No matter how many times we do it, I still have a bit of an adjustment period after going from a poem-a-day to a poem-a-week.
For today’s prompt, write a reconnect poem. Throughout history, people have gone through the process of reconnecting–from soldiers coming back from war to former students having reunions. Plus, there are connections of estranged family members, friends who’ve drifted apart, and former lovers. Or even poets, who were used to meeting each morning, reconnecting after a few days off.
*****
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*****
Here’s my attempt at a Reconnect Poem:
“would you”
would you please take a second look
at everything there is to see
even if only on Facebook
& maybe then you’ll see i took
the right steps to bring you to me
would you please take a second look
perhaps wander across the brook
that feeds a stream that feeds a sea
even if only on Facebook
your words somehow still turned & shook
filling me both with dread & glee
so would you take a second look
& pull me off this lover’s hook
that holds me like a rooted tree
even if only on Facebook
i trust the recipes you cook
& everything you could feed me
my open mouth your second look
even if only on Facebook
*****
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He’s happy to reconnect with the villanelle this morning.
Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
*****
sutures
by juanita lewison-snyder
erect, but
with a palm pressed against the glass
she picked out Sara
like she was picking out a dress
from a storefront window,
her own reflection
staring back as harshly
and ashen as the corpse before her.
stifling an mother’s impulse to fish out
the vapor rub from her purse and start
rubbing it across her daughter,
just above the autopsy sutures
as if it could somehow clear her sinuses,
elicit enough warm childhood memories
to maybe soothe her back to this life,
this table,
this universe,
before this pain of window shopping for bodies,
new territory, reconnecting with dead daughters
whose hands she’d let go of
years ago.
© 2017 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
QUIET
Quiet,
Breathe the fresh forest air,
Bathe in filtered sunlight.
Feel the strength of the soil,
Soft and pliant as it supports
The small weight of your body.
Inhale the earthy, florid scents,
New awakenings meant to inspire,
To rejuvenate you in this place,
Sheltered by green leaves,
Quiet,
Listen to what the earth has to say,
Remember why you are here:
To cleanse, to heal,
And take your healing with you.
Reconnecting…
You disturb my sleep;
after not connecting for a week.
Waking my thoughts and connection
to you, my vampire tendencies come out.
Wanting to devour you and take a bite
of this connecting thing we are trying to do.
Sinking my teeth into the adventure of
falling asleep and reconnecting with you.
By Pamelap
Missed connection
In student days, she had loved that
small college in Ohio hills,
pitying alumni reuners who
cast envious glances her way, she was sure,
with wish to trade places
and still belong for real
Years later, how strange not to feel
the connection they had, she was sure
those aged co-alumni.
No pull to Granville’s cool greenery
No urge to hop a plane
To go back even to friends
Regret for place or days
escapes her, entrenched
in here and now.
Stasis of laziness?
Or 8 years youthful travel
In a job she didn’t like?
Each month on her calendar she would
ex out the days of flying the globe.
When one month cancelled a ten-day trip,
the exed-out days were un-exed!
What to do next? Not travel, she was sure.
Travel connects.
We were childhood friends
Then we became adults
It turned bitter and then came the insults
I wrote you a letter and I should have let it be
There were no more smiles between you and me
We became wives
We became mothers
Distance came between us along with the miles and others
Maybe one day we will connect again
Maybe one day we can repeat
The laughs…
The fun….
The joy….
I will then be complete
This has been my life thus far in 2017. Let’s just cross our fingers that my “reconnections” are often and fruitful.
Erratic Reconnections
You cannot have the internet—
your cable’s blown; your wires are wet;
your trees have leaved—did you forget?
You cannot have the internet.
Computers break—virus beset—
they’re hacked (by bastards, you can bet);
your server’s down, and so you fret.
You cannot have the internet.
Your smartphone is your favorite pet,
small window on a world upset.
You strain your eyes and then regret
you cannot have the internet.
New services spin a roulette
of information. Why not get
a zillion gigabytes? And yet,
you cannot have the internet.
Imagine monks in far Tibet
whose disconnection makes you sweat,
then presto, mesto, LaserJet,
you boot up and there’s internet!
Would you feel like a marmoset
trained just to play a castanet?
You’ve suffered—you’re a suffragette—
who’s stuck with fickle internet.
Do you feel trust is under threat?
Have you taken up clarinet?
Do you long only to forget
when you can’t get the internet?
Hello, Old Friends, your sobriquet
is now connection’s silhouette
forgotten as an epithet
twice cursed and blessed with internet.
This is so delightful. If you can’t beat `em, laugh `em to death!
wonderful!
Fun! I hear a Dr. Seuss quality–would love to see this as an illustrated book.
This is in a repeating form I created called the “pan-ku”. Ir’s a sort of cross between a haiku and a pantoum. Each line has exactly seven syllables, and the lines repeat every third line, except for line two which is used as the next-to-last line in the poem. The lines are written as couplets (2-line stanzas) and there’s no specific length (number of lines). So in my poem here the repeated line pattern is AB, CA, DC, ED, FE, GF, HG, IH, JI, KJ, BK. Try one out for yourself!
Failure
The power’s gone out again,
and it makes me feel helpless.
Anxiety’s current flows –
the power’s gone out again.
How long before the food spoils?
Anxiety’s current flows
from my flashlight. I worry:
How long before the food spoils?
The only light is a beam
from my flashlight. I worry.
No TV, no internet –
the only light is a beam
and the batteries are low.
No TV, no internet –
it’s like back in the old days
and the batteries are low.
Finally, the power’s on
it’s like back in the old days
when nothing was for certain.
Finally the power’s on,
and it makes me feel helpless
when nothing is for certain.
Fascinating form! Here’s a less ambitious atempt:
SPRINGTIME FEEDER
The goldfinches have come back.
I wonder if they were gone;
perhaps they were just hiding.
The goldfinches have come back,
their yellow feathers flashing;
perhaps they were just hiding
underneath a wash of dull.
Their yellow feathers flashing,
they seem happy to be home;
underneath a wash of dull,
I wonder if they were gone.
They seem happy to be home.
Well done, William. The first poem I wrote in this form was eventually published in Tilt-a-Whirl, a fine but now defunct e-journal devoted to repeating forms. I was inspired by a poet friend who created her own form called the “haikoum”, but I was frankly not thrilled with the structure so I thought I would try my own twist on a haiku/pantoum hybrid. Glad you liked it.
Oh, yay, a birdie poem. You knew I needed this today.
what a fun form, Bruce. I’ll try it. glad your power is on.
My sleeping beauty
Resting on a bed of sand,
The earth shifts while,
Her body lays frigid
Moving miles away, the dipping head of sun,
then rising Cheshire smile of the moon-
Til it fills up into a silvery platter.
Repeat endlessly.
A dream floats away into the ceiling,
Out into the atmosphere.
Until the vivid fabric woven by the mind
unravels into unintelligible threads,
faded and worn by time.
Reality has become nothing
more than a memory
somewhere far away,
Day 27,
Hour 3,
Minute 42,
And counting
Ethereal, this. Marvellous.
Their spoken words ate as cryptic
As Chinese restaurant menus.
Combo fifteen please
Hold the rice and cashews.
Music is music, so I thought
Belting those hymns with enormous
Volume, lest God be disappointed
And walk out on your performance.
Silence, a useless treasure
When trying to connect.
With friends, it’s always easy
As nothing, is written in cement.
Well done!
I’m savoring the sounds of this one.
Spark Gap
Wobbled currents
Hotwire skin
To the muscular nest
Of infrared
Of heat seeking of
Heart’s wild
Desire
Reaching out for
You who are
Just past
The spark gap
Just a touch too far
To connect
Excellent, and I think the spark gap notion is perfect, especially considering the way one can see the spark diminishing as the gap widens.
Oh this is my jam. Love the short lines, like synapses firing.
They sit not talking
their song plays on the radio
He reaches for her
she takes his hand
and they dance
until the tension drains from them
They soften once again
So smooth, this.
Re-connect
When I speak it echos,
Distorted sounds mushed together that conveys nothing-
“Hello, are you still there?”
even the words, I don’t speak anymore,
bounce around in my hollow chest.
All I can hear is the dial tone,
the constant hum, hum, hum,
I thought you were murmuring something,
I hoped.
Silence looms again,
Swallowing up each skipped beat of my heart,
I cling to the receiver possessively
A staccato of faux English wills me on, a hazy chaos of joy
Your voice beckons,
“Yes I am here,
I am here once again”
I can feel this building as I read. Wonderful.
ON THE SIDING
Here I wait
till
the main lines join.
Man I hope our train system stays “safe.” Nice little piece, Bill.
so nice…
Wow, great.
Return {To: Center}
Sometimes
she writes tiny postcards
to herself to revisit
where she’s been,
trace her own
scattered path
on more than
map skin.
Remember
the rain.
Same time
next year.
Glad you
were here.
::
… and this makes me sigh …
The thoughts and the shape invite me to go deeper. Wonderful.
lovely
really loved that the shape of the poem matches the title so well
Wonderful.
just once
catch first glint of dawn
chase rise and fall
of moon and sun and sigh
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
Superb, and a wonderful final word.
sigh, indeed…
Tanka
after the storm…
the surgeon reconnects
my shattered bones
frowns over old fractures
that never fully healed
Oh yikes!
Bingo!
oh my…
Attempted Reconnect
Attempting to reconnect…
View memories in multiple colours…
Insufficient memory
Faces fuzzy and indistinct
Reminisce purely in monochrome
Audio channels restricted
As with age there is less storage
For sentimental data
All is slowly deleted
To make room for trivial stresses
That threaten to reprogram the mind
And obliterate the very essence of us.
Uncomfortable reality, well captured.
Amen
the detached style of writing so apt for the piece..
Reunited
Soul lost somewhere in air,
undetermined in our pace,
wandering through the universe,
silent bond around the space,
reunited in the commonplace.
Perfect form for this piece. Love each line, and the message contained.
Yes, on both counts.
lovely
West Coast To East
Moving back,
west coast to east.
Family,
long-time friends–
all of us are older now,
and need each other.
Oh my I hear you. I assume this is your reality … not fiction?
My very best to you, hon!
This encapsulates an eternal truth, methinks.
isn’t that true!
Oops
The showrunners were in a tizzy
jogging to and fro, throwing switches
and testing lights, frantically unplugging
and replugging extension cords, testing
lights and checking circuit boxes, trying
desperately to diagnose the faulty
connection before the audience swarmed
the seats. Amidst the hullabaloo, a
lone figure nonchalantly wandered
over to the speaker, and, slowly
bending over for a better look, took
one digit and, like a bird dive-bombing
its prey below, drove it towards the
precariously connected plug, dangling
by a prong, immediately followed by
the blaring fanfare of the background
music. When asked what on earth
she could have been thinking, tampering
with an expensive piece of equipment
like that, her blase response spoke
volumes: “It was loose. I reconnected it.”
HA! I can totally picture this!
I could see this coming, but no matter…. Wonderful picture-painting.
fantastic!
Somewhere around the bend
at the 3 kilometer mark
Where the trial falls further
away from town and winds
through the ravine
After stewing and turning
over things I should have
long ago shed
Around the time the
Cardinal sailed by
And then a Blue Jay
peered down at me
When I looked up
to find boughs bending
A glimpse of the brilliance
of blue
How remarkable
It is as I’m seeing them as if
through a child’s eyes for
the first time
Around the time I began
to sense the softness
of pine needles
beneath my feet
And that finally after months
of grey I’m surround by green
The color of harmony
And only the sound of my own
breath
Around that time I stopped
Listened to the silence
and reconnected with the earth
Absolutely gorgeous writing, Trish! How lovely to listen to silence.
So much to contemplate and relish here. Lovely.
This is breath-takingly good work, in my opinion.
this gives me a feeling of peace
I went brokenly
Seeking out the Wilderness
Hunting after peace.
There did God find me,
In spite of all Faithlessness,
Reshaped me in Grace.
gorgeous
Oh, this touches me deeply…
Heartfelt, this.
beautiful!
Reconnecting Along the Boulevard
Outside the door to the doctor’s office
clearly marked No Soliciting, a killdeer
dances in the wind. An inland plover
that leans toward gravel spits and that
precise section of ballast between railroad
ties as best nesting. It is the bird that seems
to drag a broken wing to lure predators and people
from its young, understandable in the country
or along the tracks but not here where the Ptek
sign stands spread eagled above the churned
up mud and water in the middle of the city
warning away the unwary: Sidewalk closed.
High stepping on stilt legs, it fails to heed
orange cones, the black lettering. Veers into
the water rushing down the street only to hop
back up and shake mightily, every feather flying
round as if powered by a lathe. It doesn’t join
robins or starlings picking through grass
or flicking mulch in search of worms, leaving
me to wonder about imprinted connections.
There is the pair that return yearly to our south
pasture almost to the day come a warm spring
wind. Contrast this solitary bird seining for
nonexistent crustaceans. Freeze this precise
moment when seeing it reconnects me to old
memories, riverbanks, the day the engineer
rolled the Santa Fe caboose south along the
tracks so my father and I could see newly
hatched chicks. I log this new occurrence
on the back of a deposit slip to jog my mind
when I return home three counties away,
already knowing there are no coincidences.
Was today’s sighting a gift of wind, rain,
or just a benevolent serendipity? An hour later
the bird had vanished but I know it isn’t gone.
Love this, Anthony. These birds hang out at a golf course near me, and they love to tease our dogs.
Beautiful poem.
Beautiful indeed. And I get such a kick out of the killdeer around here, and how they will pretend they are injured to distract possible harm to their young.
The killdeer is such an apt bird for this fine piece, I think. I love this.
really lovely.. I could visualise it so clearly
Does this betweenness include us?
A shared secret, a love unsevered?
Or are we bookends for what lies between?
I search the fog for the bridge to cross
To transverse the gulf, to close the gap
To read the stories between us
“Read the stories between us” on my … lovely and impassioned work.
Wonderful; the fog and bridge are so fitting as imagery.
very nice!
Tick-Tock
by Arash
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock….
the aging Adams and Eves, ageless Rock
awash in oceans that spit shells and muck,
stench must help it slim down, for Earth can’t walk
as living do and universe’s clock,
but only spin and spin as timeless talk.
It’s late at night, I’m counting sheep, a knock,
maybe it’s wind, I think of Keat’s hemlock,
I need sleep, again the tick…where’s the tock?
My Persian kitten yawns on the windowsill framed by stars….
Between stars—on stars where no human race is,
said Frost, but he’s no Eliot and Eliot can connect
nothing with nothing. I’m sleepy…nothing. Tock.
The second line in the second stanza should read, “maybe wind, I think of Keats’s hemlock,”
Lovin’ the creativity here and use of the clock for connection. Nice work!
Superb use of sound. Simply superb.
i feel time ‘a ticking while i read this
Campus Romance
They connected over coffee and chemistry,
disconnecting over plagiarism and political science,
only to reconnect over hard liquor during a shared dry spell.
Oh Yes!!
Oh my goodness the honesty and effectiveness of this, in so few words!
Spot on!
fabulous!
Scar tissue
Tell me child,
after all these years
did you reappear
just to discard
me one more time,
just to reopen
the seams you carved,
just to be certain
I could never heal?
powerful
Yes
Oh, I can feel that knife wound. Wonderful writing.
POW.
WOW…
this hurts!
Reconnect
For the last two and one half years,
I’ve been taking college classes,
one after the other, back to back
except for Christmas vacation.
Somehow at the end Shakespeare,
in mid-May, I have two weeks off
to do whatever I want and need to do,
during warm weather and longer days.
It will give me a glimpse of what
it will be like when I have no more school,
when I’ll have a chance to reconnect
with my life as I once knew it.
Visit friends in another town on Saturday,
Work on my writing projects and submit them.
Take a long walk without a timer in my pocket.
Take a day to shop and lunch with a friend.
I know it will go fast and I’m thinking
how to best use those two weeks.
Clean the house? Landscape the yard?
Take a trip? Or absolutely nothing?
Or maybe a little bit of everything.
Love this. The thought process and feelings …
I love this, especially the image of the timer in the pocket.
Thanks William and Marie
very nicely done!
Thanks, Uma
when you touch me
ain’t much but i know this
connecting can’t be dis
ain’t living in the grotto
don’t want connection auto
we separate then we
connect again good re
regaled i’m in your clutch
connected to your touch
gpr crane
Lots of connection, interestingly spilled.
The broken words help me feel intensity in this piece. I think it’s superb.
the recurring use of connect in various forms makes it compelling
RECONNECTING
I had a date with Shakespeare, my first
love. But, driving out our little one-lane of dirt
eroded by winter-storm, beside the mailbox
pedestal, and revealed by recent mowing
of knee-high spring grasses –
how everything’s connected! – I saw a sump,
a swamp, a pool of wet. A new spring
sprung from underground as the water table’s
risen from all that rain?
Oh no, too close to where our pipe
must run, from water meter up unseen routes
to reach at last our house.
A disconnect, a leak? small birds
exulted at the pond that’s formed by wayward
water. Small birds sang “living water
is the landscape’s eye a-smiling.”
O this springtime! as Shakespeare said,
“when birds do sing.”
How everything’s connected.
Funny how you’re looking forward to connecting with Shakespeare and I’m looking forward to disconnecting with him.
I just love the language of this – had me reading aloud.
Same here
Oh, the beauty and flow of your words…
wonderful
The Rebellion of my Head
My head this morning
Wants to be disconnected with me.
I woke up this morning
And the ceiling began to spin.
My head is rebelling
Against the rest of me.
My stomach keeps a tumbling,
As the world around me spins.
I wish my head would
Rather reconnect with the rest of me
And the world would then stay still…
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 3, 2017
Vertigo has come visiting….
Know the feeling. Hope you’re feeling better soon.
me too… the day has been rough
Oh yuck. Feel better!
Love the imagery!
ouch!
Vietnam Veterans and Facebook
Last time they saw each other, Vietnam was in the news.
As proud, young servicemen they fought for their country.
But now, because of Facebook, they connect and share views.
Last time they saw each other, Vietnam was in the news.
After a tour in ‘Nam civilian life was what they pursued.
As civilians they knew full well that Freedom was not free.
Last time they saw each other, Vietnam was in the news.
As proud, young servicemen they fought for their country.
I like this.
Yes, form and all.
Wow. Add me to the “like.”
excellent
Matty’s Forgotten Child
There is a missing link
In my family that I am not sure
That all will appreciate my endeavor.
You see after the Civil War,
Matty married a young soldier
Who was with the bloody seventh.
He went in as a young boy, but
Came home a scarred broken man.
She had five children with him, but
Life is not easy when the one you love
Is still in a battlefield in Gettysburg or
Chickamauga and would never really come home.
His brothers took him to a mental hospital
Where he would never come home.
Matty and five children had to keep the farm.
A young man who just a few years before
Had been a slave and not free
Aided the widow in many ways.
Her family would hide the tale;
Her husband’s family would not.
Her oldest daughter refused to forgive
Her mother and had her heart harden…
I know because my father told me.
When her husband finally died
Years after the baby was born,
His family gave his portion
To his children and left her without a penny
Or a home.
Matty’s baby when it was born
Had to be sent away
Across the Savannah River.
How sad it must have been
Knowing that women in her community
Had their white babies outside of marriage
And kept them while hers must go away.
The war had torn the lives of those
Who never saw a battle.
I wonder how she felt that day
She let her baby go.
I heard that she visited her brother often
Who was in the town her child grew up
While living with his or her father’s people.
She even went there to teach school
When she was sixty-one, but gave her name
As her maiden name, and
Lived for a while as a boarder.
I have wondered if she taught her child.
When Matty’s obituary was written,
It spoke of how kind she was, and
How she was loved.
Four of her children were there that day
They said goodbye. The oldest daughter
Had died the year before, and
At that funeral, my parents met.
The sixth child did not know his
Or her mother was gone.
Somehow, it is that missing child
That wants me to find that link,
To reconnect Matty to her family.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 3, 2017
WOW. AMAZING story.
I agree
yes.. amazing!
Through a sliver of time
a skein of dark hair
twists itself into a road
leading away from you
You ask why I can’t
stay another day
Bleached of passion, the question
fades into the colourless sky
The answer lies
in my leaving
to wait where the horizon
dissolves into the sea
Follow the path now lit
by silver tresses
With the sheen of
starry eyes a beacon
to bring you back to me
Isn’t that why I set you free
Wonderful.
‘bleached of passion’ such a strong image. Beautifully written, Uma.
Oh my yes. Uma, you are brilliant at capturing emotion through word image. Such talent!
Superb drawing, this.
thank you, everyone..
a skein of dark hair/twists itself into a road
Fantastic.
how beautiful is the morning;
the spring is fast in ending, as it
connects again with summer…
Mary Elizabeth Todd
Lovely!
Yea
oh! nice!
RECONNECT
Our father’s family—found at last!
We knew so little about his past.
As we grew older we decided to search
our genealogy, so what we did first
was find how many others had our family name
and to our surprise the answers came
from state after state. The list grew long
for to a very large clan, it seemed, we belonged.
For one hundred years they had met for reunion,
and so, our desire for connection begun,
we travelled to meet these cousins galore
and learned so much we’d not known before.
We love to meet relatives, though ever so distant
and just think, we almost missed it!
Sounds wonderful! I’m happy for you that you got this chance.
Hear, hear!
Ahhh. Still searching here for my father’s family.
great story!
Wonderful, rhymes included.
so wonderful
We’ve Been Here Before
Standing on the porch
of the home he had worked
so hard to pay for-
his eyes hooked me in
again, sad, repentant,
begging for “just one
more chance”. I never could
resist him and his eyes read
this in my soul.
I asked for a moment
to think and re-think
for hadn’t we stood
here in this very spot
before? Then a tug on
my skirt- a frightened child
hanging on my hem
her eyes penetrating, also
sad, repentant, begging,
for a chance at normalcy
and so I closed the door.
Whew. I can hear – and feel – that door shutting. SO important to break that cycle, for our daughters. This cuts deep, and ends with hope. Wonderful.
Thank you.
Closing the door was opening a new one for your child. This is a powerful poem.
So powerful a piece.
Bingo!
this is brilliant!
Thank you for all these kind comments.
She believes beauty
Is not just hers to live among,
But hers to live.
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
And OH, how she lives it.
absolutely perfect
Well said, Marie!
Good for you!
yes!
morning night light
(an aubade tanka)
one last stolen kiss.
watch that fading sky; oh, see?
silver filament
looped to invisible strings,
moon rewires herself to sea.
*sigh*
Lovely.
Deep sigh here
wow
Matchbooks
Gathered together,
like our family at Thanksgiving,
recalling memories, telling stories,
each a moment in our shared lives.
There must be more than a thousand,
too many really to count,
pretending to be snowflakes,
every one distinct from the other.
The shiny ones call for attention,
their embossed lettering leaping out,
not dimming the significance of
their plainer cousins, but screaming
mightily for attention.
The calmer models,
with no special filigree,
just the facts, ma’am,
of no less significance to us.
We kept them for a reason,
sometimes simply for an address,
a telephone number,
a note written on the inside cover,
almost never for their created purpose,
seldom to provide fire.
We’ll keep them for a while,
even play with them, spread on
the dining room table,
remembering the times, the places,
a bit wistful, a little laughter, feeling older.
Eventually, probably when we move,
we’ll toss them, not without an argument,
but a box of matchbooks
just makes no sense in
a moving van, moving on.
Oh this is excellent. Creative, and love the ending.
This is spectacular, Mr. Pai. Makes me want to write some matchbook poems. How many words do you think would fit?
very nice… I really like the ending
Oh I hope they are not tossed out!
This is excellent, Daniel. Creative and unique.
Wonderful metaphor!
fantastic
Have you tried turning it off and on again?
My internet is down again.
I’m awfully sad about it.
I’ve got a serious Netflix yen,
but my internet is down again.
Surely it’ll come back? Don’t know when,
and I just can’t live without it!
My internet is down again.
I’m awfully sad about it.
::
Walt, care to reconnect our triolet play today? I’m out soon, for a couple of hours, but then I’ll be back. 😉
Woohoo!!!
WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID?
I’m awfully sad about it.
but old connections seem strained.
It could be something that was said, but I doubt it,
and I’m awfully sad about it.
We could certainly do without it,
it would be great to connect again.
I’m awfully sad about it.
Our old connection seem strained
Can You Hear Me Now?
Our old connections seem strained.
Hey! Can you hear me now?
All this static is leaving me drained,
as our old connections seem strained.
Does my hearing need rearranged?
Or have I lost you somehow?
Our old connections seems strained.
Hey! Can you hear me now?
THE SILENT VOID
Hey! Can you hear me now?
I’ve been talking for years. Are you still there?
Our connection was once a sacred cow,
but hey, can you hear me now?
I really think I’ve had enou’
I wonder why we no longer never share
Hey! Can you hear me now?
I’ve been talking for years. Are you still there?
I’ll Be Here All Week, Folks
(Whether you like it or not.)
I’ve been talking for years. Are you still there?
Is this thing on? I’ve got a joke.
And all you do is sit and stare –
I’ve been talking for years. Are you still there?
Hey, you! That big guy over there,
Do I need to come over and give you a poke?
I’ve been talking for years. Are you still there?
Is this thing on? I’ve got a joke.
TRY THE VEAL!
(I don’t like it!)
Is this thing on? I’ve got a joke.
These two poets walk into a bar.
One’s a wordsmith; one’s just a bloke.
Is this thing on? I’ve got a joke.
But both are really regular folk,
and should stay the way they are!
Is this thing on? I’ve got a joke.
These two poets walk into a bar.
You All Know The Ending
These two poets walk into a bar
(right onto a friendly Street.)
Yearning, relearning the scribblers they are,
these two poets walked into a bar
and nine years later, they’re still here to spar
with words, and phrases complete.
These two poets walk into a bar
(right onto a friendly Street.)
ALWAYS LISTEN TO WHAT MOTHER SAID
Mother said to never play in the street.
You all know the ending if we did!
No matter what kind of folks you’ll meet,
Mother said to never play in the street.
You play on a playground. You drive in the street.
(And drivers would mow you down no matter where you hid!)
Mother said to never play in the street.
You all know the ending if we did!
Connecting the Dots
You all know the ending if we did.
(And let me tell you, it ain’t pretty!)
Our poor mamas would all flip their lids,
and you all know the ending if we did
everything that our wild whims bid.
It would make for quite a ditty.
You all know the ending if we did.
(Let me tell you, it ain’t pretty!)
POCK MARKED FOR SUCCESS
(Let me tell you, it ain’t pretty!)
It doesn’t’t look good from my place,
and it certainly is a pity,
(Let me tell you, it ain’t pretty!)
Be it clean or be it gritty,
i’ll never get this look off my face!
(Let me tell you, it ain’t pretty!)
It doesn’t’t look good from my place.
My Place or Yours?
It doesn’t look good from my place.
How is the view from yours?
It just feels like outer space;
no, it doesn’t look good from my place.
Our connection’s been misplaced,
taken one too many detours.
It doesn’t look good from my place.
how is the view from yours?
YOUR PLACE FOR SURE
How is the view from your place?
I think I would like just what you see.
It appears you have a lot of space,
How is the view from your place?
Reconnecting is not a disgrace,
when we come together as “we.”
How is the view from your place?
I think I would like just what you see.
Connecting the Dots
I think I would like just what you see
when you look up to the night sky.
You etch those lines so reverently,
and I think I would like just what you see.
Orion’s got an arrow just for me,
I’m all sky-wandered starry eyes.
I think I would like just what you see
when you look up to the night sky.
^ That’s “Connecting the Dots – Part Deux”
CONNECTING THE STARS
When I look up to the night sky
I see more than a confluence of stars.
The vision I see is the beauty alive in your eyes
when I look up to the night sky.
That vastness is merely a parse of space, and try
as I might I can never imagine spanning that far.
When I look up to the night sky
I see more than a confluence of stars.
Refastening Ourselves To This Vast, Wide Sky
I see more than a confluence of stars;
there are galaxies tied to us by invisible strings.
When I look to Mercury, or Mars,
I see more than a confluence of stars.
This great expanse connection’s ours
if we just let go of lesser things.
I see more than a confluence of stars.
There are galaxies tied to us by invisible strings.
TO A LESSER STAR
There are galaxies tied to us by invisible strings.
And our flight goes to the second star on the right
and straight on ’til morning, as if we had wings.
There are galaxies tied to us by invisible strings.
Lost boys like me would give their hearts for such things,
even though we are not good looking, we are very bright.
There are galaxies tied to us by invisible strings.
And our flight goes to the second star on the right
Tied to Sky
Our flight goes to the second star on the right,
for true north’s got us in its gaze.
With silver laces tucked in tight,
our flight goes to the second star on the right –
That one there, see? And I just might
be tied to sky for all my days.
Our flight goes to the second star on the right.
True north’s got us in its gaze.
BLESS THE TRUE NORTH, EH?
True north’s got us in its gaze,
and it’d be crazy to ignore us.
Even through the murkiest of haze,
true north’s got us in its gaze.
It’s better through the sun’s bright rays,
her brilliant stare if for us,
True north’s got us in its gaze,
and it’d be crazy to ignore us.
We Got a Guy for ’Dat.
You’d be crazy to ignore us,
cuz we’re connected to the mob.
The quiet life sure does bore us.
Oh, you’d be crazy to ignore us.
And although some do implore us,
we’re just here to do a job.
You’d be crazy to ignore us.
We’re connected to the mob!
LA COSA SESTINA
(We Got Made!)
We’re connected to the mob
I tend to blame “this thing of ours!”
In this “poetic mafia” we are the slobs,
we’re connected to the mob!
Sometimes this is a “whacky” job,
we could end up pushing up flowers!
We’re connected to the mob
I tend to blame “this thing of ours!”
The Pompanos
I tend to blame “this thing of ours,”
this obsession for rhyme and phrase.
We’re word-gangsters with a poem cause
(I tend to blame this thing of ours.)
We’re armed and dangerous, that’s for sure!
These pens can fire for days.
I tend to blame “this thing of ours,”
this obsession for word and phrase.
{Title should read: The Poempanos}
The Triolet-Father
This obsession for word and phrase,
it is an offer made that I couldn’t refuse.
This is the life we’ve chosen. It stays
this obsession for word and phrase.
In this regime, we have been “made”, it plays
with the words and poetic forms we choose.
This obsession for word and phrase,
it is an offer made that I couldn’t refuse.
Quills in Your Bed Instead of a Horsehead
It’s made us an offer we can’t refuse,
this wily, whip-smart writing trade.
It’s kept us limber, fast and loose –
it’s made us an offer we can’t refuse.
We’ll work in metered feet and concrete (shoes);
we’ll work day and night – and not get paid.
But it’s made us an offer we can’t refuse,
this wily, whip-smart writing trade.
VERSE CURSE
This wily, whip-smart writing trade
is both a blessing and a curse.
Just when you thought have it made
in this wily, whip-smart writing trade,
someone rains on your parade.
All in the cause of writing verse,
this wily, whip-smart writing trade
is both a blessing and a curse.
Why-Fi
It’s both a blessing and a curse
to reconnect your Internet.
There are certainly things that could be worse,
but it’s both a blessing and a curse.
One zillion channels, so diverse.
I’ve flipped them all, and there’s nothing on yet!
It’s both a blessing and a curse
to reconnect your internet.
WYSIWYG GUY
To reconnect to your internet
’tis to reconnect with the world!
For ’tis “what you see is what you get”
when you reconnect to your internet.
No better WYSIWIG, you bet
with your bright blog banners unfurled!
To reconnect to your internet
tis to reconnect with the world!
What You See Is What You Get – and No Regrets
To reconnect with the world,
just reach out and touch a heart.
It’s the method that’s preferred,
to reconnect with the world.
A kind hand, a thought, a word
is enough to make a start.
To reconnect with the world,
just reach out and touch a heart.
HEART AND DARTS FLY
Just reach out and touch a heart
and watch what happens when the sparks fly.
The perfect way to make romance start,
just reach out and touch a heart.
Do not shy from Cupid’s dart,
Don’t ask for reasons why!
Just reach out and touch a heart
and watch what happens when the sparks fly.
To Gather Together, Again
Watch what happens with the sparks fly
at our family reunion in June!
Aunt Mabel’s still mad at Cousin Syd’s lie.
Oh, watch what happens when those sparks fly.
Even twice-removed’s believe “an eye for an eye,”
and so sometimes the food flies, too!
Watch what happens when the sparks fly
at our family reunion in June!
ONE BIG CRAPPY FAMILY
At our family reunion in June,
We gather together from near and far.
Well, some of us do, it’s the same old tune
at our family reunion in June!
Two sister aren’t talking to the other two, and
blood is thicker than tar.
At our family reunion in June,
We gather together from near and far.
Together We Spill
We gather together from near and far
with our quills poised and ready to spill.
With our minds full of barrows and sparrows and stars,
we gather together from near and far.
To etch out the ache and to heal some old scars,
we come here to get our phrase-fill.
We gather together from near and far
with our quills poised and ready to spill.
BLOOD POETS
With our quills poised and ready to spill
“blood stained” ink from our heart and soul,
we join once more for our triolet thrill
with our quills poised and ready to spill.
Ms. Masterful Mermaid and her poetic shill,
with the other’s last line we takes control.
With our quills poised and ready to spill
“blood stained” ink from our heart and soul,
We Think In Ink
Blood-stained ink from our heart and soul
chains us together in rhythm and rhyme.
Some poem dance-sparring is the only goal
with this blood-stained ink from our heart and soul.
A brilliant Poet-Man on a triolet stroll
knows how to show this girl a good time.
Blood-stained ink from our heart and soul
chains us together in rhythm and rhyme.
POETS BE LIKE…
Chain us together in rhythm and rhyme
leave us to our own devices,
give us a prompt and a wee bit of time,
chain us together in rhythm and rhyme.
We’re just poor poets, we don’t make a dime,
a good word full of praise suffices.
Chain us together in rhythm and rhyme
leave us to our own devices,
Re:Connection
Leave us to our own devices
(you know, iPhones and iPads and such).
These electronics are connection paradises,
so just leave us to our own devices.
We’ll click and share and collect “Like” prizes,
all with just one quick touch!
Leave us to our own devices
(you know, iPhones and iPads and such).
GO BIG, OR GO BIGGER!
You know, iPhones and iPads and such,
even on our 60 inch screens,
we can be found writing with our poetic touch,
(on you know, iPhones and iPads and such).
We’ve found triolets have been great in a clutch
and a little easier than a sestine!
You know, iPhones and iPads and such,
even on our 60 inch screen.
Reconnecting with Auntie Grace via FaceTime
Even on our 60-inch screens,
her laughter is contagious.
And she paints such vivid story-scenes,
especially on our 60-inch screens.
She’s filled with joy, and full of beans –
the sounds she makes, outrageous!
Even on our 60-inch screens,
her laughter is contagious.
WHEN SHE LAFFED, THE WORLD LAFFED WITH HER!
I remember “Laffing Gerty”, her laughter was contagious.
I haven’t heard the old girl for years,
but when she would roll, she was outrageous!
I remember “Laffing Gerty”, her laughter was contagious.
There was just a loud uproar, she did not “laff” in stages.
And I would laugh with her, almost to tears.
I remember “Laffing Gerty”, her laughter was contagious.
I haven’t heard the old girl for years,
For more about Gerty:
https://aleerily.wordpress.com/2013/07/16/laughing-gerty/
Gerty’s Still Got It
I haven’t heard the old girl for years.
But oh, she was a fright!
She once had me in fearful tears,
but I haven’t heard the old girl for years.
She haunted me and all my peers
and had us up all night.
I haven’t heard the old girl for years.
But oh, she was a fright.
EVEN WHEN SHE WAS GOOD, SHE WAS BAD
But oh, she was a horrid fright.
She was part saint, part witch.
She would cackle all night,
and oh, she was a horrid fright.
Her good and bad would nightly fight
she couldn’t scratch her “itch”.
But oh, she was a horrid fright.
She was part saint, part witch.
Not Half Bad?
Oh, she was part saint, part witch
(and which was witch, we did not know.)
Oh, she could pull quite the switch,
because she was part saint, part witch.
When we got near her, we’d get a twitch –
an itch that said it’s time to goooooo!
Oh, she was part saint, part witch
(and which was witch, we did not know.)
Sitting at Her Table
When she was bad, she wasn’t that mean,
just a lonely old lady in a warty mask.
She hardly ever made a scene;
even when she was bad, she wasn’t that mean.
And she was kind to us wayward teens
as we gobbled cookies on her damask.
When she was bad, she wasn’t that mean,
just a lonely old lady in a warty mask.
Not Half Bad?
Oh, she was part saint, part witch
(and which was witch, we did not know.)
Oh, she could pull quite the switch,
because she was part saint, part witch.
When we got near her, we’d get a twitch –
an itch that said it’s time to goooooo!
Oh, she was part saint, part witch
(and which was witch, we did not know.)
WHICH IS WITCH?
Which was witch, we did not know,
for when she was bad, she wasn’t that mean!
And I believe that it only goes to show
which was witch, we did not know.
When she was saintly her halo would glow,
but it never did on Halloween.
Which was witch, we did not know,
For when she was bad, she wasn’t that mean!
Whoops. Wrong spot.
Sitting at Her Table
When she was bad, she wasn’t that mean,
just a lonely old lady in a warty mask.
She hardly ever made a scene;
even when she was bad, she wasn’t that mean.
And she was kind to us wayward teens
as we gobbled cookies on her damask.
When she was bad, she wasn’t that mean,
just a lonely old lady in a warty mask.
SKIN DEEP
Just a lonely old lady in a warty mask
but for sure looks can be deceiving.
Too many suitors had been taken to task,
just a lonely old lady in a warty mask.
“Is beauty only skin deep?” they ask
for it seems that they are disbelieving,
Just a lonely old lady in a warty mask
but for sure looks can be deceiving.
Reconnecting with a Classic
Looks sure can be deceiving,
as Beauty and the Beast should know.
There’s a lesson to be receiving:
looks sure can be deceiving.
Be our guest when it comes to believing
it’s only skin deep – there’s more, fo sho’.
Looks sure can be deceiving,
as Beauty and the Beast should know.
POEM IN THE KEY OF LIFE
A Beauty and a Beast should know
expression is the key to a life,
and a triolet is the way to go,
a Beauty and a Beast should know.
A Vegas beauty and a beast from Buffalo
will write of pain and love and strife,
a Beauty and a Beast should know
expression is the key to a life,
I’ve moved us over to today’s new prompt, with a response. 😉
You two are having quite a time with this! All good.
Quite so!
He Said To Her
time to reconnect,
replenish our love,
reestablish communication,
remember good times,
recharge our relationship.
She replied,
“re?”
Whoa…brilliant.
Yep.
Indeeed
boom!
Doughboy
I learned through
family anecdotes
that you fought
in World War I.
Research let me
trace your journey
from Parris Island
to Quantico and
then to France.
You were wounded
and declared missing
during a major offensive
in which an American
poet was killed.
It is unlikely that
you knew him, but
like the rest of us,
caught a glimpse of him
through the trees.
By Michelle Pond
I like the bio-history on this poem. A story that reaches back then moves us through time.
Oh yes. EXCELLENT write!
Thank you. It was an interesting experience for me.
Thank you. I was able to do a nearly complete month by month timeline of where he was during his two years of service.
Oh, man. I can see those trees. Wonderful ending.
Thank you, De.
I admire this piece very much.
very nice!
WAVES OF LIFE
Depression interrupted
my muse’s flow.
Words dried up and dreams just stopped
And during poem-a-
day month of all things.
Feeling the frustration.
There is always, always another month. And another poem. Glad to see you back. Write on.
Fascinating, especially the final line break.
we’ve all been through this
Jigsaw Puzzle
Puzzle pieces
in a pile
appear
random shapes
with undefined relationships.
Irregularly cut,
jigsawed edges
seem unrelated
until closer analysis
reveals
disjointed puzzle pieces
connect
in preconceived pattern.
Oh my this piece speaks. Wow.
Awww. I hope they all find each other. 😉
This is wonderful and thought-provoking.
Springbok, take note. I love this.
great!
Love this!