Posted tagged ‘http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com’

Drawing on home in time of refugees

March 19, 2017

Hey All!

I have not felt much like writing poetry in the last few months, but here is a drawing in pencil that I post in response to Brendan’s challenge on Real Toads to write, among other things, of home in a time of refugees.

Thanks. k.

ps –all rights (such as they are) reserved.

 

To the Moon, 4 a.m.

February 19, 2017

To the Moon, 4 a.m.

I thought I was the only one up,
but there you were, turning the kitchen windows
into blue stairwells.

My eyes climbed to the surprise
of your brightness, a not-quite-sphere of light that redeemed
this whole muddled night,
the unexpected that was exactly
as it should be,
for which I thank you,
(for which I thank you.)

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A poem for Kerry O’Connor’s moon micro poetry challenge on real toads.

Another version for those interested.
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To the Moon, 4 a.m.

I thought I was the only one up,
but there you were, turning the kitchen windows
into blue stairwells.

My eyes climbed to the surprise
of your brightness–a not-near-sphere of light that redeemed
this muddled night, its inconstancy
as reliable as the breath, or death, a circle not
wholly seen.

 

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Pic is mine; all rights reserved.  Thanks so much for stopping by. 

 

No Wall – Tourists in Berlin, ’65

February 12, 2017

No Wall – Tourists in Berlin, ’65

The wall was made of riddled cinder block with barbed wire atop;
my parents bought me
a pipecleaner-bodied doll in a dark felt
uniform, supposed to be
a border guard, his nose incongruously
round, his eyes incongruously
googly, the ones we saw shadowed
about the eyes, at least so they seemed
at the checkpoints.

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Draft 55-word poem for Marian’s prompt about a wall, posted belatedly to Real Toads.  Pic (such as it is) is  mine.

1984/2017 Poem

February 5, 2017

1984/2017 Poem

My fear too
would be rats.

I can’t even write
of the pinkish paws, bucked gnaws–

Oh, Christ, what is happening
to my country?

What cage are we locking
ourselves into, what mask is strapped about
our temples

so that even as we cannot
look away
we cannot save
ourselves.

That type
of mask.

 
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55 word poem (minus the numbers) for Kerry’s prompt on Real Toads; prompt based (if desired) on George Orwell’s 1984, specifically Winston’s greatest fear. Graphic is mine; all rights reserved for it and poem. 

From DC (oh country mine)

February 4, 2017

From DC

Oh country of the frozen chair,
so blue in 1960 air
that January asking not DC–
oh country I was barely three–

oh country of the stallion bearing
the backward boots
but three years
later–

country of resurrection city
that muddy sea, that peaceful sea,
my childhood Washington, DC,
oh dream that clamored its own name
oh country of the flames
later–

oh country mine that I have loved
that we’ve so wanted to be good
oh country we believed
so good
oh country of my green
childhood

oh country mine

 

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Draftish sort of poem for Shay Simmon’s (Fireblossom’s) prompt on Real Toads to write something of indirect focus.  (I’m not phrasing that correctly.)  I did grow up in Washington, D.C., and attended both JFK’s inauguration and funeral.  Resurrection City was a large civil rights protest in DC in the spring of 1968; also called the Poor People’s March on Washington–

Gag Order

January 29, 2017

Gag Order

After the tide
took care, there were left
coathangers.

Their metal jetter
than jackdaw–how sharply
they gyred.

The men urging the tide,
the men who’d made
pity less, used only
wooden hangers, fit for an artifice
of shoulder, patting down empty suits
in ceremonies
of shiny serge

while the women’s insides tattered,
poor women.
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Draft poem for Kerry O’ Connor’s Get Listed prompt on With Real Toads to use certain words from Yeats.  

Voice Calling For Personal Change

January 24, 2017

Voice Calling for Personal Change

The voice in my head does not
cry wolf,
still it despairs
of being listened to,
though its timbre’s sharp
as glisten on fresh snow–

but oh how it carps,
and always on a per diem–
so, I pay it

no mind,
until its call fades to shadow
in a cave,
if shadows were furred, fanged, clawed,
if caves flattened
into fields,
and as if fresh snow
still glistened somewhere
which it surely does
at least for a little longer,

as if, too, my personal change
could actually affect all that–things
like snow
and glisten
and wolves.

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drafty sort of poem for Brendan’s prompt on Real Toads about voices in our heads, and also for open link night.  Drawing is mine but based on diorama at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.