Posted tagged ‘april 2017’

Penultimate

April 29, 2017

Penultimate

You could no longer swallow, so after they finally let us say no
to the tubes, they wrapped you in white and wheeled you
out into what felt like a plastic lozenge but was also
the only way home.

It was a bitter day, and the white just thin
cotton–the gurney spindling and shaking
in the wind, the curb too high, the door too slow, nothing fast enough
in that bright blow–

so I, having flown down from winter,
wedged my woolen hat
around your head, armed your chest
with my coat
but they were women’s wear, the hat crocheted
with big petal flowers, and you
my father,
and as I worried that you’d die in them, the word dignity
ricocheting about my head, I determined that you would not die,
not on that
way home, and making (maybe) some kind of joke,
laid my head gently gently
against yours, the hat brim whiskering
my cheek

while your eyes, slitted, tried
to smile, while mine kaleidoscoped time,
and as the ambulance began its swerves,
the wagon swinging even though it did not race, I held to some
metal rail, and you to something
else, and the heat
came on at last
with the engine,
and we made it
all right.

 

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Draft poem for Brendan’s wonderful prompt on Real Toads to write about the penultimate, or other related matters–best to read the post itself.  Drawing and photo of drawing mine.  All rights reserved. 

If I have time and will may try to post a few new (drafty!) things to make up missed days in April. (Sigh.)  Congrats to the stalwart who have posted every day this month! And congrats to others too who have done their best! 

No Heel

April 27, 2017

No Heel

He tried to speak in boot, but worried that it came out
in penny loafer–

The problem was that he didn’t want to speak
in the tongue of just any
boot–not goose-stepper, arse-
kicker, not
shit-stomper–

but rocker, worker, hiker,
Frye–he’d even have settled for high-top, which was rather like boot, if cloth–

Oh, bass weejun could, he supposed,
talk the walk,
but his words felt flat, soulless–also, he really really
did not want to sink
to topsider–

Then he met her,
and one night at a party full
of ankle-covering (if
metaphorical)

she took his hand and pulled him outside
to a lawn fresh-soaked
with summer night,
and sighed–”isn’t it so great
to have slip-ons–” slipping
hers off–

He accepted then
some part of himself,
which felt snug, in a good way,
and almost as warm in that moment
as her side–

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drafty poem for Real Toads prompt by the wonderful Marian Kent to write of shoes.  The pic above is a charcoal (photograph modified) of mine, and for interest I post one I made on iPad below.  Thanks!

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. 

Easter (American Sentences)

April 16, 2017

Easter (American Sentences)

March–skirt puffs up
like blossoms
blown back–Easter–
the net on
best hats.

April–sun crossed the nave–Easter–
waves of short white gloves almost
too warm.

Old lady’s
Easter–
even the memory
of Death’s held hand
unclasps.

Its palm warm
as blossom, soft as
worn gloves, lets go for today
all stones.

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Draft poem for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write a poem using Allan Ginsburg 17 syllable American Sentences.  Drawing mine; pastel on paper.  April 2017, all rights reserved. 

Fall (2016)

April 3, 2017

Fall (2016)

There were
no apples.
Last year, the flies were boozy
with the glut;
but in this season, the flies made do
with dust, woozing only
about silled windowpanes.

Mounding the apples
was more fun,
though we should not have picked
so many–when they oozed, we tossed
some back, as if  in recompense, as if to defend
the orchard against all dearth,
as if apples could help
with such things.

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Poem for Magali’s prompt on Real Toads to write of fruit stillborn (or other things) in the face of climate change.  For April.  (Not sure if I’m doing a poem a day, but will see.)  Pic is not exactly apple pic, but a recent one of mine–all rights reserved.

I’m sorry to be late reciprocating visits; will get there!