Posted tagged ‘http://withrealtoads.blogspot’

This Chair Not A Political Hack

April 2, 2019

This Chair Not a Political Hack

The chair contemplated
the bums it had supported, fated, it seemed,
to be rated
bottom rung,
catching what might otherwise fall
between the cracks.

What the chair wished:
to be for once the one who tables
the motion,
who starts a movement with legs,
makes others do its bidding;
not hidden
beneath the suits and toots.

The thing, it thought woodenly:
to take a stand–
But life was not fair
to this chair,

and the chair?
It just sat there,and took it, oh yeah-

A joke to lift some of the political gloom.  I am sorry to be slow returning comments but very grateful for them.  This is written for HA prompt on Real Toads to write from the perspective of an object.  He quotes a beautiful Wallace Stevens poem, that could not be more different. 

Questioning The Idea of Heaven

March 6, 2015


Questioning the Idea of Heaven

Can it be true
that I’ll not see you

That all will never be
as it always should
have been?

Will we not laugh
at trivial cruelties, which you
will allow me to call
every single one?

Match memory for memory
like one might measure height
in penciled lines by the side
of a door, the pine jamb varnished yellow
as a child-drawn sun?

We did have the door,
the pine,
the sun–


A poem of sorts for Margaret Bednar’s prompt Artistic Interpretations on With Real Toads to make a poem using an image by Toril Fisher, this one called California Poppy Glow. Margaret has many lovely pictures of Toril’s work on the Real Toads website–the color in these flowers oddly made me think of sun.  (I may post another one re garlic–but haven’t quite done that one yet.) 


Prayer (After David Huerta’s Poem of the Same Name)

January 10, 2015


Prayer  (After David Huerta’s Poem of the Same Name)

save this moment.

It opened as if we two were feet
in a coupled walk, bits
of a walked beach–tide, ebb,
sand, wave;
as if our mouths might have sparked the light
of a leading moon–

It began as if beings who are sand and wave met only
in a frisson of foam, a bubbling
of rainbow,
which sounds
so stupid now—

as if waves didn’t crash,
as if sand didn’t flatten harder
than houses,
as if feet could not be buried
in an instant, buried again.

It opened as if we could not be weighted down
then tossed around;
as if neither of us could be drowned
by what spewed from our own throats;
as if we were known to emit waves
of soft sound only, and as if
a moment, any grain of time’s sand,
could withstand
our onslaught–

Lord, who even in this crush
knows found quiet,
who breathes
like the stars in this night
wider than ocean,
stars too far to care
for a glow going out,
and yet lend theirs–

save this moment.


This is very much a draft poem and not about any particular current incident, but I’m sure we all know about moments gone sour!  It was written for Grace’s (Heaven’s) prompt on With Real Toads to write something in the style of David Huerta, a truly wonderful Mexican poet.  My title and first line are taken from Huerta.   

PS –this has been edited since first posting, as I think I was not very clear in the first version, seen by the first six or seven commenters.  (It’s still probably not very clear, but that may be okay.)  

Still Life

November 22, 2014


Still Life

There is, in the framing of fruit,
a special deliciousness.

Yes, there’s awe
for shown skill, the furring of a peach
with paint, but for me
much of the magic lies
in the frame–not the gilded, the scrolled,
the varnished wood–the simple edge,
parameter, the fact that the seen–
the scene–ends.

When we underscore
almost anything,
then extend that bottom line
four square,
we pare down the all-too-much
to a center,
fence a tableau,
tame–no, aim–the random,
the overbreadth, the more-

making a window
into the not-right-here-
right-now, which, for all
we praise the moment,
we crave.

I think of suddenly
dark streets, just into
a shift of seasons, when walking in cold that falls
as quick as night, I look up to find a dinner hour, three flights
from the street–so elegant
from the asphalt, even a penny jar
on top of some inner refrigerator shining
like a goblet, a goblet like a sliver of moon,
then higher, half a block over, an aquarium blue
as remembered June;
in the not-quite basement apartment at sidewalk-level,
someone’s best wooden bowl on their nicked
wooden counter backdropped
by scuffed floor–all
the different grains angled
by panes into a pattern
the eye finds marvelous, everything made much
by its confines.

Oh yes, we admire thinking
outside the box,
but how beautiful is
the box

where life holds still
as long as we want, and then some,
while we, standing at its window, wonder whether
we’ll ever make it through.

Here’s a belated and drafty poem for Margaret Bednar’s prompt on With Real Toads relating to the wonderful still lives of American painter, Severin Roesin.   The above pic was taken by Margaret Bednar on her iPhone and is a detail of a Roesin’s “Still Life with Fruit.”

(A typo–lack of comma in the first posted version has been remedied!)



Shared Ribs

March 27, 2014


Shared Ribs

My unconscious deflects the cryptic, oscillates
between the quotidian ho-hum
and the quotidian urgent,
makes a big to-do of the to-done–
fetishizing all those t’s foolishly dotted,
i’s crossed–
though often, turns only my torso,
doesn’t even scan
dream pages.

While you, asleep, leap
from penumbral cliffs,
wheel monkey-wrenched helicopters,
exact precise control
over the trigger kegs
of ravening St. Bernards
and, whenever I reach across, are chasing hard,
some sure inkling
of salvation.

You want, upon waking,
to tell me about it.
Pupils amplified by night’s close,
voice as husky as if it wore
an aviator’s jacket–
you tender word montages
from the irrational geographic, a tout
for your disappearing country,
while me, I pout about needing tea,
willfully weighting
the baggage that keeps
me here–

for I fear,
shouldering the sheet,
that you are Jung at heart,
while I find myself an old hand
at schadenfreude.

Oh, the heart, the gloved heart, mittened
by its own chest, caged
by those expanding, contracting ribs that join us
on some anthropomythic level
(which you will likely describe
one morning–how the curved bones moonscaped
Lethe skies–while I silently bite ribbed lips, nodding)–

for you listen to me often enough
mornings, evenings, afternoons, even without
kegged St. Bernards.

Why we love so much
the ribs beside us
in this dream
of fitfully shared
sleep, companion heart beat.

Here’s a poem posted for a prompt by the wonderful Hedge Witch (Joy Anne Jones) on With Real Toads. The prompt, accompanying a very cool article on Mind and Symbol, is a list of words taken from the first chapter of Man and Symbol by Carl Jung.