Field
The browns of the grasses brown
variously
as the peaches of the sky peach, in patches,
as if the morning had decided to mix it up
in order to help some Dutch landscape painter,
only this land more
the neverlands (like all land),
not outstretched to fit frames,
color schemes;
colder today,
fresh snow.
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A little 55 for Kerry’s prompt on Real Toads. This one to my own photo of the beautiful Catskill Mountains, upstate New York.
Here is what some might find an interesting exercise, and others, not so much. (Sorry.) I post below three versions of a 55 word poem. Please feel free to read one or all (or none!)
They seem different lengths because in one I am using the title to get to 55 words and in the other two I am excluding the title. I am posting this for the 55 word poem prompt by the wonderful Kerry O’ Connor at Real Toads. (And, of course, in honor of the much missed G-Man, Galen Haynes.)
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Loss (Thinking of Whitman Maybe)
Loss is planted
underfoot.
It is sown
with our bare feet;
it is sown with our
boxed feet;
it is sown by the foot that extends
over the pyre, the last
to come to ash.
It grows at first
as grass; we don’t realize, walking,
how it tiptoes below.
******************************************
Thinking of Whitman Maybe
Loss is planted
underfoot.
It is sown
with our bare feet;
sown with our
boxed feet;
sown by the foot that extends
beyond the pyre, last
to come to ash.
It grows at first
as grass;
we don’t realize, walking,
how it tiptoes below,
parrying the blows of breeze,
bursts of sun, clouds’ knees.
*********************************
Loss (and Thinking of Whitman, Maybe)
Loss is planted
underfoot
sown by bare foot
sown by boxed
sown by that foot that’s coaxed last
to ash, that stretches beyond
the pyre.
It aspires
to be grass, the greens and blues
and greys of new mown
days; as we walk it carries below
blown breezes on tiptoe,
bends
with clouds’ knees, snow.
*************************************
Thanks to those who got to the end! And apologies for any sense of burden. Thoughts welcome.
PS photo is mine.
From Leda’s Cousin, Marcelle (Writing of
Things Past)
Swan, it turned out,
was not the same
as swain
and it was a good thing she’d first pressed just
a caress, meaning that only her thumb
(still screaming inside) was bandaged
and that the ER had believed her story
about the bread.
But now her head (read, heart) ached so–
not because she was grandiose
but because she was, let’s call it, scientific, her curiosity
terrific, and also, well,
angry
at everyone who’d said that Leda’d lied,
that she’d just lain beside, you know,
some fellow–
And because she was also–and this feeling barely
made itself known, though its sound would not
be drowned,
hungry–
for the fervor of
the not-so-much male–who could honestly tell
with a swan?
a being that, unlike a man, would understand
the trick of not
clipping wings,
the slickness
of fomented flutter, the feathering of
her breast–
But swans were not, it seemed, the way–
and holding her sore hand,
she knew she’d need
no further
remembrancer.
************
A second and rather lighter approach to Shay, Fireblossom’s, prompt on Real Toads to write a response to a painting by Gerda Wegener. I confess that there was a particular Wegener painting of girl amusing or amused by a swan that I was thinking of, but I had a very hard time uploading it to my blog, and thought maybe I better stick, in any case, to a different Wegener image–the beautiful one above. Copyright may exist on the image–I will take down immediately on request.
winter’s eve
apple frozen on the tree
about as nice as ice can be
you center slice of leafless sky
pupil coiling clouded eye
wine-rued skin–thin as thin
still you hold a flesh within
as soft as face of once-was friend
as tough as any leathered stem
though the knowledge you impart,
may, like sweetness, veer toward rot
oh apple tethering seed to tree,
can you tell the end of me–
************************
here’s a draft poem just because; no prompt. Have a wonderful new year and thanks so much for all your support of my writing this year.
ps: the above pic was taken tonight and the below, a couple of years ago.
Strangely (human)
Strangely,
the man who raped her
also encouraged her
to pleasure herself.
“I want it to hurt,” he said,
but then slack-jawed, teeth-
gritted, fitted her hand
to her crotch so she could maybe
make it
not hurt.
These are just a couple of ways
shame
plays us.
******************
Draftish sort of poem, not auto-biographical, for Shay’s (Fireblossom’s) prompt on Real Toads to write something based on the work of Gerda Wegener. An image of Gerda’s above.
Field
I walk to a far high corner
after dark
to get away from the too long
too short day,
where I hear sharp sharp sharp
at the corner of
my ear,
coyote barks.
I know to walk slowly sharp sharp only
run.
Sharp.
Faster.
Feeling soon enough sharp sharp
sick
with the stupidity of sharp sharp
running, also, sharp
my speed, also sharp
my lack of speed–
how can this sharp sharp
be sharp—
me–
until impossibly sharp sharp
I pant sharp
into the (muted sharp sharp) shadow of
the halo (sharp)
of house lights
panting,
and hearing now (sharp)
that it must really (sharp)
be cornering (sharp)
some other
creature
panting (sharp sharp)
too.
**************************************
A draft poem just because. Linking to Real Toads Open Platform. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I should not have run, though all worked out perfectly well. Pic from beginning of walk, before climb (or run!)
To:
Whatever there is in me
that sights the moon mornings
is you.
Whatever in me
alights in sun, in winter
yahoos it through
the windows, zesting warmth
like lemons,
is also you.
Whatever would, weirdly, if I were a bird,
hook its orange beak (or maybe its
orange toes)
(in the best of ways) to hold on to you
the way that cold days hold on
to hot tea and unwinding to
a breeze is what in me
holds on
to you,
only handed–
Whatever gives rise–be it green
or unseen–
writ or just
intuited–whatever
there is in me that someone
might care for–
is whatever is tinged
with you–
It sings
your
praises–
And, me, I says,
praise be,
oh, so freely
in the we
hours–
**************************************
Here’s another draft poem of sorts and pic.
Quiet In-Out
Just as there is a beat
in every moment, there is also
a rest,
nesting in breath’s breast–
It is where the beat goes too, at its best
(where what is blessed
is blessed).
Eyelids dome walls
as well as sky;
hum thrums–
a tuned whole plied.
There, lone has no meaning,
seemingly–
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A draft 55 for Margaret Bednar’s Play it Again, Sam on Real Toads–I am rather tired this time of year so resorted to one of the many wonderful 55 challenges, still held in honor of the wonderful G-Man, Galen Haynes.
The pic is one I took in Ladakh, India, years ago, at a Buddhist shrine.
Just in Case
I sneaked a peak
into my pocket,
saved high against
soon lows,
viewed sky against
bluer woes.
Its rock face climbed,
as I moved on,
one Elvis hip,
sometimes softer
than its nestle of pelvis,
other times grinding
a sharp bend
at bone’s end.
I sneaked a peak
into my pocket,
stashed against
the crash–you know,
where mountain
meets ash; self,
aftermath.
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Drafty poem for the wonderful Michael’s “Get Listed” prompt on Real Toads about a change of direction.
Night Song
As I lie, not sleeping,
I find I seek safe-keeping,
handholds in repeating
chipped bits of near-lost prayer.
Our fathering the wake
of mind that won’t forsake
this day’s dark night’s churned lake
for some deeper float in air.
For hours, arts in heaven
plead trespasses forgiven,
against us nothing leaven–
eyelids’ hollowed fare–
all that comes–the kingdom,
phrased arms that, slanted, ring round
this embodied foreground
of me, still lying there
not sleeping,
re-membering safe-keeping,
my father, earth once leaping==
so far now, and so fair–
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Draft poem for no prompt, but will link to Real Toads Open Platform.
Home at last after nearly two weeks away and feeling a bit more seasonal! (Though this one and the non-sleep night before arrival here!) Thanks for all!
ps – the pic is mine–of a Christmas window at New York City Saks Fifth Avenue.
ManicDDaily 
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