For this week’s prompt, write a descending poem. You know the old saying, “Everything that ascends must descend.” Okay, maybe it goes a little different than that. Anyway, there’s a lot of stuff that descends. Find something and write it!
Here’s my attempt:
“Silly”
In the kitchen, Will declares, “I’m silly,
Hannah’s silly, and Daddy is silly.”
He descends from a long line of silly-
makers, because it started–the silly–
well before me. My father was silly,
and his father–ready with jokes–silly
too. That Will is aware of the silly
already makes me hopeful the silly
will live on in grandchildren, who silly
themselves, happy to be really silly.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
In the Advanced Poetry Writing workshop, poets will write and receive feedback on 6 poems during the 6-week course. Instructor Cherri Randall will share revision techniques that will help leading into National Poetry Month.
FAIRYTALE ENDINGS
In her 9-to-5 cubicle at work
her dreams rose as high
as a Cinderella castle overlooking
the Rhine.
But in thirty years,
her prince never came, only
a succession of office managers
who kept the thermostat
too hot or too cold.
After thirty years her dreams
ran slowly downstream
to a tranquil retreat where,
near the end of winter,
someone waved an old dead wand
and pussy willows appeared
like magic.
Descending
D own the stairs I go,
E xiting the building.
S teps covered with snow
C old never yielding.
E scaping breath I see.
N otice how I shivered.
D own to the mailbox,
I s the mail delivered?
N o mail for me.
G oing up for tea.
PIKE’S PEAK
Riding a train to the top of the world,
my heart beat faster
as the air became thin.
Not caring if I was breathless,
I gazed in wonder at the world below,
so stunning in its beauty.
To drink in the splendor of nature
is better than any tonic to me–
soothing, inspiring wonder and awe.
But then came the time to descend,
to board the train that brought me to the top
and leave it all behind.
How like all mountaintops!
We cannot remain on a forever high
but must return to the mundane of everyday.
Beauty, inspiration, joy—
all fleeting and ephemeral,
descending always into life.
That Saturday was a bright one.
The sun seemed to shine on
despite the oppressive silence
that currently threatened to
overwhelm the house.
He stood on the landing,
elbows on the rail,
while his eyes travelled to the front door.
This house was just another house;
it had walls and doors and windows.
It looked like the Summer’s house,
Buffy and Dawn walking through the
kitchen while Angel peered in through the
blinds.
That’s one of the reasons he loved it so.
His room was located on the second floor,
just to the right at the landing
and into the dappled sunlight
of prebubescence.
His room, only accessible through the stairs
(or the window via the oak tree,
and trust him, he tried)
smelled like him (he liked Givenchy,
lavender, and vanilla.
Sometimes, his girlfriends would wear
Moonlight Path, a fragrance that
was discontinued,
but some idolatrous girls still clung to their
bottles of lotion and bodywash),
looked like him (the shutters pulled down but open,
the walls a color of soul),
sounded like him (Alexi Murdoch, Damien Rice,
Donovan Frankenreiter, M83,
and sometimes, if he’s feeling cheeky,
Kingdom of Sorrow, but mainly to drive his mother and
father crazy).
And now, on this wooden precipice,
it pined for him, reaching out with the
door that rarely closed but always locked.
There was another room down the hall
that he thought would be a great room for a baby brother.
His parents didn’t bother with that, though.
They couldn’t be bothered with that.
The top step seemed so far away,
as far away as his mother’s voice telling him to snap
out of his dallianced daydream
and meet the movers.
Movers and movies,
they always pass by, revealing more of a person’s
life than makes them comfortable.
The top step squeaked, like it always did,
when he put his weight on it.
Sometimes, he would sneak out and purposefully
step down to the second step.
But, over the years, that too has developed
a voice from being used too often as a footfall.
He thinks about how funny it is that the order of
the steps change by the direction you approach them.
Down, it’s one two three.
Up, it’s one two three.
Perhaps, today, he would start at 17.
There were 17 steps.
17. Odd number.
The railing had been worn smooth,
little reminders that the fingers here
raised the house as well.
They all aged together.
And as he took the last step to the floor,
he had lived every one of those years again.
FREE FALL
Passion,
when it descends
from journeys to heaven,
returns to Earth as unleavened
snowfall.
ADVICE
The greatest lesson I learned in life
came from working in sewer pipes.
One day, the foreman told me,
“Be nice to those you meet
when on your way up;
you will see them
again on
your way
down.”
5 Egrets, descending
(musings on infamous japanese print by Ohara Koson)
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
The Egrets are back
from wintering in South America –
buff, with fine plumes so coveted
they were once hunted to the brink of extinction.
Five tall, leggy birds with impressive wingspans
circle above cattails surrounding this lake,
searching for fish, frogs, grasshoppers, crayfish
in which to jab with yellow bills of stiletto precision.
In flight, they are graceful and buoyant with
long S-curved necks that tuck back against
hunched shoulders, and dark stilt-like legs
that trail behind shorter tail-feathers
as if streamers on a plane.
Egrets are the 747’s of the bird world,
requiring large runways in order to land,
(Spruce Goose to my father’s Cessna, if you will).
But watching them now, silhouettes to a darkening sky
they are anything but clumsy, wings outstretched
their souls at the tips, reflecting back like landing lights
atop a mirrored surface upon descension.
© 2013 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
GIFT
She reaches out her hand for his.
These days, it’s her hand that shifts gears
and guides the steering, driving him
to doctors. His hands ache in every joint
and tendon. The doctor will tell
them, medicine can’t take back time.
This gift of getting up each morning.
She keeps track of clicking clock-
hands on the wall behind him. Her index
finger twinges, lately, on computer keys,
ticking out words. Something
in the bone’s marrow, or the nerve.
Now she takes his hand, helps
him stand up. It will be time, soon
enough, to sit back down, to rest.
Descent.
Transformation, E-motion
Reducing small potions
Gravity, Polarity, Similarity, Capacity
Circles, Slopes , Angular disparity
Powerless strength, Ascending resent
Distorted intent, Covert consent
Dissolved memories, Crystallized tears
People in frames, Sinking gears
Silhouettes of dreams, conflicting Togethers
Battered promises, Melancholy weather
Renewed, Renditions, Sparkling admissions
Subtraction, Edition,
Submission
Liberation
PriyA Jane
DESCENT OF A PHOENIX
Below our tiny basket
The Nile serpentines,
A ribbon of gold
Beneath another day
Being birthed as Ra,
Round as a pregnant
Woman’s belly, surfaces
Slowly into a perfect
Sky, as if into a calm
Sea –
Although we are many
In the basket
We are hushed
Made dumb no doubt
By such sacred sights:
Luxor’s valley of the kings
Tombs older
Than time, than death
The only sound we hear:
An occasional incongruous roar
As the pilot sends a fiery jet
Of helium into the massive
Hot-air balloon above us
A balloon with a ruby phoenix
Stencilled on both its sides
Is keeping us aloft as we
Take this god’s eye trip
At dawn
Too soon we are nearing
the end of our journey
The pilot reminds us again,
The landing procedure will
Likely be a bumpy time
But we’re not to worry
He will throw out cables
A ground crew will race after us
And grasp the ropes quickly
Finally bringing us to a stop
All we need do, is hold on.
The last thing I remember
As we begin our descent -
Is thinking, “This is so perfect
So beautiful, and I am in awe
If I were to die right now
I would be utterly content, happy…”
This poem is based on an actual event – the crash of a hot-air balloon at Luxor, Egypt, Wed. morning, which tragically ended in 19 deaths, plus 2 or 3 serious injuries. Some of the details of the poem are fictional, such as the description of the balloon, but others – such as the landing procedure – are pretty close to accurate. I have been a hot-air balloonist and while I can appreciate the lure, it’s also not my favourite thing to do. My heart goes out to those who lost people in this horrific accident.
A Descending Poem (writtten when “The Street” was inexplicably closed and empty)
Crowded street
Happy jostling
Chestnut flowers
Float in the music
Of a thousand poets
Sharing on cobblestoned
Streets their vision of
The Prompt
So far from an Aside
Now cast aside
Silent empty street
As poets wait behind
Cyberspaced barricades
Ah crowded street
Now walked by
RLB
alone
footsteps
echoing
Yay! We’re back in business. Back to read later.
I’ve got one here:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2013/02/27/down/
…and one here:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2013/02/27/spring-2/
Into the Grand Canyon
Standing on the edge of the canyon,
we steady our nerves, ready ourselves
for our descent—canteens, new shoes
and gear, a skilled but youthful guide.
The newly risen sun illuminates
striated walls from copper to green,
layers built up or worn away,
shaped by wind, baked by heat,
etched by waters, dwindled now
to the distant river rapids below.
Under our own power we descend,
unwilling to trust the mules treading
the outside edges of narrow trails,
little room for error. We do the math:
Unlike a mountain climb, our effort
doubles on return. We make the call,
how far we go past cacti, junipers,
packrat middens beneath overhangs.
Aware we must at some point turn
and start the climb back up, retrace
our steps, through switchbacks, flat
paths, then steep and rocky inclines,
we stop and rest, lean against a rock
big as a Buick, mug for the camera,
then grasp our poles and climb up.
The Descent of Man, #2
He who
pursued
me vigorously
to win me
as his bride
now lies
in his underwear
on his side
like a toppled statue
Prometheus unchained
his gift of flame
still vaguely warm,
remote in hand
asleep under
a blanket
of potato chips.
I had a good laugh at this one, even though, except for the blanket of potato chips, my wife might say it was me!
The Descent of Man, #1
What slow incline from mud and brine
raised humankind to brain and spine?
What thumbs can plumb the depth and range
of wielding tools and wars and change?
Some say dominion’s arrogance
is born of Eden’s circumstance,
that humans formed by God’s own hand
came well equipped to pillage land.
Such reasoning makes the divine
aid and abet man’s foul design,
abuse wrapped in man’s need and greed,
not heeding long drops, his will freed.
An oxymoron now we see:
the higher we climb, the lower we’ll be,
for what is gained by brawn and brain
is loss of soul, all right, profaned.
So towers fall and ice caps melt,
so hunters hunt for fun and pelt
right to extinction’s market high,
and none need give an alibi.
So hope is bought and pleasure sold,
so families sleep in the cold,
so wealth and power and greed ascend,
and we focus on get and spend.
The milk of human kindness soured;
the heart of goodness is devoured,
and Sisyphus becomes hero,
pushing a stone up heights we know.
Eyes on the prize, we push alone
as down the stone falls on and on
and we who struggle for the top
hardly note where our boulders drop.
King of the beasts we may well be
claiming as ours all that we see;
but man’s humanity is lost
in living life at any cost.
Decent for the Descent
We’re beginning our descent
the Captain told us
all I wanted was two more minutes
in the lavatory
no more time to love
all I needed was 10 seconds
and a quick cuddle
but we had to return
to our seats
and place ourselves
in the upright position
I Can’t Comprehend
Descend, blend, lend, extend,
defend, spend, trend, amend,
intend, send, friend, append,
impend, bend, offend, pretend
all end with end,
but penned
with ned.
12 years ago…
that’s when I met her, sitting on a bench in a park,
I instantly knew she was my soul mate with a fluttering of my heart.
11 minutes of silence…
lingered between us before a word was finally spoken,
but since that moment, our connection would never ever be broken.
10 years of marriage passed…
And I was to surprise her with a special anniversary night:
a special diamond bracelet because she was the special jewel that surrounded my life.
9 candles were burning…
then I was interrupted before I could light one more,
with that single flame missing, someone came knocking at my door.
8 gut-wrenching words…
spoken by the officer with compassion in his countenance,
I’ll never forget those words: Sir, your wife has been in an accident.
7 blocks from home…
that’s all she had left, she wasn’t very far,
but it was dark and raining and she never saw the other car.
6 times she rolled…
after the other driver slammed into her side,
when the paramedics arrived, they said she was lucky to still be alive.
5 hours of surgery…
my soul mate lying on a table, her life possibly fading,
I’m outside, alone… pacing, praying, hoping, waiting.
4 o’clock in the morning…
anticipating any possible updates or reports,
then I heard the doctor emerge from the operating room doors.
3 steps away…
that’s how far the doctor got before I saw the empty look in his eyes,
as he mouthed some words, I felt a numbing coldness rise.
2 inaudible words he muttered so softly,
but I knew what they were the moment he saw me.
2 inaudible words that brought me to my knees,
they echoed over and over in my mind: I’m sorry.
1 breath was all I could take, before
1 tear began to break, that
1 second of tormenting agony, I can never escape.
1 wish would make it right, removing
1 thought that haunts me every night, that
1 regret: why didn’t I just pick her up that night?
zero minutes go by…
where I don’t think of her, miss her, or love her.
She will forever be with me, and I will never ever forget her.
This is my…
Undying Love
so sad but very well written
Oh my … so simply and powerfully written.
Please, please erase that 1 regret from your mind. Hugs across cyberspace…
The Log Deck
The logs.
They rise up wet and dripping
wild and ready for death.
We wrestle with them.
Grudgingly they succumb
to the ceaseless flow
of our hands. Of our minds.
The logs
They move like a river.
Slow, undulating wet-backed whales
aground and dieing
in the sun and air.
Descending into the mouth
of the hungry chipper.
Excellent.
Wrote two this week with the same title and idea, but different forms, linked here to my blog:
The Downward Spiral (a Nonet)
The Downward Spiral, revisited (a Fibonacci)
thanks for the blog link may try on another computer – I got permission from work to open writers digest links but not any others at this time
When She’s Ready
It wasn’t planned, each forward
step a downhill, backwards set-
back, the descent to hell
a whiskey sip away. She
failed to see the skid
marks like birdseed
led to doom, yet
were there to
call her
home.
A few minor corrections:
When She’s Ready
It wasn’t planned, each forward
step a downhill, backwards set-
back, the descent to hell
a whiskey sip away. She
failed to see that skid
marks, like birdseed,
led to doom, yet
were there to
call her
home.
This is clearer than the first and very poignant. I like it very much!
Wow. Nicely done, Laurie.
Descent
the way is slippery
at times
and salty
with tears and other
less savory fluids
(snot, blood, shame)
and even through
the sound of my own
h
o
w
l
of anguish
i remain determined
on my
course
blindly
ignore
all
warnings
and when i reach
r o c k b o t t o m
and there is no
further
to go
is when
h e a l i n g
may
begin.
Diana Terrill Clark
So much truth penned here.
Descending into Madness
Up to the basement I climb
turn off the lights to see
I wake up to dream
and live to die
I’m afraid to be brave
for I love to hate
Alone in the crowd
Unable to move in space
I am rising
as I descend
In this prison
I am free.
Playful and fun. Good job!
You, Complete Me
(Betrothed, at last)
Some years the wedding circuit is dry
like forgotten Thanksgiving carcass
in the oven. Then in one month,
to David’s Bridal Shop you go
hoping to dress two weddings.
(Variations of white)
Preference descends like a single
snowflake for my forty something
sister who will keep things purely
white and simple as an A-line dress
devoid of lace, tulle and a train.
(Unalike though related)
But our youngest sibling
frosted over a creamy gown
with all the fat trimmings.
(Bread of angels)
Like manna descending upon
the outskirts of campgrounds
tagging what lies ahead,
fragments of promises
come to feed the heart.
(Come spring and fall)
groom this poem.
http://mapoetpoems.blogspot.com/2013/02/winter-weather-advisory.html
Yay for comments!
The Descent
How eerily you descend
upon me- your intended prey.
Underneath the veil of
silence, you slink down your
silky cord, unseen.
Your abundant slender legs
move with quick agility,
bending and twisting with ease.
You lower yourself to an
assuming level- free to spy
with all eight eyes.
But just before you are
discovered, you withdraw
as swiftly as you had
come; defying death
once again.
Welcome back webpage.
———————————
Descention
As I lie in this ditch, bent
fireweed marks my descent, the path
I fell from road to bottom,
from foot to back,
from white to black.
They bow in prayer, lonely
I fade away.
TEARS FROM CLOUD NINE
On
my
way up
to cloud nine,
I hit turbulence.
The skies turned grey and the sun hid.
Darkness enveloped me, storms battered me, and rain fell.
Each droplet mixing with my tears
as they descended
to the ground,
helping
me
grow.
2013-02-27
P. Wanken
I like the cloud nine concept. Nice.
Oh my … magnificent emotion and creativity in such a small space.
WOW.