Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

Poet’s Really Bad Headache – Friday Flash 55

July 19, 2013

20130719-052524.jpg

Poet’s Really Bad Headache

The word “vertigo’s” not apt.
You can’t go vertical; you can’t go anywhere
except into absolute stillness.  Compensating
for the spin.

Movement allowed – the swollen beading of brain, sweat, finger tips.

One droplet tells you that your sonnet
(written before full cloud)
has only thirteen lines.

Ha, you sort of think.  Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha

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

Mid-morning I was hit by a just super head-ache/vertigo/inner ear thing.  So, like any good blogger, I am telling you all about it now that I feel well enough to sit up and type.  Still not 100% but infinitely better.  Tell it to the wonderful G-Man.

And I’m sorry = I realize the sonnet I posted just before headache struck really did only have thirteen lines.  I am blaming on the “aura” and am going to try to fix it and post again.  But probably not today.

P.S. – I’m sorry I’ve not been able to return visits – also tried to work today (on phone as much as possible).  Will try to make it up tomorrow.  Many thanks as always for your kindness. 

Bound (Shaken, Not Stirred)

July 19, 2013

20130719-080557.jpg

Bound

Increasingly, I move through life shaken
but not stirred. Smallish things upset me,
a minimart brand of earthquaking,
enough to jar all cans from their shelved lee
while the ceiling stays intact, my buzzed bars
of tubed fluorescence penning the sheet rock,
which, in turn, shuts out all chance of sighted stars.
As the kiltered cylinders fall, labels sock
my legs, shoulders, flat greens of creamed corn, stewed
tomatoes. I only vaguely shield my head
because I think I’m not truly there (though bruised),
the bond to the now so slack, and, in its place,
the shackles of passivity, blank space.

********************************
Here’s a rather grim sonnet in a Shakespearean mode (though I’m sure I do not have proper iambs and I also relied on slant rhyme) for dVerse Poets Pub’s second anniversary Thursday challenge, hosted by Tony Maude. (The challenge involved using a prompt from the past year. I refer to Gay Cannon’s article on basic sonnet forms.)

I also wrote this for Izzy Gruye’s Out of Standard challenge on With Real Toads to write something that used a famous line from a movie, without direct reference to the movie. In this case, it’s James Bond’s direction for the mixing of martinis.

Grasping At Straws (And Contentment) – “There”

July 16, 2013

20130716-210021.jpg
There

There is so much we cannot fix:
a dear friend massed
with yellow glads; the green baize that masks
the upturned earth; the tumor
that takes over the torso;
time spent
more carelessly
than change
(loose minutes
rarely found
in turned-out pockets);

all those difficult years
when contentment was there–
there–there within our grasp had we just
grasped less;
the
flotsam straws we gripped,
drowning rafts, that sparkle now
in the current of all that’s past,

catching against far shoals–
there–there–

************************************************************
Here’s a revised poem for dVerse Poets Pub second anniversary. Congratulations to dVerse, headed so skillfully and generously by Brian Miller and Claudia Schoenfeld, wonderful poets in their own right, and incredibly thoughtful and energetic teachers and mentors, in their commenting and their example. They, and the other dVerse staff, both past and present, as well as the many poets who participate in the community, have helped me a great deal in my own poetry, and certainly in my sense of myself as a poet. Great thanks!

The photo above by the way is the one I took the other day of a spider web by a stream bed, knotted with water droplets, over that beautiful stone, which to me at least, looks like a heart. If you cannot see full image, please click on it.

Why Are Some – Rhapsodic (Maybe) Flash 55 (Um….)

July 12, 2013

20130712-030746.jpg

Why are some….

so imprinted
with insufficiency; souls
lost fowl, cross-hatched between
chicken scratch and duck
waddle, the self-appointed undeserving, serving
an exacting God whom we carry in our foreheads
as an ache.

How escape?
In the ta-Dada of rhapsody,
chance of dance,
deep swallow;
through the reverse blink
of fireflies, pilots in night’s
blue sea.

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

This is another version of my Post-Eden II poem posted yesterday, written for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads re Rhapsody, and for the G-Man – Friday Flash 55 – do not tell him I cheated by calling the first three words my title.  

(For those interested in process, the initial version of the poem called “insufficiency”  “original sin” but I realize many people are not so involved with the concept of original sin these days – probably a good thing .  Besides, it is two words.)  

Post-Eden (II)

July 11, 2013

20130711-235426.jpg

Post-Eden

Why are some skins so scarred by sin, original?
Birthright bungled as an abandoned fowl’s
that bustles, bristling, behind anything
with wings or whitewash; wavering between
a cross of chicken scratch, chested waddle,
and that batter of bleach and burn that just might
unsully the soul, sanitize, or at least, cover
the cicatriced core of the cast out. Instead
its feathers fletch in-flinted barbs because
from naught to now, they are not right–
not feathers, not fleece, not feelings– because
from when to whenever, they are wrong; because
some species, some space, of paradise,
was once their own, and they its one and only; because
the rind of them remembers; really, it does.

*******************************
Hmmm… Here’s a draft poem of sorts for dVerse Poets Pub’s Form For All, hosted by Tony Maude, about alliterative accents – something like that. Tony’s written a very interesting article about Anglo-Saxon poetry.  Check it out.   I do not think I’ve followed the format of four accents per line (three alliiterative), but I have tr-tr-tr-tried.  (I have also edited since first posting.)

I call it Post-Eden (II) because I have another Post-Eden poem that can be found here.

A Difference in Egos (Sonnet)

July 8, 2013

20130708-074100.jpg

A Difference in Egos

I played the role of your hillside, rolling from
lowing seas. I played the role of mossless stone,
as free as you seemed to be. I played a bone
that was not a rib, no Eve from Kingdom come,
aping what I thought you wanted, and then some.
I played me like a viola, whose braised tone
might fit your style. Even polished up a moan–
a true enough moan – but with consonant hum.

But none of me sufficed. Not my hill nor cry–
yes, I cried too–true oceans of ill-toned tilt–
you viewed that bit as an act, a ploy, a lie.
And then I could play no more, the infused lilt
leaving me as you would, for I could not ply
your rolling ways in such salt-plowed earth, bound silt.

**************************************
Here’s a rather whiney draft sonnet for Kerry O’Connor’s wonderful sonnet challenge on With Real Toads. Kerry inspires with the example of two July-born sonneteers, Petrarch and Neruda. This was a bit of an experiment for me — no, I couldn’t get sensual, cool and quirkily profound like Neruda –but I went for an eleven syllable line which was apparently typical of Petrarch, and did not even try to think of iambic pentameter. See Kerry’s article for more on these remarkable poets.

I am also linking this to dverse poets pub open link night, hosted today by the very energetic Bjorn Rudberg.

Headbanging

July 7, 2013

20130707-122222.jpg

Headbanging

Bang bang bang
beat the conundrums,
timpani in my head,
tom-tom-tom and a dumdiddy dum,
with a side cowbell of dread.

Should I should I should I-ting–
Oh why oh why why why why why–bing!
Hiss siss siss
sighs the swirled snare,
boom boom bah
pounds the bass,
stretched skins trapping all care
in the rhythms of life’s chase.

Rum sounds a quest for the just and fair;
pum rumbles queries about my hair–
(what miracle might curve its flat to waves?)
bum swerves to whether Jesus saves.

Jig jig jig
jags each puzzle,
seesawing with the brums
of those fee-fie-foe diddy
fie-foe-fum fiddy
mind-numbing conun-drums.

*******************************************
Here’s a little draft ditty for Brian Miller’s prompt on puzzles on http://dVersepoets.com (dVerse Poets Pub.) I call it a draft because I haven’t really fixed the verse form.

Since posting, I’ve added a recording of the poem, since I have a particular rhythm in mind.  If you’d like to hear it, click below.

Thanks!

Family Trip – Keeping Up Even Contingent Appearances

July 5, 2013

IMG_3715

Leaving on Family Trip – The Keeping Up of Even Contingent Appearances

We waited long after morning’s blue departed
the backseat we fought over,

for a mother who approached a trip
as an honored guest–scrubbing, vacuuming–
the left house like clean underwear to be worn
in case hit by a car–

like the one where we sat sweating, my brother and I,
out of her way.

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

Setting off on a car trip was a very long process in my family, my brother and I sometimes waiting a few hours in the backseat of  ourcar before my father cajoled my mom into the front.  This rather odd portrait, however, is probably a bit unfair to my mother who, rather naturally, liked the idea of having a clean house to come home to, even though, as the poem suggests, there was also probably an element of wanting to have the house look good in case we somehow didn’t make it home. 

My unfairness allowed me to whittle this down to 55 words(minus – okay, lengthy title)–so go tell the G-Man.  I am also linking it to With Real Toads, “words count” with Mama Zen, and is there atmosphere?  I’m not sure you can feel how hot the car or how big my brother’s feet as he claimed backseat territory – still I am linking to dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar prompt hosted by Anna Graham. 

As always, all pictures posted are mine, unless otherwise attributed, and, like the text, can’t be used without my consent.
Have a great weekend.
 

Brainscape

June 29, 2013
By Diana Barco (From "Going on Somewhere")

Drawing By Diana Barco (From “Going on Somewhere”)

Brainscape

You know, a brain is not nearly so large
as what it holds, the lodgings of joy and sorrow,
exhilaration and despair, jammed tenements, walls thin
as a hair’s breadth, everyone pounding
against the noise–

I don’t know much
about the addresses–whether ecstasy holes up at 413 South Cortex,
and grief, 414, to the front–
only that the brain passing through experience
sometimes derails, its trains of thought caught
in synaptic whiplash, its emotional impulses shorting
sparks, catapulting blow-outs and when the
tracks get swarmed, new routes
are formed, and that old byway
that climbed through spacious fields
where long-stemmed grass was starsprayed
with pale fleurettes and the deep red mouths of poppies laughed
as big as Jupiter, and the sun shone gold,
and you, as warm, held me,
our bared ribs twined
like clasped hands, swerves suddenly
into changed lands, fixes on a switchbacked
track, no going back and though we still hold on, up slides
down and gathered gold, outweighing
balances, seesaws the scale, and here cut flowers mound
to memorialize the missing, those who are no more are known never
to return, and ecstasy–
though I will have just passed through
her door—now pushes me
out her window, and despair alone extends
a sharp-spined net, offers me
a floor to sleep on, though I don’t sleep,
only wait till I can catch my breath
and the next train home.

***************************
Here’s a poem for With Real Toads, Fireblossom’s Friday, to write something about heartbreaking loss.    I am also posting it for dVerse Poets Pub open link night. 

I hesitate to post a poem of this kind for fear it will be deemed autobiographical by readers.  All I can say is that poets are poets — we write about all kinds of human experience, and poetry, by its use of distillation and metaphor, tends to make that experience seem hyper-dramatic and perhaps more personally intense than it may be.

The drawing above is by a dear friend, Diana Barco, who illustrated my book of poetry “Going on Somewhere.”  (This is a new poem, written today and not in the book, though I do urge you to check out the book! As well as my other books, Nose Dive –a humorous mystery, and 1 Mississippi, a counting book for those who like elephants.)

“The Elephant In The Room” (Anaphora)

June 27, 2013

20130627-110627.jpg

The Elephant in the Room

There’s an elephant fills a lot of rooms–
(‘cause even when elephant hides, he looms–)
This elephant’s as elephant as elephants can be
(no shrimpy shrunken trunk has he).

Fellow roomers ape that they don’t see
the elephant squashing their settee,
the elephant slurping afternoon tea–
(by the bye, Earl Grey’s his favorite brew–
though bancha slips down smoothly too),
but see they do, though throats go dry
whene’er that pachyderm’s derm is nigh.

All wings fold flat, all steps mince small
“cause elephant don’t leave room at all
for swaying sleeves or dancing pants–
no, all free space is the elephant’s.

But sometimes roomers got to breathe.
Though O2 won’t make elephant leave,
they find when they straight-elephant talk,
that elephant beat retreat to sulk–
Down in a corner, down in a crack-
and folks can take their parlor back.

Soon, tail’s a tassle, hump’s a knob,
elephant tea’s left on the hob–
Sure, traces linger of elephant smell
but if folks try to cover it too damn well,
sharpen it will to a great big whiff
that signifies a new trunk’s sniff–
the trunk of an elephant come to stay
in its elephant elephant elephant way.

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

I’m calling it a draft poem because it’s new and I’m a bit too tired to truly analyze rhyme and meter, so here’s a draft for dVerse Poets Pub’s Meeting the Bar prompt by the wonderful Victoria Slotto on Anaphora, which means the use of a repeated word. Followers know I have a thing about elephants – though I’m not sure they belong in rooms–