Running on very little sleep, so I went into epigraph mode when I saw that today’s prompt was farewell:
Nay, I Have Done, You Get No More Of Me
Why yes, I have been spanked by the doors of rooms
I tried to depart from in a queenly huff:
it happens if you live long enough,
just as ancient dust outstays the newest brooms.
My thanks to all of you who’ve read my posts this month, and especially to those of you who have taken the time to comment and encourage! It’s back to a more sedate (~ twice-monthly) posting rate for me, but do please stop by from time to time — I’ve some poems-by-other-people to quote and other tidbits to be shared…
Today’s PAD Challenge: make “Never ____” the title of a poem and then write it.
Never Tell a Witch You Haven’t Had Breakfast
For she will not believe you
when you later try to insist
you aren’t hungry at all
while your eyes keep straying
toward the bowl of hot broth
and the glass of sweet tea
and the plate of perfect morsels
all waiting for you to surrender
to the invitation you stumbled into.
Since Peg mentioned it, I took a stab at a poem inspired by the feast-bowl.
I’m ambivalent about it, although it felt like real writing.
I stayed to play with shells
to float the leaves downstream
to find what dusk means
to an adult. The darkness twists
its hands around me
covering my every breath
with canine step or howl
the sound of wings on air
the air-shake as the tree
beside me shivers with a predator.
The moon comes up
and in the brightness I see home
until the light fills in
with teeth and claw
and opens wider, grinning, hungry,
singing that all children
taste so beautiful in flight, in fear.
More Mongol stories come out as heterometrical lines, opening:
Take this knife.
Your mother might have known a better way,
instructed you in how to please a man,
but I am father third and will not woo again.
I’m still one behind but I am optimistic about tomorrow night.
I want to go home, but I’m not yet done
with either my current can of Coke or the slides
I still plan to hammer into sequence tonight,
but my veins are fuzzy with lack of sleep,
my focus leaking every which where
except upon the topic at hand. Oh, to possess
the command of crystalline logic, the grace
of cut-glass concentration — my task
is neither Sisyphean nor any other
incarnation of impossible, and yet
as daunting as not turning around when told
not to turn around. Behind me are the shards
of shattered piggybanks, the shreds
of a lunatic’s leathers, the specks
of myself — for yes, already
I am crumbling, a tale of salt
trailing away from the very water it sought.
[Prompted both by PAD challenge – “longing” – and today’s words at Read Write Word (thanks, Joanne!). That, and I really do want to head home soon. *wrenches attention back to work*]
The Poetic Asides prompt for Sunday was “miscommunication”:
Not wanting to talk,
Ron pretends he’s asleep,
hoping that Dan
will read him as “exhausted”
rather than “mad”
but when Dan drops onto
his side of the bed
without even a sigh
to suggest a considering
look, it is all Ron can do
not to demand right then
that they un-fold all their cards
and agree to new stakes —
to something able to light
the same fire under their tails.
This week’s Fifty Two Pieces prompt: Dzunuk’wa Feast Dish:
From a Woman At the Fork in the River
You cannot flee from emptiness, for while
it may devour you without its many lips
grazing upon any part of your skin,
your life may depend upon its gliding grasp,
its darkness rich with teeth
that will tear from you new eyes.
[P.S. Mary, when I saw the image and read its caption, I confess my first reaction was, “That is so a marymary poem in waiting…” 🙂 ]
Okay, in theory, I am three poems behind and have none for today. (Yet.)
To cover for April 23, I took Joanne’s wonderful suggestion about the camels and wrote a small acrostic whose final line makes up today’s title.
To cover for April 24, I wrote from a line in Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha which Jaime quotes from.
First a shadow, then a sorrow,
lapsed from wood to covered road.
First a ballad then lament
as footsteps brought the traveler home.
Spin the world as I spin forward
searching for the light inside,
testing self against all darkness,
bringing shadows on the ride.
While we bring the wider sorrow
home, home sings its own lament:
where once was fire and love embracing,
all but what we’ve brought’s absent.
To cover for April 25, I
stole wrote something inspired by Diane’s comment on dandelions:
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
creep dandelions through the sunlit hours
to the last photosynthesis of time.
They’ve lit each of our yesterdays, we fools
who weed by chemical, hand-pull them out,
their candle color fading down to shadow,
their tale deemed insignificant
no matter what our lawn-borne fury.
You can guess that I prefer weeds to manicured lawn, I take it?
Ah, well, I’ll have to manicure twice tomorrow night; three risings-above-drivel may be enough for tonight.
Today’s PAD prompt was to make an event the title of a poem and then write it.
This morning, a 26-year-old man
died after crossing the finish line —
a terrible echo of Pheidippides’ collapse —
but later in the day, four women over 70
completed the full 26.2 miles.
Nenikekamen, said the messenger.
Nenikekamen, I write
in water across your skin,
our sun-reddened limbs
on the shoreline
[Nenikekamen – “we are victorious” – Pheidippides’ last words]
Today’s prompt at Poetic Asides is “travel,” in any sense of the word.
I started out by reminiscing about a blue-and-black flogger I’d brought home from Amsterdam, but this is what remained on my screen once I was done:
Last summer, while in Chicago, I gave away
two pairs of long black satin gloves,
one which I’d worn to a party in Detroit
with a leather mini that now no longer fit,
and the other — I don’t even wear gloves
to rinse dishes, I don’t know why
I thought I needed a second pair
considering how I like to fondle olives
with my bare fingers, which I love
men raising up to their lips to kiss —
so that had been a stupid splurge
so it cheered me up, to see those gloves
on the hands of other women, both
beautiful as they danced, one who purred
as her velvet sheath rustled against
the scarlet folds between my legs
and while our fingers didn’t trepass
beyond self-imposed hems, I will
never relinquish that night, for
its sweet heat rushes back
every time I open my closet. The dress
is neither baggage nor keepsake:
to touch as we did was neither
a secret nor a sin of distance.
Yet, it speaks to me not only of Chicago
but of valleys I chose not to visit, and how
I travel with what-might-have-beens
mingling with my mementos of bandits —
those marvels that overtook me unawares
long before I acquired sufficient wit
to treasure whatever they would leave of me
once they left me behind.
Today’s PAD prompt: regret
Worse Than Booze
I stayed up past four,
trying to catch
what my imaginary friends
would say next
and I’m trying
to squeeze out
a few more lines
are so delicious