Poem A Day, 024

024 Weight

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Tell It to the (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Possible titles include: “Tell It to the Hand,” “Tell It to the Judge,” “Tell It to the Six-Foot Bunny Rabbit,” and so on.

So I didn't like this prompt. I decided to work on some poems from 2012, when I failed to make the Poem A Day challenge. This was the eighth day from that year, and the final one. It was a difficult poem to write, but important as I began to cut ties to harmful relationships in an effort to start something healthy and new. I wrote poems about my repeating exes that year, but never published them. This is one. I'll post at least one other pretty soon.

Weight

Naive

believing

in us against

the weight of years,

against the pull of the

time you spent with her.

You

had the

accumulative

habits and rituals

of a life that began

in your shared youth.

While

I held out

only comfort

and love without

guilt or belittlement,

without any expectation.

Only

I hoped

it would be

enough for us,

this small stone

for us to build upon.

I thought that in choosing,

you would choose me.

I didn’t calculate

the weight

of time

with

her.

Poem A Day, 023

place holder

Poem A Day, 022

Today is a Tuesday, and you know what that means: Two for Tuesday Prompts! Write one, write the other, and/or write both!

Write an optimistic poem. The glass is half full.

Write a pessimistic poem. The glass is half empty.

This is more of a pessimistic poem, about frustration over a five-year relationship that never went where I wanted it to go.

Blank Canvas

Somewhere between coffee cup

and the sink she realizes

He’s at it again:

sifting through messages.

The reason they’re

at his apartment,

drinking his weak coffee,

using his sour towels,

curling into his hard bed.

Messages.

She rinses the cup,

listens to him hum

some foreign lullaby,

one his mother maybe

sang to him?

His mother he

never mentions.

Volumes of words on

economy and currency exchange.

Talks and says nothing,

his voice a blank canvas,

a sham in the MoMA

and everyone is buying.

She dries the mug,

turns it over and over

in her hands.

Aging hands,

she thinks.

He’s typing now,

and she knows,

today their time is done.

The sheets still

bear their warmth,

the creases like

meringues whipped stiff

the night before,

now stale.

The cup clean in her hands,

she returns it to the cabinet.

Without a sound,

She toes into her shoes,

slides into her blouse

and slips out

without a word

like she was

never

even

there.

Poem A Day, 021

For today’s prompt, write a “back to basics” poem. For me, back to the basics means jumping to the fundamentals. Maybe it’s me re-learning (or practicing) fundamentals–like running or writing–but it could also be a child learning how to tie his shoestrings, which can be a unique experience for both the child and the adult trying to give instructions and advice. Back to basics could also be re-setting a state of mind or getting back into a routine. In a way, spring is a season that gets back to the basics.

I'm behind again on Poem A Day, but this one will fit for the 21^st. It's Back to Basics for me because it has a rhyme scheme and meter, so yeah... old school! For all of my librarian friends, I'm sorry. I was traumatized by the librarian at Vidor High School, though I don't even remember her name.

The Truth About Books

The truth is, I don't love libraries

Though I'm seldom without a good book.

A strange confession

in my profession,

And it probably bears a close look.

The truth is that libraries scare me.

I'm embarrassed by how slow I read.

Now like my brother

or any other

who devour whole books with such speed.

I likewise shrank from librarians

who ruled us with judgmental chagrin

a finger on lips

a harsh whispered hiss

So I rarely went back again.

A book is a world I crawl in to.

I like to get lost in its pages

Wrapped up within worlds

A story unfurls

in all its archetypal stages.

My heart envelopes each character.

I obsess over themes and theories.

So I, over time,

accrued many fines

enough to buy the whole series.

So now I'm devoted to bookstores.

I can peruse with impunity.

I order online,

without fear or fines,

to restore my continuity.

When you own a book, it's a treasure

You can dog ear or highlight a verse

when it makes you cry,

you can scribble, “WHY?”

or scrawl out a vehement curse.

Because books should be interactive,

we should embrace the soul of a text,

Despise the writer?

Call her a blighter,

Then pick up to read what comes next.

You can tell when a book is cherished

by cracks and creases on its spine,

so never judge me

and never charge me

for not returning a book on time.

The truth is, I battle with shyness

and for me, my books were an escape

the day-to-day fears

of bullies and tears –

only books could make me feel safe.

So now to my family, I'm grateful

for their devotion to written words.

A book is a gift,

a spiritual life

with the plentiful passions they stir.

I tell you, it makes no difference

if it's bound or a Kindle or Nook.

Classic, hardback, or new

Beaten, battered, or used,

As long as we give kids our books.  

Poem A Day, 020

Place holder... poem to come later.

Poem A Day, 019

For today’s prompt, pick a color, make the color the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. You can make your poem black, white, red, purple, turquoise, puce, or whatever your heart desires. And the subject of your poem can cover any topic–as long as you’ve plugged a color into the title. Let’s do this!

Of course, I went a bit off prompt. I wanted to play with the condition of synesthesia, since Katrina and I both have it to a degree. We associate colors, scents, tastes, and feelings with certain words or ideas.

Synesthesia 

Like the color of an itch
like the scent of a song
like the taste of betrayal
when everything goes wrong

A yellow word
fills up my mind
exhaling and exhaling
a balloon filled with wasps
caution and worry
laced with
turpentine
acrid
forbidding
like the insight
of my mind

Like the color of an insult
like the scent of your fright
like the taste of disappointment
like your decisions of tonight

A gray word
inside my palm
twirling and swirling
a tempest filled with knives
wishes and regrets
laced with
sugar cane
inviting
like the promise
of my pain

like the color of a mindcrime
like the scent of losing hope
like the taste of dying dreams
when you know that you're alone

Poem A Day, 018

018 Weather

For today’s prompt, write a weather poem. A weather poem can be a poem about a hurricane or tornado; it can be a poem about the weatherperson; it can be a poem about forgetting an umbrella on a rainy day; it can be big; it can be small; etc.

Tempest

Let your lips be the lightning

tearing through the skin

Let your fingertips be the rain

whispering down my spine

Let your eyes be the hurricane

bearing down into my heart

Let your voice be the thunder

breaking me apart

Let our bodies be the storm

Let our words be ripped away

Let us entwine together

Let it carry us away

Poem A Day, 017

Poem A Day, Day 17

Yesterday's prompt was a pop culture poem. I apologize beforehand for the parody poem I'm about to submit, but I'm not sorry. If you know Spongebob and the B-52s, you'll understand.


Crab Shack

Spongebob:
If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says
 "15 miles to the
Crab Shack"
Crab Shack, yeah, yeah

Ms. Puff:
 I'm headin' down the Atlantis highway
 Lookin' for the patty getaway
 Headed for the patty getaway

Mr. Krabs:
I got me a car, it's as big as a whale
 And we're headin' on down to the Crab Shack
 I got me a Stingray, it seats about 20
 So hurry up and bring your jukebox money

All:
The Krusty Krab is a little old place where we can get together
 Crab Shack, baby (x3)
 (Crabs, baby, that's where it's at)

Plankton:
Sign says (woo) "Stay away, fools"
 'Cause crabs rule at the Crab Shack

Patrick:
 Well, it's set way back in Jellyfish Fields
 Just a funky old shack and I gotta get back
 Patties on the fry grill
 Patties on the spatula
 Patties at the front door
 Patties on my forehead

All:
 The Krusty Krab is a little old place where we can get together
 Crab Shack, baby
 Crab Shack, that's where it's at
 Crab Shack, that's where it's at

Spongebob:
 Flappin' and a-flippin'
 Dancin' and a-prancin'
 Won't stop for nothin'
 'Cause it's hot as an oven
 The whole shack shimmies
  The whole shack shimmies when everybody's
 Movin' around and around and around and around

All:
 Everybody's movin', everybody's groovin', baby
 Folks linin' up outside just to get down
 Everybody's movin', everybody's groovin', baby
 Funky little shack
 Krabby Patty shack

Mr. Krabs:
Hop in my Stingray, it's as big as a whale and it's about to set sail
 I got me a car, like, it seats about 20
 So come on and bring your Patty money

Sandy and Squidward, alternatively:
 Bang, bang, bang, on the door, baby
Knock a little louder, baby
Bang, bang, bang, on the door, baby
 I can't hear you
 Bang, bang, bang, on the door, baby
 Knock a little louder, will you?
 Bang, bang, bang, on the door, baby
 I can't hear you

Squidward:
 Your what?

Pearl:
 Tin roof, Krusted

All:
 Crab Shack, baby, Crab Shack
 Crab Shack, baby, Crab Shack (Crabs, baby, that's where it's at, yeah)
 Crab Shack, baby, Crab Shack (Crabs, baby, that's where it's at)
 Crabs, baby, Crab Shack
 Flappin' and a-flippin'
 Dancin' and a-prancin'
 At the Crab Shack

Poem A Day, 016

Poem A Day, Day 16

For today’s prompt, write an elegy. An elegy doesn’t have specific formal rules. Rather, it’s a poem for someone who has died. In fact, elegies are defined as “love poems for the dead” in John Drury’s The Poetry Dictionary. Of course, we’re all poets here, which means everything can be bent. So yes, it’s perfectly fine if you take this another direction–for instance, I once wrote an elegy for card catalogs. Have at it!

Channeling my inner Poe, four interlocking haikus:

Elegy

Violet velvet

curtains brush aside, reveals

naught but a dead bird

caged within a cage

bleached white bars interwoven

with raven black hair

long ago she slept

while the angels sang her name

eternal prison

and I, the warden,

will watch over her repose

never will she fly

Poem A Day, 015

Poem A Day, Day 15

For today’s prompt, we actually have a Two-for-Tuesday prompt:

• Write a love poem. Love, it’s such a big 4-letter word that can mean so much to so many for a variety of interpretations. Friendly love, sexual love, dorky love, all-encompassing love, jealous love, anxious love, love beaten with a baseball bat, hot love, big love, blues love, greeting card love, forgiving love, greedy love, love in a music video, and so on and so forth.
• Write an anti-love poem. Well, kinda like love, but take it back the other way.

Little things I love – A list

Ellipses …

Feeding deer and birds and ducks and squirrels

Cat noses

Curry

Her eyes that are the same color as the San Marcos River

Talking about books

Sneezes

Fanfic reviews

Coffee and music on the patio

Waking up to the sound of rain

Thursdays

Em dashes

Sunlight on wet pavement

The smell of earth after rain (petrichor)

Blue Daze flowers

Shooting stars

Sitting in showers

Hotel beds

Buttered popcorn

Books

Airports

Wind chimes

Butterflies

Seeing hawks in flight

The time before the movie starts in the theatre

Stamps in my passport

The shape of his lips

Meteor showers

Chocolate chip cookies, fresh baked

Swimming with my eyes open

Twinkle lights

Ellipses ...

Poem A Day, 014

Poem A Day, Day 14

Today's prompt was to write an "If I were (blank)" poem. I started with that, but it morphed into this. And I'm pretty happy about it.


Had we been

Had I been born
In ancient Greece
Would we have found
Each other?

Would our souls reach
Interminably
Toward one another

Lifetime after lifetime,
From Provence to Allegheny
From Bali to Marseilles?

In one life, we are twins
Peddling a bicycle through
A field of lavender,
Mountains behind us
And clouds parting
To reveal cool spring sun.

You are the boy
I am the girl
Playing cards
In the spokes
Spin round and round
And round

In one life, you’re the mother
Passing a slice of toast while
A spate of rain,
Staccatos on windows
And cats yowling
To let them come inside.

You are the mother
I am the child
Sipping tea
In the kitchen
Talking round and round
And round

In one life, you’re my friend
Twisting a ring upon your hand
A cup of coffee,
A plate of crumbs
And you need a way
To get out of town.

You are the woman
And so I am
Swallowing tears
In the halflight
Turning round and round
And round

Had we been born
In another time
We would find
Each other

My soul would reach
Interminably
Toward yours

Lifetime after lifetime,
From Galveston to Boston
From London to Belfast
Round and round
And round and round

Poem A Day, 013

Today's prompt is to write a sestina. I've attempted a sestina before, so when I read today's prompt, I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Here's my poem instead - a short, simple, non-insanity inducing poem about me trying to maintain a connection.

Tentative

open a text

the cursor blinks

what to say

what to say?

flash, flash, flash...

say something

“I miss you.”

And then

wait

Poem A Day, 012

For today’s prompt, write a city poem. The poem can take place in a city, can remember the city (in a general sense), be an ode to a specific city, or well, you should know the drill by now. City poem: Write it!

Moontower

The night was wide with moonlight

Great cake slices of whiteness

Wedged between slips of grass

And sidewalk

Tiptoe traipsing,

We tread our way through

swathes of sounds

a mosaic of Tejano

and bass thump

and techno

Stuffed between

mingling scents of

Mountain Laurel laced

with cumin

and sawdust

and flour

It used to be here

There used to be 32

mercury vapor

incandescents

Cutting the night

into cake shapes

Now here we stand

in the shadow

flashblind from the future

hands cupped around

the past

Poem A Day, 011

Patriot

Minds of men

Brought forth this nation

Their minds and hearts

United

When ideals met

Adversity

Their passions were

Ignited

In crucibles

The seeds were sewn

Events and plots

Transpired

To turn the soil

From fallow ground

Into our souls

inspired

Poem A Day, 008

Origami

A blank page

you marked me

I folded

in your gentle

coaxing fingers

an origami bloom

sheltered safe

in silent secret shade

Until my soft

whispered confession

until I opened

in your palm,

I thought

I marked you

too.

Faultless fingers,

A boy at play,

you tore the furling petals

and tossed them away

And here I lay

windswept, unsafe

marked as I am

and broken.

Unscathed,

you walked away

I left no mark

on you

Poem A Day, 006

A visual response for my night poem.

Poem A Day, 007

I skipped six for now, because I haven’t written a night poem yet…

Here’s my self portrait poem, which goes with our class symbolism assignment, in which we create a personal mandala. The poem and mandala symbolically represents 14 aspects of our personalities.

Mandala

Sun Image:
 Outwardly, I am like a cat, because like at cat, I am independent and aloof.
 Outwardly, I am like an iris, because like an iris, I am resilient and adaptable.
 Outwardly, I am like the color blue, because like blue, I am calm and carefree.
 Outwardly, I am like a lightning bolt, because like a lightning bolt, I can be scattered and energetic.
 Outwardly, I am like the number 28, because like 28, I am as dependable as the lunar cycle.
 Outwardly, I am like an opal, because like an opal, I have a deep fire of hope.
 Outwardly, I am like water, because like water, I am creative and intuitive.

Shadow Image:
 Inwardly, I am like a hawk, because like a hawk, I am loyal to my loved ones.
 Inwardly, I am like a dogwood, because like a dogwood, I am sensitive and fragile with life gets rough.
 Inwardly, I am like gold, because like gold, I feel I must protect the valuable part of my heart.
 Inwardly, I am like a spiral, because like a spiral, I search for spiritual meaning.
 Inwardly, I am like the number seven, because like seven, I am lucky, unique, and exciting.
 Inwardly, I am like a moonstone, because like a moonstone, I am secretive about my fears.
 Inwardly, I am like a fire, because like a fire, my passions can be all-consuming.

Poem A Day, 005

A little behind, and off-prompt again, this is my offering for Saturday.
  Distancing

A little behind, and off-prompt again, this is my offering for Saturday.

Distancing

The pattern emerges:
 a microscopic microcosm
 Strands of protein huddle close
 a joyful wriggle,
 then like a child’s game,
 they rend apart
 holding onto threads until
 the wall comes down
 separating one into two,
 whole and different
 wholly removed.

And so I wonder,
 does the pattern repeat?
 Parent and child huddle close,
 then tottering on wobbling legs,
 holding hands until fingertips
 brush apart until
 life lowers a veil
 and two lives divide,
 whole and separate and
 wholly different.

Is it a function of survival,
 this distancing?
 Or encoded in our cells?
 Do we brace away from
 one day’s goodbye?
 Do we push away on purpose,
 in breathless exploration
 or to protect ourselves from loss,
 knowing
 even in our cells,
 that one day,
 we will do the same,
 that we will split apart
 and float away?

Poem A Day, 004

A pirate villanelle Pirate A windswept night, a burning sea The ship tossed high on tempest tide A pirate's life the life for me All worthy hands on bended knee Open ocean, no place to hide A windswept night, a swirling sea Unfolding shores spread out to see I left my home, I left my bride A pirate's life the life for me A bloated corpse calls out to me His swollen mouth grins far too wide A windswept night, a salty sea We'll skim the waves eternally In Aidenn's breast we will confide A pirate's life the life for me In m'dear love's arms I long to be I tilled the sails until I died A pirate's life the life for me Til windswept night on salty sea

Poem A Day, 003

To: you@heart.org From: me@cyberspace.net Re: Life Hey! I’m here to interest you In an exciting offer Don’t click the SPAM button, This is important! You need to know Not everything that flashes Deserves your attention All those shiny objects— Shoes that cost as much as plane tickets Hair products that make your hair More reflective than your conscience— Those things are traps As much as treasures. Oh, I get it. What do I know? I’m just ones and zeros. But IRL, I’m trying to reach you Amidst Photoshopped glam And pop-ups for Viagra And your BFFs Instagrammed boobshots (srsly, she needs to put some clothes on) But I’m trying to tell you There’s a world beyond cyberspace A world beyond Gucci and Prada And Jordan’s and Nike I’m trying to tell you that Labels are cages Labels are limits Labels are lies Don’t let yourself get bound up By a four-inch screen Live your life in all its dimensions. ROFL. Literally. Love, Me

Poem A Day, 002

Today's prompt was a voyage poem, so I wrote a rambling, rhyming steampunk poem:

Away, Away

She in her corset, fanning her face

Stiff muslin shoulders, gloves of white lace

About her knees, the taffeta storms

I rub her frail fingers to keep them warm

Me, dressed in pleats and a cummerbund.

Me, with notions of having some fun

She, with her hair in tortoiseshell combs

She with a hope to try the unknown

Unfurling song, the calliope,

Midway scents of fried chips and honey.

On candy striped legs, ponies prance by.

Up ahead, something catches her eye.

Steam unspools from a gleaming smokestack

A silver bench rests on a short track

The engines' rhythm a steady thrum,

a resonant pulse, a heartbeats' hum

A barker smiling a tightwire smile

Greets us and says, “Stop in for a while.”

He enfolds us in the harness lash,

then sets the bend on the track with a clash.

The lady gasps as she takes my hand.

(This is going much better than planned.)

“Your first time?” he asks, his eyes alight.

Her eyes answer him with sheer delight.

A tip of his hat, he bids, “So long!”

A twist of a crank and

                               three

                                    two

                                        one

We soar skyward, the Lady and I

Her hand in mine, together we fly.

My tie a tongue, happily lapping.

My waistcoat wings are wildly flapping.

Her whalebone bodice splits at its seam.

Suddenly, she is as free as a dream.

Flutter of skirts and lolling of limbs,

Like ships on the sea, soundless we skim.

A kaleidoscope of wheeling light,

We soar through the air, all day and all night

Her hand in mine, and mine in hers

the breeze in her loosened tendrils stir

Says she, “These new dreams that we have found,

May they last always and never come down.”

Poem A Day: 001

End

As always, it's a mistake

to assume

that anything will last

forever

cold hands reach for cold hands

demarcation

“I'll see you.”

I know I won't.

As dangerous a game:

almost and sometimes.

Where does forever go?