Archive for March 2016

Affinity

March 9, 2016

Heart Out of the Box2

Affinity

We are finite
on this fine night
so warm people sit out
on a roof, their feet
dwarf stars,
and I want to hold you
as you are
and as I am
though we aren’t that
even in the next minute
that much closer
to that final lover
whose arms we’ll fold into
alone,
no matter how loved, how close
the stars.

**************

Draft poem for Real Toads open platform. The pic is a photo of a light sculpture made by my husband Jason Martin.  (I’ve edited since first posting, as originally the poem began with “you” rather than “we.”) 

message in a bunch of bottles (reposting)

March 6, 2016

20160306-112529-41129689.jpg

message in a bunch of bottles

water once washed
the rocks; then, at least, wet
them, but now this is
an ex-stream–what bubbles is
blown bag, what’s damned is
plastic, what slivers sun
aluminum, canned flotsam,
and what water bobs
is branded–

bottles bottles everywhere
nor any drop
to drink–
bottles bottles everywhere
oh how the flow
does shrink.

******************************************

draft poem for Kerry O’ Connor’s prompt on Real Toads, 55 words arising from an idea of the extreme.  Pic is mine; all rights reserved. 

message in a bunch of bottles

March 6, 2016

20160306-112529-41129689.jpg

message in a bunch of bottles

water once washed
the rocks; then, at least, wet
them, but now this is
an ex-stream–what bubbles is
blown bag, what’s damned is
plastic, what slivers sun
aluminum, canned flotsam,
and what water bobs
is branded–

bottles bottles everywhere
nor any drop
to drink–
bottles bottles everywhere
oh how the flow
does shrink.

******************************************

draft poem for Kerry O’ Connor’s prompt on Real Toads, 55 words arising from an idea of the extreme.  Pic is mine; all rights reserved. 

Seven

March 5, 2016

 Seven

Seven, he said, was his lucky number
but to her, it was just a warped cross
and when he dumped all the coins he had won
on the bed
she asked of the bills he had lost
and he turned in a half-muttered curse
and she waited, night dress filmy
as a ghost,
until tears seeped into the purse
of his face as if all its creases could snap
open, shut, as if tears were silver to be cached,
as if she would accept again
that currency.

***********************

Draft poem for the wonderfully generous and talented Kerry O’Connor’s 50th midweek prompt on Real Toads about numbers.