I am re-posting this poem for Fireblossom’s prompt on With Real Toads, to post a best or favorite poem. I do not think this is my best or favorite poem, but when I was looking through different things, I just felt the urge to go with it, because I like the presentation. I hope it is legible.
Alternative titles were Old Couple Grown Older and That Same Night (which was the original title.)
Prayer Against Certain Kinds of Hypocrisy
Our father who art in heaven,
hollowed is thy name,
when kindness will
not come and the earth
is not seen as a heaven;
when the gift of this day’s lost
in the get of daily bread;
when we forgive us our trespasses
with free-passes against those we pass by.
Leaders knot us into temptation,
and deliver us to upheaval,
for the bottom line is the kingdom,
power glorified for more
and for ever more–ah…..
men.
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I thought of this in the context of an Allen Ginsburg prompt at dVerse Poets Pub today, but although it has a Ginsburgian aspect, it does not fit the prompt! Still working a great deal but glad to slip away mentally once in a while.
I realized after posting that the above play on the Lord’s Prayer is somewhat derivative of Lawrence FerLingheti. His, which I’d seen in past lives but not thought much about recently, is in The Last Waltz, the movie about The Band, and may be found here. http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pE_8WK3tBuE&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DpE_8WK3tBuE
everything becoming something else (late fall)
all day the crows carry on
over the carrion
the black flags
of their rise/descent
flagging iridescent the gone
and soon to be gone
till bones picked to stone
stick
in the field’s craw
the pick of what crawls
marrow turning to field
tomorrow scrawled by frost
the crows’ raw caws carry on raucous
somewhere else
we stamp our feet
against the fresh shiver delighted
cold
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I’ve been working very hard and had no time to write but here’s something that went bump in the night.
I am someone who ALWAYS uses punctuation and I have no sense of how to use enjambment without it, but this poem seemed to me to have more possibilities without punctuation–on the other hand, it may be difficult to follow. So, for those, like me, who like punctuation, I’ve included another version.
I am posting this for the open link nights of dverse poets pub and With Real Toads.
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Everything Becoming Something Else (late fall)
All day the crows carry on
over the carrion,
the black flags
of their rise/descent
flagging iridescent the gone
and soon to be gone
till bones picked to stone stick
in the field’s craw, the pick
of what crawls,
marrow turning to field.
Tomorrow, scrawled by frost,
the crows’ raw caws carry on raucous
somewhere else;
we stamp our feet
against the fresh shiver, delighted
cold.
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I’m not actually sure about the punctuation of that “tomorrow” line–.
Ps — I know picture not quite right but have not had much time. Thanks
Sketching An Elephant From Your Head
The trick is not the trunk, the climbing
spine, knee lines or overlapping
ear flaps; it all comes down
to the eyebrows.
Even if their slant alone
does not say elephant,
they must be lines that wonder, like you,
why they’ve been drawn here,
above those dotted eyes,
below that blank sky,
and then remember.
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Here’s my nearly belated Friday Flash 55 for the G-Man. Tell him about it.
I’m afraid I’ve done no noveling this week, just job work. Agh! (Yes, I’m so lucky to have a great job, though I’m a bit disappointed.) Not expecting a break till Thanksgiving possibly, but hopefully then to have a bit of a stretch. Thanks so much for checking in.
I am using an old and early animation for this, done on an iPad app called Animation Creation. Music, such as it is, by yours truly.
Hewn
The hues of a northern November recall, somehow,
World War I–not just the peace,
but the slog, entrenched in barren,
bombarded by fall.
Only that which is young enough
to bend completely to the ground
and spring up straight again
still glows green–
And how can it be
that the war to end all wars
is now the hundred years’ war
and the young
are still bent to the ground,
and still, no matter how straight they do spring,
are soon to lose
their green
for some dark time.
Trees–they know how to make good
going around in circles–but when humans
become wood, they turn into
a machine’s toys–
We can hardly see them
in the blinding grey–
those leaves, Novembers, that low to the ground
flare against ghost
trunks and sky-carved limbs–
Though the eye barely dares
believe them, the heart
watches its step, anxious not to flatten a one
before the snow.
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I couldn’t resist! Though I have been noveling! But all day, off and on, Claudia’s prompt on Autumn colors on dVerse Poets Pub and Kerry O’Connor’s prompt about Marianne Moore’s Real Toads in Imaginary Gardens on With Real Toads were swirling about in my mind, so I finally wrote a draft of the swirl down. Check out both of these wonderful prompts and the wonderful poems they are inspiring.
I apologize to Kerry as I did not try for a syllabic format a la Marianne Moore, though I do typically write a syllabic line when doing forms. (Next time.)
PS – a special thanks to Hedgewitch for this poem – who got me thinking that it was okay to keep writing down my attempted poems despite my concurrent attempts for discipline.
PPS – November 11 is Armistice Day (celebrated as Veteran’s Day in the U.S.), the armistice of WWI, which began 100 years ago next year.
ppps–this has been edited since first posting–
What Sometimes Happens To Writers/Readers
One dives into the drown
of too-late, murk stretched
as longing as the I can see–
Notted growths choke stroke.
Still–as if time could be unhanded, sands
listen, effort alone mangle
the foregone–
one pushes
until despair bears words
that carry the oxygen
of their own utterance;
short breaths and
possible is again.
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Yes, I am trying not to blog and work on other things–but I couldn’t resist the call of the G-man. I thought this also fit with Anna Montgomery’s challenge on dVerse Poets Pub to write something avant garde. I don’t think it is terribly avant garde, but the word usage is unusual for me. Photo is weird pic of mine–not quite right for poem, but just one I liked. (As always, all rights reserved.)
Mask
When young, they were fitted for the mask,
an age when every question asked
could be answered with because—
Pretty is as pretty does,
for children will take on a task
adults won’t swallow without a flask
full of flow as hot as ash
and guaranteed to grant a buzz
of when young.
But though they aged, the mask stuck fast;
it trapped their warmth just like the cask
they tapped now, sipped and sometimes guz-
zled, to scrape off “is,” grate down to “was,”
bare what they’d been by file or rasp
when young.
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Still playing with Rondeaus — not very well–here’s a draftish one for Grapeling’s prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem about a mask.
This is also a signing-off for me for now, maybe. I am trying very hard to get myself to go on an extended blog break, at least for the month of November. As some readers know, this has been a super busy work period for me. Blogging poetry and being part of the online poetry community has been a wonderful way to get out of my workaday mode–but it also keeps me from getting to certain larger fiction projects that I’ve put on hold practically forever (and keep talking of going back to.) I really do want to make one more effort, and November, national noveling month, seems a good time to try.
That said, do check in from time to time, as I am likely to (i) break my resolution, (ii) post pictures; and (iii) miss you terribly!
Take care, k.
Born in the Fifties (In June)
Important to pirouette
a squeezed radius, cinch waist.
June made fitting include favoriting
pearls/roses, merchant-determined
birth flower/stone–
what people were supposed to give you
special; what you were supposed to be
special–
Impossible to imagine either
born of grit; harder
to push from
shell/bud/whorl
into dirt freshness, taking
deep breadths.
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Here’s an almost belated draftish sort of poem for the G-Man –go tell him so he believes I made it in time–and also for a prompt of Kerry O’Connor on With Real Toads to write about the language of flowers.
When Morning Comes
When morning comes, and night’s goodbyes
turn out to have been lullabies,
sweetnesses to help you sleep,
not passwords to God’s safest keep,
our farewells just sussurant sighs,
the dawn still greeted by your cloud eyes,
warmth not slipped from your loose prise–
Oh, then, how does our luck run deep,
when morning comes.
And then life leaves. As mid-day plies.
And what feels random wears fate’s guise.
And all we said was incomplete,
was nothing of all that we now weep,
when mourning comes.
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Here’s my attempt at a Rondeau, written for Tony Maude’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub’s Form For All. It’s a very musical form with a limited rhyme scheme and a repeated refrain. (It also has a set meter which I just vaguely sounded out here.)
To me, the refrain gives the form a rather dirgelike, knelling bell, aspect. (This may also come from the fact that probably the most famous rondeau is “In Flanders Fields” written by John McCrae about World War I.) Check out Tony’s wonderful article for more info on the form.
I should note that I am very uncertain of the title here. I was going to call it Death In the Afternoon or When Morning Comes or Death During the Day, or Taking Care of the Very Ill. . Any thoughts?
Camaraderie
Got a camera for my birthday;
I take pictures all day long,
sometimes they’re of my brother
sitting on the john.
Some people call him John.
(But his name is Michael.)
I take pictures of my mother,
take pictures of my dad,
take LOTS of pictures of my dog
whose eyes come out so sad.
Sometimes I try to catch a crime–
I mean, what could be neater?
So far the only pic I’ve got
is “man kicking parking meter.”
Not sure that’s even illegal–
the man says it didn’t work.
Don’t know if I believe him
’cause he called me a little jerk.
My folks now say that nature
is better for me to shoot–
stuff like deer in our backyard
and, in a nearby swamp, the newt.
At first I groaned, how boring,
but, actually, that’s not true
cause there’s something cool my camera does
whenever I look through.
It makes the world turn special–
sure, it’s special anyhow.
But my camera makes it special-er
adds in some extra wow.
So now my camera’s with me
’bout everywhere I go–
my imaginary friend, I guess,
but don’t tell that I said so.
Especially don’t tell Michael
(that kid “some folks” call John)
’cause he’d probably try to snitch it
if he knew it was so fun.
‘Course, then, I’d get his picture–
red-handed as can be,
still, better keep it secret (sigh)
between just you and me.
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Here’s a new little poem written and illustrated for Victoria Slotto’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub to write a poem for children. I did poem and illustrations today, so they are very rough–especially towards the beginning where I wasn’t sure how to best get the joke of the big brother across and just repeated the same drawing with dialogue. Also very uncertain of the title–any suggestions, let me know. All fun. Check out Victoria’s prompt and the other children’s poems on dVerse.
Finally, if you like the elephants, check out a children’s book I wrote and illustrated called 1 Mississippi, available on Amazon.
ManicDDaily 
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