So, little blonde, packing heat, but no supplies,
stumbles onto unlocked house,
warm leftovers, seemingly
spare bed, until owners, proponents of the right
to arm bears, show,
and, as her yawn
exposes holster,
shoot her.
Blondie expires (despite
blondeness), but Mama B.’s caught too
in crossfire; Baby and Papa
turning to drink, meth,
after.
****************************
5th poem (in just 55 words) for April National Poetry Month–this for the wonderful Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write a 55 word poem, also thinking of a classic. The pic is a recycled one of mine–
As a process note, the U.S. National Rifle Association (the “NRA”) has recently released a revised book of Grimms’ fairy tales, with various characters, such as Little Red Ridinghood, now armed.
They could, he thought,
just tie it to
the mailbox.
But instead of the pony, they brought home
a baby sister, and when he thought he might as well go live
under the mailbox himself, they said he was
too little to sit
by the curb
and he railed
against the back yard throwing
at the bricks every single jar
from the bag his mother had taken
to the hospital–make-up–
pushing bangs back
like a tossed mane,
tears galloping
down the flanks of
cheek like sweat
on heated muscle,
understanding then
that the world was not
as he
would have it.
Why perhaps
only children sometimes have
hard times
as they grow older–
********************************
My fourth poem for April National Poetry Month–I am front-loading, I think, as my life gets pretty busy mid-week– this one for my prompt on Real Toads to write something related to horses; painting is mine. (Also, title has been changed since initially posting.)
My grandmother talked of her horses
knowing the way home,
how she could just
let loose the reins—
I wish I knew
the loosening of reins, the letting lead
the soft strong beautiful,
the flank’s dusk-silvered shiver,
the found home of sound steps.
******************************** A drafty poem, number 3, for April for my own prompt on horses on Real Toads. I call this one drafty because I’ve done about fifteen versions and can no longer tell which I like best. Ha! Will try to keep and review at some later date.
Thinking of Shakespeare, King Lear, Towards the End of Act V
And my poor fool is hanged he writes
and my poor heart
is broken and why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life he asks as I weep, asking back
how someone could so barter
humanity, and as his character asks help
with a button, tears
unbutton my face, wondering
what grace brings me this suffering
from several rows back, this tough loss
on scuffed planks
over there, lit
by some very bright lights
that couldn’t possibly illuminate
my personal nights,
suffering that I’ve only paid for
in paper currency
and could at least in theory
leave early. Never.
*********************** Another draft poem for April Poetry Month. This one for Real Toads, Marian’s prompt on fools, which I believe is what Lear calls Cordelia in the wonderful conclusion of Act V; I’ve included here lines from the play.
April is a month in which I am attempting to write a poem a day–this is my second (ha) for the day, but I’m just going to go this month with whatever comes up, when it does (as it may not always!) Thanks for your indulgence!
And the river carried us away
de aptivity
required from old
sasson,
oh can we sing King Alfa’s song
in a straight land–
And so we sang it–King Alfa’s song–
for a solid six months
in the strait of bottom bunk tented
by purple poncho
postulating on such points
as the sweetness of each’s feet
and the sweet feat of being together
first real love–
until finally putting the album
in its jacket at the end of the term
we read that the weepers were carried
from captivity (it being the river
of Babylon) and the next
year laughed about it in the dining hall till
a rather sober-faced girl
said that she had grown to despise that record
because someone in her dorm had played it
so non-stop,
and we lowered our eyes to the feet
we still held sweet,
with lines on our faces that we believed only the other
could interpret
though, honestly, it was kind of terrible to learn the new words
to that song, meaning the words,
as I never could figure out
whether I should sing those or the ones that truly
resonated, feeling a bit like a batter who
suddenly becoming ambidextrous
can no longer find
a good swing,
and feeling a little too
like the later
when you wrote
that we would always
be friends–
how to feel still me
when all the vowels
garbled, and what was consonant
turned lone,
and my feet which actually had
seemed beautiful
in the purple light of your palms and
that big poncho, seemed to become
almost transparent
though they were strong, tensile feet,
already exhibiting those knobs, callouses, cracks,
that are part, you know, of carrying someone–
**************************************** Draft poem for Day 1 of April National Poetry Month, inspired both by Izy Gruye’s prompt on Real Toads about misunderstood song lyrics–in this case, Jimmy Cliff’s By the River of Babylon, and also Marian’s Fool prompt.
Sorry for the length. I’m not feeling terribly well at the moment, so hoping to use this National Poetry Month to just refocus and recharge! (Meaning I’m just going to do what I can and hope for the best!)
Some now, one of us will arise and go,
our doughy flesh like paper grown,
rattling before the window’s close,
though the other tries to keep a hold.
But one will have risen, will have gone,
the one behind left holding moan;
might as well corral the moon, the sun,
to stop their rise, their arc’s move on.
In the between we lay us down
where moths tag panes with tapping sounds,
each wing a chip of night that’s found
some light it longs to make its own,
as you are mine and I am yours,
our skins tucked close against the fears,
one’s glow lassoed by the other’s light,
our darknesses clasped, oh so tight.
********************* Here’s a drafty poem written thinking of Yeats’ The Lake Isle of Innisfree but going to a slightly different place, posted for Real Toads open platform.
The salmon coat not just
a fish out of water but a stucco of the sun
the son;
I know that my redeemer liveth steepling like
the church roof, our fingers treed
in short gloves white
as sycamores;
salmon only pink in the way that a marigold
is not yellow, a kiss
lipsticked.
And, though my mother now heard how
we would stand fleshed
at the end, and where is thy sting
death,
she could not not-believe in that sharp sting, having
felt it–
so that even as the stone rolled away
and her coat leapt high
into the day,
tears steepled–
it was not a morning you could not mourn in
until, child of her flesh,
I took her by our short gloves
to swim the concrete, to roll us through
the clouds and stone, the hyacinthed
coffee,
jollying her
as if a smooth-keeled boat–
floating till blue too
would pass away, some summer night,
when bared-armed
and fireflied,
something free
would come alive,
warm darknesses
electrified,
our feet jumping
over waves of purpled grass
as if driven by pure
instinct.
I write of this
now older than my mother
as if it were only she then
who felt
such sorrow.
*********************** A revision of a draft poem posted last year for a prompt by Izy Gruye on Real Toads, that I revised thinking of Easter and the current real toads prompt (from Shay) about a crack, a fissure. The picture is in fact of a coat of my mother’s.
Frost chicken-scratches
the drive;
flakes feathering stems into found
pipe cleaners, only ceci
n’est pas
une pipe–not in this sea
of spring
where peeps hardly sound,
the downed stars at our feet
as silent as
the wind, only shushing this morning
a mist that does not emanate
from what is not an ember
at hill’s horizon,
lighting what feels
as if it’s never
been seen before: this, that is,
this, that is not–
*************************
poem for Real Toads Play It Again Sam, hosted by the wonderful photographer and poet, Margaret Bednar. In my case, I specifically use a returning prompt by Mary Kling asking one to write of the ordinary. Frost in the morning? It’s so beautiful that it is hard to know if it qualifies!
Oh you blue guided,
oh you straight swayed,
oh you not-wide-dotted
as child’s work/play.
Oh you stretched
for the sinuous (that double-dutchness
of slant loop)–oh you thread
of my tale, you tail
of my thread,
you path
to be read,
you orderly gift to gab, you dignifier
of what sounds stupid solely said–
Oh you road through blinking
deserts, you remembrancer
of sky–
************************
A very draftish poem, meaning just now written, for Real Toads Open Platform. As one may infer from my little (recycled) drawing, this (like my previous poem, Ode to our Feet) is somewhat influenced by Pablo Neruda’s Ode to my Socks.
Your feet are like slabs of dough
that could be kneaded, folded even in two,
and still would rise back with a little time,
into something between
ciabatta and submarines
that seek mine,
which are like caged birds
with cloths draped over
to get them to sleep–I speak of the socks I must wear
and not our sheets–
and speak of birds not so much
because my feet sing–except sometimes when nosed
by icy submarines–
but of how they twitter inside,
electrically, their too-many bones hooked
to those wires, my feet
being caged,
of how they need a wing to hide their heads,
being also birds,
and of how, being finally feet,
they are wingless,
and I speak too
of how you roll down the socks
and simply hold them
sometimes in the span
of mittening hands,
sometimes in some nest
of rib, some cove
of torso,
knitting a warmth
that wool just can’t
provide, purling from even these
splintered planks, a pooled
opalescence;
and too I speak
of how my poor bony birds feed
on that uncrumbed warmth
cast so sweetly
on these dry waters–
*****************************
Here’s another drafty poem for my prompt on Real Toads, to write something “under an influence.” In this case, the influence was Pablo Neruda’s Ode to My Socks, which particularly appeals to this big sock lover.
The pic is of some Christmas cookies made by one of my daughters (or friend) some time ago, and below is one of the pics from the prompt that is a watercolor of mine (that has some fit for the Neruda poem, where he describes his feet as fish.)
ManicDDaily 
Recent Comments