Archive for April 2017

Stroke Of –

April 21, 2017

Stroke Of–

If he’d planned for it, he would have joined the glee club.
Hell, if he’d planned for it, maybe he would have quit
the god damn smokes.

But he’d not planned for it,
and when all that his mouth would loose
was what he’d learned,
preferably to music,
he was stuck with nursery bits, saved
like a favorite sweet, tooth-marked and not really suited
for bed.

So “twinkle twinkle,” he sang when he needed to pee,
and, when he wanted to know the time, “hickory dickory,”
though there was a big clock he could just make out if he let
his good side loll, and the nurses couldn’t tell what he was aiming at
anyway, but simply scanned
his torsoed sheet–

if he could even come up with a jingle, but his tongue was a backside caught
in a collapsed
somersault,

until that time he looked at the nurse he thought of
as her,
as she tried to help him shift,
pulling one sheet side, her eyes reminding him
of a cow’s eyes, the one
that jumped over the moon–but in
a good way,

brown curls about her face like bovine eyelashes,
as thick as cream
rising–

and a voice that he almost recognized tilted into
“oh beautiful–”

and she stopped mid-tug–
“for spacious skies–” some part of him went on,
unconsciously smoothing the sheet with the hand that still
obeyed,
only really, this had nothing to do
with that blue sheet–
“for amber waves of grain,” quavering–

“Aha,” she said, but her eyes somehow then became rain
to him, that gentle droppeth, and more like moons
than cows–

“so, you’re getting hungry, huh?” she tried,

and he was pretty sure that wasn’t what
he meant at all, still what could smiled.

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Another drafty poem for April 2017; Magaly Guerrero’s prompt on Real Toads, to talk of idea of “I have no mouth but I must scream.”  Here I write of a phenomenon where certain stroke victims lose the ability to speak but are able to recite poems or sing songs because the words are stored in a part of the brain other than the speech center. 

 

(Song at the end is America the Beautiful lyrics by Katherine Lee Bates.)

Trace of Crow Snow

April 20, 2017

Trace of Crow Snow

wings finger the snow
like hands pushing up from a bed–
who cares what he said/she said (you/me)
in the face of crow tracks
the bones of flight, nighted,
take-off

oh caw, here’s
my response–oh,
awe–

 

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

drafty poem for Fireblossom (Shay’s) prompt on Real Toads to write something relating to crows. Pic is mine, all rights reserved. 

Quotidian

April 19, 2017

Quotidian

I am asked to write about love
as an everyday object,
and I think of our down blanket, which we use all year
in the mountains, though you grow warm about as soon as you take root
while everything human in me seems cut off
from its grounding–I’m talking feet but also
metaphorically–

And I think too (still waxing symbolic) of our lack
of bathing suits, an aspect of the isolated streams
in our mountains, the way that lack allows us
to really feel flow’s
caress and grip;

and okay, it’s a little precious
to talk of love in terms of down blankets and lacks
of bathing suits–even though I could go on at length
about loft and stretch–
because honestly it would probably be a lot more interesting if I’d just move
to the bodies beneath
the down blanket, the lack
of bathing suit–
to the lavender caverns of muscle (yours),
the pales of lugubrious flesh (yes, those would be
mine)
and whatever it is curves as gently
as a feather
when it rests,
what keeps afloat a head (let’s call it
your shoulder),
what blankets a shoulder
(let’s call it
my head),

that what
that touches both our sides
that warms,
that bares–

 

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

Very drafty poem for April and Sanaa’s prompt on Real Toads to write of love in the context of an everyday object.  Pic is mine–it wasn’t really drawn for this poem, but I like it!  All rights reserved. 

patio, grass, sky

April 18, 2017

stucco knobbly as charcoal briquets
the smell of hot dogs some idyll
of summer–sweating to
burst–

then that grass
dashed out on–for it was evening and we were neon
with it, free, it seemed late June, forever–
whose blades felt like 1000 leaps
softly landed–

that grass that laid down on, breathing
after a game, smelled
like a history of flight,
which is not made of nearly so much sky
as one might imagine–

 

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

drafty poem for April, Real Toads open link; pic mine, all rights reserved. 

Getting Over

April 17, 2017

Getting Over

Some look for fences
even in open fields; how else
to find wings?

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

drafty poem for April for Isadora Gruye’s prompt on Real Toads to write above obstacles – over, under, through–drawing is mine, all rights reserved.  

Easter (American Sentences)

April 16, 2017

Easter (American Sentences)

March–skirt puffs up
like blossoms
blown back–Easter–
the net on
best hats.

April–sun crossed the nave–Easter–
waves of short white gloves almost
too warm.

Old lady’s
Easter–
even the memory
of Death’s held hand
unclasps.

Its palm warm
as blossom, soft as
worn gloves, lets go for today
all stones.

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

Draft poem for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write a poem using Allan Ginsburg 17 syllable American Sentences.  Drawing mine; pastel on paper.  April 2017, all rights reserved. 

Villanelle of Voices Overheard in Payback 2017

April 15, 2017

Villanelle of Voices Overheard in Payback 2017
(obviously, the “we” here does not speak for me.)

Rights for you? A damned disgrace.
So, why not just shut-the-“f” up
as we put you in your place

because we hate your [insert] face–
we leave the blank–you fill it up–
rights for you a damned disgrace.

Oh, maybe we’ll allow you space
to overflow, then wash, our cup,
as we put you in your place–

Your proffered talent?  Total waste!
Don’t tell us that our science sucks–
rights for you are damned.  Disgrace,

to us, but egg on face.
Ho ho, ha ha, it up we yuck
while we put you in your place.

Don’t care if our cum leaves a trace–
at least “true” rape should shut you up.
Rights for you a damned disgrace–
just let us put you in your place.

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

For Rommy’s prompt on Real Toads to write in the voice of a villain.  The picture (mine) doesn’t really go with the poem, but I am using it because I find that reading books is about all that gives relief in these depressing days.  Obviously, the “we” voice doesn’t speak for me here.  Hopefully, it doesn’t speak for very many in actuality–

 

All rights reserved. 

Three Charcoals After Redon

April 15, 2017

More craziness for April 2017.  Charcoal on paper.  All rights reserved.  Karin Gustafson.

 

More faces in tree, charcoal, pastel

April 15, 2017

April (Easter Saturday) 2017, all rights reserved, k. gustafson. 

Good Friday effort

April 14, 2017

Attempt at Good Friday pastel.  All rights reserved.  April 2017.