Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

Mourning

April 26, 2017

Mourning

His body was no longer outside the spark
that had sputtered and flamed,
that had fluttered and beaten
wing,
that, guttered by his limb and skin,
had flickered and flown in him.
She tried to breathe it in.

 

 
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For my own prompt on Real Toads based on the idea of an outsider or outsider art.  Pic is mine, based on a pieta at the Metropolitan Museum, but the poem is not meant to refer to the pieta or to be overtly religious.  (I am just using this drawing, in other words, because I like it.) 

A warning that I may post a lot (if I can) in the next few days to catch up to April quotients.  Ha.  We’ll see, I guess.  k. 

 

At some age

April 25, 2017

At some age

Her eyes tailed him–
he was just so cool and she so
the opposite
that whenever their paths actually crossed,
her gaze was grounded,

till it got to to where he sat down
and she felt blindfolded
not that she was so bound
to the hind parts
of the his anatomy,

but because she so missed
his dart and swish
(the white formica of her own tabletop
a visual white noise)

that she could even seem blocked from
the thrill in
her ache–

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Belated poem for Margaret Bednar’s prompt re peacock on Real Toads.   I am some poems behind for this April and may try playing catch-up if I get a little time.

After Re-reading “The Sleepers”

April 23, 2017

After Re-Reading “‘The Sleepers”

You look so beautiful when you’re asleep,
he says, and I say, no, yet,
having read Whitman, I also know
what he means,
how faces soften
when sleep comes,
how the sneer of even the hardest heart calls
a short cease-fire,
how the scowl of the unmoved makes
a temporary peace,
as if between the wrinkles of sheet and skin,
against the rock-dark grid
of pavement or sheen
of sateen, on the slope
of slack-jaw,
the features find some child that is so young
it still is willing to embrace them–you know how unconsciously kind
the very young
can be–

And I wonder now about the sleep
of other earthen things–whether stone softens
as night falls or if we just imagine
its velveting,
whether grass puts down
its blades–
only grass, it seems to me, is just as likely
to snooze on a midsummer afternoon–I’m sure I’ve heard
its snore–in fact, this is one of the qualities of grass
about which I have
mixed feelings–

and, I don’t, I say to him, you probably just think I look nice asleep
because I’m not talking for once

 No, he smiles, bending to kiss the knuckles
of one of my hands,
and I know in that moment
a peace that can also be found
fully awake–

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Drafty poem for Gillena Cox’s Prompt on Real Toads to write in response to another poem; in this case I am writing a poem after re-reading The Sleepers by Walt Whitman.  This poem is quite different from that, but that started it out.  Drawing is mine; all rights reserved. (This has been edited since first posting.) 

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–

 

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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–

 

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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–

 

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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?

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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.