Stitch

Posted August 16, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: elephants, iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

 

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Stitch

Time–she had a stitch or nine,
because she ran so hard and fast;
it sewed itself along her sweep
until she slowed her pace at last;

and all of us who tie our shoes
and dash our morning faces wake,
slippered into sudden sigh,
though carapace began to shake–

By that, I mean our peanut shells
so welded by centripety,
their brittle case won’t whittle down
even under battery

(though we don’t batter much our shells
for arms are thoraxed tight within
and Time’s bright gait so blurs our view
we miss the spinning at our end.)

But as Time slowed, if for scant breaths,
the dervish dance cast by her draft
unspooled and drooped, and feet adrift,
we swayed, then lurched, as on a raft

that washed up from a sea of notion–
each own’s idea of what this ocean
of floating storm is made up of,
this life we row, this row we motion–

Next landed on a slant shore’s sands
and while Time’s hands massaged her side,
we, creatures of a patterned beat,
assayed a waltz through lapping tide–

Soon enough, Time ran again,
with seams unstitched and hands a’scissored–
in her upswings how we whirred,
and at her strokes, how quivered, quivered.

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A draft poem of sorts–meaning freshly written and little edited for my own prompt on Time on With Real Toads.   The drawing is an old one, not perfect for this poem,  but my laziness makes me a believer in recycling–

 

Comments: 20 Comments

From a Crawlspace

Posted August 14, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

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From a Crawlspace

Dear Mom (she wrote),
I worry when I don’t see you,
and when I see you,
I worry you do not
see me.

Our tragedy.

Trying to please the other,
as if the other
were the mother–

And you, winded and wound
down,
are now pleased
by nearly all–

while I’m still wound
up, beached
in some gone breach–
the caked dust at the roots
of your window, the viscous air
we swam through
room to room, the much-vacuumed
carpet, its green closer
to a uniform at war
than a blade
of grass–

Why can I not get past
the so long past?
grasp what is nearly over–
understand it’s time, in time.

dear mom (she wrote), dear mother–

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A draft poem of sorts for Izy’s Out of Standard on “Pigeon Superstition” on With Real Toads.  Note that all poems are not autobiographical! This is an odd one for the prompt.

The pic is mine, done on a paper tablecloth at a restaurant (bar!)

 

Comments: 9 Comments

Clouded

Posted August 12, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

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Clouded

The sky is grey on white on robin’s egg
this late leg
of the day,
soon to be pale
over moon–
or you could call the clouds a veil,  I suppose,
its net unrolled
in crimped folds
from a pillbox hat,

but what I’m really trying to get at
under this cloud cover
is that some day we all will filter
through grey to robin’s egg
whether as ash
or mist over humefying soil,
our bones toiling to net
a resemblance in the air
to what stars let down
when stars let down
their hair–

Only, there is nothing I can say
except, sincerely, not you
not yet,
which brings me also to the plea,
not me—

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Draft poem for Real Toads Open Platform.  The pic is taken from the Metro North train line, along the Hudson River.  All rights reserved. 

 

 

Comments: 8 Comments

Rains

Posted August 11, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry
Tags: , , , ,

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Rains

The rains that show
the planes in the air
before they’re fielded by
our windshield.

The rains that exchange the traffic lights
for gems in a dangled stream bed.

The rains that weep in our hearts in French,
the rains that sweep multilingually
through towns, cities, burgs.

The rains that surge, the rains that
soften, the rains that waft
what floats, the rains that sink
what lingers,
the rains that batter roofs,
the rains
that do not behoove
the homeless.

The rains that loam tar,
the rains that just are,
even long after
their downfall.

The rains we cannot name
at first, the blip/drip upon our
wrists-

the rains that propel us
through their pelt,
the silver-fur we shake,
wet through–

The rains that wash,
the rains that wash away,
the rains gulped in gouts,
the rains that seep into
pressed mouths.

The grey rains we’ve heard of, we say
we will never forget,
the grey rains that burden us, whose remembrance
we neglect,
the rains that do not wash
but wash
away.

The rains that do not come
though much prayed for, the rains

that will not stop, the rains that mists-defy–

The rains that are so very different from coins
showering, the rains we catch on our fingertips, but that slip
through our cupped hands, the rains that make flesh shine
if given the chance, dancing.

 

 

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Very much a draft I-don’t-know-what for Real Toads Open Platform, hosted by Kerry O’Connor.   Both pics are mine; as with the poem, all rights reserved. 

This has been edited since first posting. 

 

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Comments: 12 Comments

Certain Sounds in a Place of Mountains, Stream, Pond–

Posted August 9, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

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Certain Sounds in a Place of Mountains, Stream, Pond–

The murmur of a stream too far to be sure
we hear it,
the murmur of frogs exchanging night
in deep-throated gulps that would seem rude
if they were not frogs, all throat
but for eyes/legs–

the murmur of our own legs,
the murmur of the sheet that is
their night,
the murmur of stretch and fold, and the murmur
of knees meeting,
the caps of mine cupped
by the backs of yours,
or your caps cupped
by mine.

The murmur that is purple, truly mauve (neoned)
that is the shade sheets make of night
about our knees,
the murmur of sweat needing
to bead and sweat beading
and the murmur of the weave of those beads, the braiding
of limbs
and intention–

the murmur of your mouth, silent,
the murmur of mine, not,

the murmur we can hardly hear
for the thrummed beading,
the murmur of the heart’s throat beating,
the murmur of the cold night air
unsheeted–

the murmur of eyes that know me, yet each time find me new,
the hush of mine not quite believing what you find,
the murmur of the heart that hushes
even as it does believe,
the murmur of the stream.

 

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A poem of sorts written for Grace’s (everyday amazin‘) prompt on Real Toads to write something inspired by an Australian poet, Judith Wright.  I was thinking of Wright’s poem “Woman to Man,” but honestly, I feel like this could be Woman to Woman or Man to Man, so did not want to use that title.  

The pic is a photograph of a small watercolor piece made by my husband, Jason Martin, of a nearby stream with trout.

Comments: 19 Comments

An Authority on These Things

Posted August 8, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

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An Authority on These Things

Be petty in
your enjoyments–
no breath too trivial,
to be now’s all–

Ask your death,
perched so unlike
Poe’s raven–always,
in your little-bit-more–
not on a dark mantel
but as a dark mantle,
collaring the shine
in your forehead,
(though you keep yourself careless
of its close fold)–

ask it–that, that contains
the shine in you, where
your light
should be cast–

If you take the trouble,
turn to your death,
you will not long wait
a reply–

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Very much a draft poem posted very belatedly for Margaret Bednar’s post on vases on With Real Toads.  The photo was taken by Margaret Bednar at the Brooklyn Museum and all rights belong to Margaret.  

Comments: 10 Comments

Trespassing Through

Posted August 1, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry
Tags: , , , ,

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Trespassing Through

Was just passing through
trespassing through
bypassing all
that might bind me

like your eyes that shone
but were no horizon
your encircling arms
a close boundary.

So I trespassed through
let go of you
now, there’s no one
cares to find me.

Oh, trespassing me
lost as can be
in a lone far country.

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55 words for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write something carrying on the wonderful tradition of the G-Man, with, in this case, an optional focus on trespass. 

This was a poem that had lots of throw-out verses–sometimes it is easy to get to 55, other times, not so much!  Have a great weekend–the pic which is highly cropped is mine.

Comments: 16 Comments

In the Mountains (Late July)

Posted July 27, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

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In the Mountains (Late July)

By evening, Fall has come.
All day it pushed against the sun,
which fought back with a full
corona,
as if grandeur could sunder thunder,
as if the hulking bulk of cloud it broke
into beamed heavens
would not more heavily
regroup,
as if it could shun time
with shine.

Until, after yet another rain, Fall
staked its reign, if just
for a foray, infiltrating
shaken leaves that, like riddled battlements,
will soon be blown sky high.
My sleeves already
are pierced, even as I hold tight
my arms,
and my face finds an old pallor
in the gloaming.

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Very much a draft poem for Margaret Bednar’s “Play It Again, Sam” prompt on Real Toads.  This one responds to an archived challenge by Kerry O’Connor to consider cadence in free verse.   I had several additional lines in this poem–a whole assortment==but got my husband involved as an editor–he is very much of the less is more school–so leaving it here. 

 

Comments: 12 Comments

On My Bike

Posted July 24, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry
Tags: , , , ,

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On my bike

The wind held my face
in its hands
in the way a grandmother might smooth
the face of a girl, telling her
she is beautiful–

And though I knew that the wind
had no such hands, and I
have no such face, and that there might not
even be many
such grandmothers,
this much I also knew–that the wind
touched me, the notion of beauty
in its grasp,
and that, when I looked back
into its face,
such face as the wind has,
it whispered, with assurance, you too.  

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A little found poem, linked nowhere!  Old pic, sorry, though same bike!  This has been edited repeatedly since first posting. 

Process Note – (for any interested) ==I first wrote the poem with the “held” and “clasped” in the first stanza–then switched it to “stroked” (“with”) and “smoothed,” which was first posted version (MZ saw).  I went back to this version as it seemed less redundant to me and also, somehow, the words more unusual in this context.  But certainly any thoughts are welcome.  (I don’t think I’ll change it–for a few minutes anyway–ha–as need to just let it sit a bit.)  

PPS And finally–thanks to Hedgewitch’s comments–I’ve moved to a third version!  k. 

 

Comments: 12 Comments

Walk in the Woods

Posted July 24, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Stress, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

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Walk in the Woods

I read this morning that walking in nature quiets
the frontal cortex, frees
something, but I walk so fearful of bears this evening
in this all too natural wood, my frontal cortex busy
with bewaring, that anxiety cantilevers a small cellblock about me,
a prison of projection my sneakered toes shuffle forward,
my knees bang into, and that I only break through
to start
at the flickering of moths in the fiddleheads,
the shifts of darkness
against dead trees,

until, bowed by own nervous system, I try simply
to keep my head down–what I don’t see
won’t hurt me–
(the fact is I am thrilled whenever I see a bear,
I keep telling myself)
and now my brain’s sovereign is
the brood
as I replay with blurred certainty the bared foolishness
in the mails I sent today,
every sop of misrendered advice,
sighting in the brain-garbled distance
sure evidence of cortex’s demise, underlined
by pre-demise inadequacy–

It all comes to the same thing, truly–
a fear of bear racing–(a chase I’ll surely lose even tumbling downhill
where they’re supposed to be at a disadvantage)–
and a fear
of the embarrassing–

Then, I remember–and now I’m trudging uphill (where I’ll be too slow
for any bear, so try not to physically look back)–
that a dear friend died
five years ago today.

She would have liked to live
to fear foolishness, even maybe
bears. Yes.

I can’t find anything
freeing there,
until I arrive, in the green stumble, at one of her favorite stories–
a time she greeted a doctor, after sitting in a hospital chair all night, next to a sick son,
with a long string of dental floss impossibly stuck
between her teeth–you know how early
they make their rounds–how neither she
nor the doctor mentioned
that long crooked dangle
as they both tried to seem supremely
competent, focused on charts
and probabilities, the boy’s
soft breathing.

And foolishness, bared, suddenly doesn’t seem
so bad; being a know-it-all not so appealing
in the context of
an afterlife, the knowing of
what’s next–

Almost home, I think of her round smile–her teeth were
quite big actually, her smile bigger,
a flash of incisor at each side–

Almost home–
and I think
of her
round smile.

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Sorry sorry sorry for the length and the fact that it’s not really a poem, and that it’s so much like all of them lately, but here’s what I’ve done for Grapeling’s “Get Listed” challenge on Real Toads.  Ps==drawing mine, an old one–the bears are really not that big here!  

 

Comments: 13 Comments

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