered about
Why was not I a great dancer
Others I know – just step right out
I don’t get the beat or answer.
Others could always catch the beat
But they called me the bouncer
Moving about on two left feet
I don’t get the beat or answer.
Wheither a loud or soft played tune
To me each is like a canser
I’d come in late or way too soon.
I don’t get the beat or answer.
This Is What Wast Looks Like
Food, fuzzy with green mold,
forgotten in a refrigerator,
rich in assortment
of perishable items
with `use by’ dates.
Clothes hanging in a closet,
price tags dangling, never
worn, yet not returned
nor given to charity.
Plates piled high at buffets
advertising `All You Can Eat’,
by greedy people who can
not eat half of what they have
taken, scraping their plates,
still stacked with food
into garbage bins.
Waste not, want not
unless you have never been wanting.
oops! The title should be, This Is What Waste Looks Like
This is what gratitude looks like.
visitors in a hospital room, soothing
or bringing comfort and hope.
those who go to the dying
and help them write their stories
friends who simply listen and are there.
people who lovingly care for elderly parents
or patiently care for children no one else wants.
those who take time to pray
for all needs of which they are aware.
those who struggle and practice long hours
in order to bring joyful blessings to those
who listen to their music.
those who write poems of thanks and praise
and share them.
those, then, are the people who live gratitude
and have resolved to pass it on.
Robert, that poem kicks butt, in more ways than one!
This is What a Sonnet Looks Like
One thing you must remember: fourteen lines.
And then, pentameter – ten syllables
to each. Iambic beat completes, refines
the rhythm thus: da-DUM, da-DUM, and pulls
the poem along. Caesura gives us pause
mid-line, and helps us mull the message that’s
conveyed, most likely love and all its flaws,
or death or parenthood, or rarely, cats.
And then the turn, the shift in view or tone
that brings a new perspective, all the while
in rhyme, a scheme that Shakespeare seemed to own,
or alternately, the Petrarchan style.
Till finally, a couplet closes things
so neatly that the poem almost sings.
loved this. great little tutorials and its examples in one and especially liked the ending nailed it!
I agree with Steven’s comments. Good work!
This Is What Happily-Ever-After Looks Like
Back at the beginning, we never dreamed this far,
not past the steamy passion, then babies, fun,
good work at fair pay, a home with room to grow.
We rarely thought to look around the corner
at middle age, kids grown, mortgage reduced
to doable, shelves filled with good books read.
Now we’re satisfied with good health, grateful,
accepting aches and pains, laugh lines, hair turning
grey or turning loose, children grown and gone.
The good life consists of long-distance calls,
visits with the grandchildren, falling asleep before
the movie ends, then waking on the couch,
and trundling off to bed—together.
This is what happily ever after looks like—
a little worn around the edges, lived in, piling
up a few more miles, softer, settled, satisfied.
Even if we’d had the foresight to think this far,
I doubt we’d have had the good sense to dream
that after all these years, it would feel so right.
What a nice feel this poem has. This is what marriage should look like.
This is What God Looks Like
A golden sunset on the west side of Maui
A sunrise from atop Fujiyama
A frozen lake in Northern Maine
The pure white sands of the Emerald Coast
The strength of a towering redwood
The frail beauty of a newborn kitten
The wonder of a Portuguese man-of-war
The sparkle in a baby’s mischievous eye
The awesomeness of a flake of snow
No two alike
How can this be
Nice. As seen from the eyes of the soul.
THIS IS WHAT THE LAKE DOESN’T LOOK LIKE
An easy hike up boulder-fields, just stay
on the trail that climbs past timberline to the Lake.
But somehow, following my pup, I went
astray. Did I miss a turn at the old Scout camp?
Nothing but torn-down cabins, a sink,
a flight of concrete steps leading nowhere.
Abandoned sandy paths with rock-
ducks; whoever put them there? Long gone.
Who lives here now? pussy-paw and Indian paint-
brush. Consult my map. A ridge
of sloping granite, somewhere in a jumbled-
granite landscape. Titter of juncos
from the bushes. A sudden pool beneath us, ringed
with reeds, reflecting mountain-blue. Did I
see something blink? And then, wow, was that
an eagle overhead, flying low? but gone
before my mind could grasp. Now, where’s
the way to the Lake? Not from here
by any guide-book. Follow my dog, who knows…
What was that in the reeds that blinked?
Did I really see an eagle?
I’ve never been much for sticking to trails.
So many powerful poems here today. Robert, you began a cascade effect with your terrific piece.
This is What Challenge Looks Like
This is a life of vivid images
Reduced to blurred impressions,
Which forever shift, pulse
And move when least expected;
Where stepping out means a
Trip through a minefield of
Possible hazards, a minefield
Clearly unseen, though required.
This is a life where inner reality
Overshadows that from without,
Hearing a truth most seldom
Brush against in daily wanderings;
A truth telling listeners how people
Really feel when thought unheard,
A truth telling of others’ lives
Spent in silent contemplation.
This is a life overflowing
With intent and comprehensions;
One falsely relegated to the closet
Until fight or flight returned to choose
A path toward continued personhood,
A path swept clean of others’ intents
And blazoned with personal dreams
Leading onward to a future claimed.
“vivid images reduced to blurred impressions”
“inner reality overshadows that from without”
What interesting observations on reality.
This Is What Joy Looks Like
Legs and arms usually faltering, shuffling,
now splashing around in the water.
Body once stiff and contorted,
now floating, zipping, bobbing happily.
A face typically preoccupied with other worlds
now smiles, blows bubbles
and connects with others in an
honest-to-God, shiny eye-to-eye gaze.
This is what joy looks like.
Oh Connie, this made me smile!
Only read Robert’s which was one of your finest – captured the moment and sensibility and point of view vividly and with absolute clarity …. Last line “as America buzzes along outside your shuttered windows.” a knockout!
Hopefully back later to read and comment
This is what a first pay-check looks like
The open road
ribboning out
in endless possibility
of forever freedom
I remember that feeling!
This is what betrayal looks like
————————————————————
Nice!
[This is what "awe" looks like]
That single second
After the impossible
Sings home on first cry
This is what she fought for
She fought both day and night
she gave her all
she never had much to give to anyone
but she heard her call
Supporting others in their time of need
never running around with any greed
others always came before her
she could have callers at any time
day or night banging on her door
A listening ear
an open heart
she asked them to slow down
and tell them where to start
Shelter and patience
was her gift
taking on other peoples problems
is something she could do
A vessel of wonder
a mountain of strenght
she knew what she would do
was time well spent
As the money was in short supply
she still managed to make it go
from one day to the next
even tough her situation was so complex
I guess this was her call
this was her giving it all
others leaned on her
even when her back was up against the wall
Aw Ber … what a tribute to the best of ‘woman-kind’ Bravo! Gave me the sense of the ultimate “good-mother!”
Thanks certainly is a great mother who always provided for everyone else
This is what an Irish summer looks like
Rain pelting pouring down
turning smiles upsdie down
frowning faces eyes full of sad
when surely we should be alive and glad
taping at the window
on it goes
no such thing as sunshine rainbows
clothes gather around the house
no drying in the air
the rocks can fall out of them
do we really care
Understanding thats just the way it is
when it does shine
it lightens us all up inside
shifting our mood
taking us on a floating cloud
of uncontrolable happiness
of childrens laughter
oh what a wonderful sound
Take each day in your stride
dont run from the rain
dont hide
embrace your days
like their all the same
been healthy and happy
we shouldnt complain
As it gives us life
and feeds the food we grow
wont be long now
until its winter
and the snow is on the floor
wow I have never experienced an Irish summer …. until now!
Thank you Ber
It has been such a wet summer this year more than usual. Bring a brolly if you ever visit.
This is beautiful, Ber.
Thanks Sara your very kind
This is what the beginning of forever looks like
bow-tied penguin suits,
pale pink gowns match the sunset,
my angel steps slow,
vows are exchanged, rings slide home,
souls entwine, a new first kiss
Awwwww Rob ….swoon….
My son just got married this week. <3 I feel this!
This is What Money Looks Like
Pictures of dead men’s faces
Star on the front of each bill.
Monumental structures
Feature on the backs.
The White House,
U.S. Capitol,
Independence Hall,
Lincoln Memorial.
Symbols of Freedom,
Seals of the U.S. Treasury.
Different color paper,
Shift-colored ink.
Wadded together,
Shoved into pockets.
Rolled together,
Held with a rubber band,
Folded together,
Clipped with a money clip.
Laying straight,
Placed into a wallet.
Crisp new bills,
Old faded money,
All worth nothing,
But worth everything.
This Is What My Father’s Garage Looks Like
Two car bays and a concrete floor
Covered with oil stains
And kitty litter.
Six tool boxes on rolling carts
With smooth sliding drawers
And flaking red paint.
Apothecary chests filled with
Nuts, bolts and washers
And other knick-knacks.
Retro memorabilia:
The Texaco star
And Ford tractor parts.
The smell of ninety-weight so thick
It clings to my throat
And I want to spit.
Air filter boxes line the walls;
More stock than Napa:
Whatever you need.
My uncle’s girly calendars
To spite my mother
And her jealousy.
Chevy manifold on the bench
From his last project,
And now left to rust.
This is what I see when I’m in
My father’s garage,
And I say ‘goodbye’.
very descriptive. gives a good feel for the man -like a lot of men of that era the ending gives the descriptions a whole different feel to it
I guess “Father’s Garage” is pretty universal. It’s amazing how many can be described in exactly the same way, and yet the memories it evokes are always intensely personal.
I love the detail in this.
Thank you
This is what Horror looks like
She is nineteen
and from Illinois.
Her mother drove
her to Tennessee,
took her to a bar,
directed her to the
restroom…and left.
She is nineteen,
cannot communicate,
does not see well
and has cerebral palsy,
among other disabilities.
For ten days
no one knew who she was.
When her mother was
found,
she thought it was a
bunch of ‘hoopla’
and told the police
she just did not
want her anymore.
No charges were filed,
no law was broken.
She is nineteen,
now a ward of the state.
Sadly, this is not fiction. Straight from today’s news. CBS Chicago.
Truly heart-breaking
Horror indeed.
But I bet that girl will be happier without such a mother.
That is horrific, inhumane.
Wow, so awful. I pray the girl gets real help.
The poem hits the mark.
I wish this wasn’t a true story. so sad.
This is what an old postcard look like…
Faded blue ink, in time, transcends
yellowed notes of “Wish you were here,”
and “What a splendid time, my friends!”
Faded blue ink, in time, transcends
those hand-drawn Deco artwork trends
and steamer trunks. So full of cheer:
yellowed notes of “Wish you were here.”
Faded blue ink, in time, transcends.
###
This is beautiful. Triolet, yes? Well done for creating what I’ve always found to be a more difficult poetic style!
This is beautiful, RJ. I love it.
This is lovely form and sentiment. I have a few old (100 years old) postcards that beg for a story to be told of them…
“This is What ______________ Looks Like”
I’d imagine it would look
Like green cheese
Or a palpable sneeze
Or squishy gobblety-gook
No, maybe more like satin
Flowing down like wine
Or snap peas on the vine
Or words penned in Latin
Then again, it could be
More like prickly pears
Or an obsessive stare
Or the salt from the sea
Maybe I’d figure out
Which of these is true
If I had any clue
What I’m talking about.
I loved this, not just because it made me laugh but because I’ve felt that way before! That irritating sense of “I could describe it if I knew what it was!”
Robert, that was powerful!
This is What Anger Looks Like
Saved up and packed away,
it bloats the form that holds it,
distended middle, knotted head,
its fists tight, white-knuckled,
angular, its arms too long for its
squat body, its reach erratically
swinging outward, punishing
whatever and whoever happens by.
Thunder-faced, thin-lipped,
square-jawed, its red eyes bulge
with new hatreds, old hurts;
it spews bile, spreads filth, nothing
choked back, no wrong forgotten
until it eats its own flesh, destroys
its own home, kills love in the seed,
and perpetuates its own kind.
Powerful piece… I just love it!!
“it bloats the form that holds it” and the second stanza just picks up speed and packs a powerful punch! Wowzers.
Thanks, Laurie and Margaret!
Strong words for a strong emotion, which sadly takes up so much time and energy. Great poem, Jane.
You’re right! Thanks, Sara
Powerful, indeed. Very well written!
That
THAT IS WHAT COMPANY LOOKS LIKE
Sam says that sometimes I look lonely and sad
When walking alone,or busy clicking that restless mouse pad
How can I be lonely, when,—even in bed
There is always company,— in my head?!
We have ‘Memee’ who is, selfish and dominating
And ‘Beamee’ who is, light and accommodating
‘Gimmee’ just likes to accumulate
And then there’s ‘Dreamme,’ who has special unique traits
‘Sharemee’ is generous, kind and caring
‘Gleeme’ has a positive approach to everything
‘Calmee’ comes out rarely, quiet, peaceful and serene
‘Seemee’ is quite the broadway drama queen
‘Fumee’ just huffs and puffs, ranting in between
‘Lemmee’ likes to take chances, thinks she’s nineteen!
‘Getmee’ is ambitious, sometimes lazy, and delirious
‘Creamee’ is sweet, loving, kind and gregarious
‘Nomee’ has no confidence, is fearful and shy
‘Premee’ is the preacher, wipes tears from others eyes
‘Qmee’ is impatient, questions anything and everything!
‘Roamme’ is quite the traveler, likes to dance with a swing
And ‘Teamee’ tries to get everyone in, on the same page
She’s the one that has matured, grown wiser with age
There is never a dull moment and sometimes a traffic jam
But we’re learning to work together, building bridges and a strong dam
When one gets out of whack, or throws a hissy crazy fit
‘Calmee’,‘Gleemee’and‘Premee’ are there to make her sit
They try an exit strategy for some negative thoughts
It’s work in progress, with deep breath and pause
Now ‘Qmee’ is trying to figure out what life is all about
What’s buried in our mind, who really calls the shots?
There is no room for lonely, sad, or idle boredom here
I’m never really alone, so please– have no fear!!
PriyA Jane
This is what poverty looks like.
Untucked shirt, a chainmail design of small argyles connected by stains,
Coffee, Pepsi on sale three for five dollars, or watered down rum.
Leather shoes browner than dirt, useless in the heavy summer rains,
Dangerous in the icy winter with their slick bottoms and frayed laces.
Jeans no longer drag the rocks of broken pavement, worn
To snag the wayward roots and warped lumber,
Known obstacles in the overgrown path between crumbling, downtown ruins.
The baseball hat handed out by a roofing contractor at a trade show,
An arena with free coffee, big smiles, and warmth.
It fits, hides the matted mess of hair, hides some of the dirt.
A belt is not part of the package. They took it
At the drunk tank, and didn’t replace it.
Running a tongue between two teeth where a third and a fourth
Were lost to fists belong to different men and different discussions,
Produced the only taste of food on this day.
Hands in pockets rattle washers found when the landlord built a fence
And failed to guard at break, the fasteners nobody need steal at seventeen cents a piece.
Illusions for others, cunning trickery to emulate the sound
Of pockets full of money.
Proof of willpower to not spend every last penny
On cigarettes and booze.
Two butts in the road, next to the curb,
Picked up, brushed off, and pocketed
In the one holeless pouch.
A driver recognizes the shuffle and honks.
A hand waves back in automatic grasping.
The walker searches for freedom, liberation from labours,
An empty quiet on and empty street.
Breaking my heart, here. </3 This is intense.
Hi Hannah – I think we are trying to post at the same time and are (at least I am) getting that “…You’re posting to quickyly ” note. I give. Will try later to repost the comments rejected so far this evening!.. MMT
This is filled with intense images of a sad life.
This Is What Today Looks Like
This is what today looks like-
cloudy with a chance of
irritation as boys chase
each other ‘round the house
Nerf swords in their hands
swinging like barbarians
as if their life depended on
survival, and my daughter
must have swallowed the key
to her bedroom door, which
at this point sounds good to me.
LOL, “cloudy with a chance of irritation…” sizes it up. I had three boys myself. ^_^ This is perfect.
Thanks. It has been a rainy week… so I can’t really blame them for needing to get that energy out, but… (sigh)
…with a chance of irritation…
Oh, Laurie – I feel your pain! I have six kids, three dogs, and two cats (who have been hacking up hair balls lately) in the house
Great images Laurie, I remember those days; thank god someone invented Nerf toys!
Hooo, the ‘fun’ of kids still at home.
Some day you will really miss there antics!
THIS IS WHAT HELL LOOKS LIKE
Shadows of curtains flicking,
night noises bumping and thumping
and I remain awake to hear them.
Stars are a blur and the whir of train engines
are amplified in the silent night sky.
Angelic spouse pays the devil each evening
leaving furrows on her brow; worries in her heart.
It starts with tosses and turns as I yearn
for the sandman to knock me senseless,
but I guess my punishment was heaven sent.
Pokes and nudges, elbows and jostles
nostrils flares and eyes red and bleary.
Sorry Dearie, but I have no control.
I have sold my soul. I have been short-changed.
And I lay flat, deranged, sleep evading; parading images
through my mind and might that I fight
nightly. Terrors, sweats and bygones
beget my misery. I guard the gates of Hades.
We never close. Neither do my eyes.
My sympathies, Walt, there is no worse torture than insomnia.
I feel for you, Walt. You have greatly captured the feeling of despair. I can’t help but think of an old episode of Mad About You.
I second Laurie’s sentiment and I think also I’ve seen that episode. :/
I hope you get a sleep remedy for yourself…there must be some kind of medicine preferably herbal that would work maybe melatonin.
Any way….prayers for sleep, Walt.
can only imagine a tiny bit of what you go through Walt. Many nights I toss and turn myself to the couch where I eek out a few hours of restless sleep. That is exhausting enough, it is a wonder you function, much less produce such fantastic works of the pen.
You catch this so vividly, Walt. It’s terrible to catch a glimpse of what you are experiencing. My heart goes out to you.
Good lord Walt, great imagination. I love that there are workers in hell.
Not an easy thing to live with, sleeplessness. I know.
Good capture of what it is like, Walt.
I am sorry it is so a reality with you.
Walt, not sleeping must be awful. You can tell this was written from the heart.
This is What Broccoli Looks Like
Bibble, bubble, broccoli green
The water’s swirling in the pot.
Yes, all veggies should steam
To keep away the rot!
To make us healthy wealthy and wise
To give us strength to face the day
To bring their mighty vitamins across our busy way.
Bibble, bubble, broccoli green
Thank you, you’re so kind.
Make it a good day for me, for we,
For each and all that I find.
… a bit of cheese and salt, too? Or does that defeat the purpose?
This is what a piano looks like
It was all there, in one great explosion
of black and white. The keys nailed crazily
above. The hammers, strings and great sound board
stretched beneath, like bystanders traumatized
at some hideous act of cowardice.
My mother turned her head, out of respect,
but not me, flushed with survivor’s guilt – sick
yet thrilled. Thinking that’s what I would look like
if a madman cut me into pieces.
Thankful that I was not a piano.
This poem really speaks to me, Andrew. Wonderful interpretation of the prompt (and the situation)!
Thanks, Robert. Wish I could find a picture of that piano – it was in a museum of modern art in Brussels, probably thirty years ago. Wild stuff…
It’s hard, for me. to understand the “Why?” There is no beauty, to me, in such efforts. Just pain.
It makes me think of all the books turned into works of art… almost a desecration. Fascinating, so one cannot look away. “Survivor’s guilt,” indeed. ^_^
Enjoyable, very clever poem. Although, I must confess, when I was a piano student way back when, I would have gloried in the pianos pain… it certainly caused me enough on many a fine summer day!
LOL!!
Great poem, Andrew.
Robert and Diana, you both deserve mega kudos for your poems.
Diana, I just returned home for a local market. There was a young boy in there (perhaps 7th or 8th grade) who could not control his voice or body movements. But he could say “hi” quite loudly and clearly, and was saying it rather excitedly to everyone he came upon. It wasn’t the stares that bothered me so much as that I was disheartened at the percentage of people who responded, vs those who acted like he wasn’t even there. Those of us who responded to him with a smile and a return “hi there” received glowing, full-faced smiles and more excitement than he could contain.
Thank you for your poem. It is all too true.
And those who responded felt blessed, and the oblivious masses missed out.
XOXOX Thanks for sharing this, Marie.
Rewarded with full smiles…love that and your relaying of your experience…beautiful and sad, (sad for those who couldn’t be bothered), thank you, Marie.
So true.
This is What Compassion Looks Like
It’s not staring at someone and
wondering what’s wrong with them,
be they crippled, or blind,
wounded where you can see the wound
or perhaps where you can’t.
It’s looking at them
the same way you would
look at anyone.
It’s not acting like they’re
not there
or whispering about them
when you think
they don’t notice
or even laughing at the
trouble they have with even
the simplest things,
like dressing appropriately,
because maybe they don’t realize
their fine clothes reek of mothballs,
they’re just grateful they have
clothes.
It’s treating them the same
as you would treat
anyone, and perhaps,
even with a tiny grain of
tolerance because
they aren’t as capable
of living in this complex world
as you are.
It’s not mocking them,
whether they hear you
or not.
It’s letting your mind accept
that people are different and
mockery doesn’t make them less,
but it does make you
small.
Diana Terrill Clark
… mockery makes you small. Well said, indeed!
Powerful and so very true.
…and if we knew it, it is really a fine line that WE could be THEM. Nice, evocative write.
Compassion does something while pity only looks on.
Great subject, Diana. Good work.
“….It’s not mocking them,
whether they hear you
or not…”
So, so TRUE. Plus, they may nor hear – but they do SEE.
Wow, thanks you guys. ^_^
Amazing, Robert!
Thanks, Laurie!
Oh, I LOVE your sarcastic poem! Well done… don’t know whether to laugh or cry
Robert, this poem was wonderful, and unlike you in voice. Proves you are a true poet.
Well done Robert, Stuff to think on.
I second that!!
Reminds me of this saying, “are you going to happen to life or let life happen to you?”