Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Windstorm Illusions (a Poem for Day Twenty-Nine of PAD)

Hey, did you notice I skipped Day Twenty-Eight? I hope to get back to it, but for now, my Day Twenty-Nine poem is below. Only two left to write and I will have completed the challenge!

This one fits into the realism category, I suppose. It's what I see when I watch things flying around in the wind.

The prompt for Day Twenty-Nine of PAD:
  • Write a realism poem. A poem that is rooted in the real world. Or…
  • Write a magical poem. A poem that incorporates magical or fantastical elements.

Image by Christian Ferrari
Wind's Performance Is Captivating

Windstorm Illusions

Cardboard soars on lilting gusts
of dust made from departed friends,
            wings                  carrying
un-feathered                            short-billed
            crow across gasoline stream,
across the way where two paper bags
perform contact improvisation, butting edges
and then rolling along where stony-faced drivers
drop offspring off for a day of inclement weather,
            grasses                        dance
                        on hillside,
creating mirage of ocean waves, making life
in the desert an ever-moving symphony of sight


Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Naïve or Optimistic? (A Poem for Day Twenty-Seven of PAD)

I admit it. I have trouble seeing the bad in people. I have trouble believing monsters exist. Wishful thinking, I guess.

The Day Twenty-Seven prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a monster poem. There are the usual suspects: zombies, vampires, werewolves, and mummies. But monsters can take any form and terrorize a variety of victims. So have fun playing around with this one, because we’ve only got a few days of April left.

photo by Belovodchenko Anton
Is It so Terrible to See Goodness in Everything?

Naïve or Optimistic?

Monsters don’t exist
inside her world, taken in
with cheery eyes. Lying
to herself keeps her
smiling. Honest.


Monday, April 28, 2014

Filled with Tears When You're Gone (a Poem for Day Twenty-Six of PAD)

My poem for Day Twenty-Six is below.

The Day 26 prompt for PAD:
For today’s prompt, write a water poem. Life depends upon water, so there are any number of ways to write this prompt. A few thoughts that jump to mind include pollution, rising water levels, hurricanes, fracking, and more.

photo by Michael & Christa Richert
Her Life Ripples On

Filled with Tears When You’re Gone

She thought it would be better
to disintegrate into bubbles
instead of spending eternity
inside a box. Floating downstream,
to slippery floor where visitors
would dip tired feet, wade across
                                    to the
gain sustenance from refreshment
offered by cool ripples
       body would


Saturday, April 26, 2014

The Last Straw (a Poem for Day Twenty-Five of PAD)

Yes, I'm still struggling to keep up. Although I'm relieved the end of April is near, the thought of posting a poem a day for a year is enticing me. We will see. For now, my poem for Day Twenty-Five is below.


For today’s prompt, write a “last straw” poem. Everyone encounters situations in which they decide they’re not going to take it anymore (whatever “it” happens to be). It could be a loud noise, an abusive partner, someone taking the Pop Tart but not throwing the box away, or whatever. Write about the moment, the aftermath, or take an unexpected path to your poem.

Photo by vanora
Don't Let Our Lights Go Out

The Last Straw

When prickly vines have shriveled
up, fields have turned infertile,
and trampled farmers ride tireless
tractors under belching skies
displaying no vacancy signs refusing
factories a bed to release in,
when barns are barren having lost
the battle to shelter those
with no human tone,
and bales of hay have turned
to one last straw,
when a buck has no meaning, nothing left
to buy, who will know how to fix it all,
surrounded by stock-stilled world,
nature’s flow slaughtered in its sleep.
Take that straw and build a bed,
imprint dusty farmlands with footsteps’
treads, take in the ones with no say-so,
envision hope that we can end destruction
instead of murdering
our own reproduction.


Tell It to the Silence (a Poem for Day Twenty-Four of PAD)

I had some problems with this prompt, but I'm happy to report I was able to work through them and get something written before 1 a.m. Ack! Have I told you how tired I am? So tired I can't hear the rhythm anymore. I may move the lines around tomorrow.


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.

Photo by Belovodchenko Anton
Let Silence Lull You to Sleep

Tell it to the Silence

Just when you think you’ve proven
you exist, there is no you. A pack of wolves
yips on hilly backyard topography, interrupting sleep-
lessness, sirens show off their interest
in emergencies, all these years later,
the sound of your words continues speeding
light years through each filament
of my common sense, blood pulses
in my temples like the squish
of footsteps through the muck my sorrow
has left behind. Only when I finally end
my breathing to leave myself,
will I find the silence I need
to fill the noise.


Friday, April 25, 2014

Secure My Rescue (a Poem for Day Twenty-Three of PAD)

To try to get out of my rut, I used anagram in this piece. If you don't know that that is, the definition from Poetry Foundation says, "A word spelled out by rearranging the letters of another word; for example, “The teacher gapes at the mounds of exam pages lying before her."

The Day Twenty-Three prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a location poem. Location could be physical–like the laundromat, a public park, a glacier, flying saucer, etc. Or location could be emotional, psychological, metaphysical, or some other kind of word that ends in -al. Or surprise everyone!

Photo by Maciek PELC
Rescue Me

Secure My Rescue

Speechless lives inside self-
control where silence bobs on dreary
surfaces lapping at your shores
                                one thousand miles away.
Stealing windjammer’s license
to play with grainy bits of sand
                                                 in the sound,
you sculpted granules into castles as I hovered
face down on superficial tongue, pushed
back and forth by windy signals, heard
marooned pirate’s torn purple flag flapping
in the wind, found a glinting veil of morning
fog to hide behind. Speechless lives
inside this ocean in my veins, pulsing, reserved,
reversed deserver, my floppy limbs caved over,
connected to you still, my love’s fortress demolished
                                              by an unsuspecting force
                                         the sea
                                    could not see



Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Fresh-Squeezed (a Poem for Day Twenty-Two of PAD)

My poetry has gotten into a rhythm lately that I feel the need to break out of. I will have to think on how to change that. For now, my Day Twenty-Two poem is below. Optimistic or pessimistic? I'm not sure. I think it ends on a positive note. 

Day Twenty-Two prompt for PAD:
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.

photo by Keith Syvinski
She Only Squeezes Lemons Now


She pushed glasses around
until she found the right one—
her favorite one. Her un-kissed
cheeks puffed out, filled with luscious
refreshment, wetting memories
of un-blanketed picnics underneath
a piney forest where he
held her hand,
held her heart.
Her toughened bare heel stepped
in sticky substance pooled
on tiled floor where she’d studied
every inch of his humanity,
a textbook’s crinkled pages, bending
against his will. She rested heated legs
against hardwood chairs, chin in hand,
wiping droplets away before they fell
to rigid surfaces beneath her, holding
precious consolation to her lips,
never letting them leave
the way he did.


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

(B)Asics in Love at the Track Meet (a Poem for Day Twenty-One of PAD)

I was going to forget about writing a poem tonight and go to bed instead. But no. The words wouldn't let me sleep.

The DAY 21 prompt for PAD:

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.

photo by Ted Cabanes
Have You Finished Running Away Yet?

 (B)Asics in Love at the Track Meet

My biceps femoris have not relaxed
since I held my breath at the news:
We need to take a break.
Hamstrings pulled and stretched
on the track of one-hundred meter dashes
‘round my heart, left behind
in the stands, cheering you
on as I watched you take off
into the distance, running
as though I had lit you on fire,
the heat too much for you to handle,
you, with your tepid preferences,
you, fanning my flames, doused
out with no way to find my way
back to the light, hobbling with each foot-
step around in circles, from barefoot
back to wearing (b)asics tied up tight
‘round my ankles, ‘round my life,
towards the finish, back to the start
where you wait, your hands now calloused
from the fight, finding your way
back to that place where you can relax into me,
relax into you-
th’ timer resetting, settling
into fleshy thighs
that don’t want to watch you from the stands.
Wanting you to take a stand.


Monday, April 21, 2014

Family Tree (a Poem for Day Twenty of PAD)

Whew! Good thing I copied the prompts for the past two days. Poetic Asides is temporarily down for maintenance. 

On a side note, I'm in love with Georgia. (No, not the woman. Not the state. The font!)

For today’s prompt, write a family poem. I’ve actually written a few poems about my family this month already, but you don’t have to restrict yourself to your own family. There are any number of human families, of course, but also animals, insects, and other organisms. Plus, there are “families” of other types as well. As usual, feel free to bend the prompt to your favor.

photo by mossholder
Hanging Out in the Family Tree

Family Tree

Family shouldn’t equal famished,
eat your energy, leave behind
the yucky parts they didn’t want.
Family yums up all of you, the good,
the bad, the rotten, too. Wrapping
arms around melancholy limbs,
family climbs to the top
just to touch you, without knowing,
plucks and pulls you down
to place you in protected pockets,
then polishes your outsides,
eats you up, working their way through
the middle, admiring your core, planting seeds
to grow another just like you
because you were so tasty, so delicious,
they had to have another you to desire,
to admire. Unaware
they were leaving you scattered.


Sunday, April 20, 2014

Mediumvioletred (a Poem for Day Nineteen of PAD)

I like this prompt! I will come back to it, but for now—a shorty.

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!

photo by Mocho1
Exactly What Color Is That?


You and me blended as one,
nothing medium about it,
for a moment we went violent
until n-for-needy fell out
through the cracks between
overpowered and loveless, left violet
behind in the middle of life,
waiting, oh waiting for red
at the end of this run-
on colorful life.


Saturday, April 19, 2014

The Winter That Wasn't (a Poem for Day Eighteen of PAD)

Since I'm a day behind, I hope to write and post my Day Nineteen poem later. Or at least be caught up by Monday!

The Day Eighteen prompt for PAD:

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.

photo by juan perez
The Sun Beat Winter

The Winter That Wasn't

Winter delivered
desert highs, sweaty skies, gained
fraud’s reputation


Thursday, April 17, 2014

Clubbing in the 80s (a Poem for Day Seventeen of PAD)

Wow. Day Seventeen. More than halfway there. Below is my poem for the day; it's not really autobiographical (at least not completely). 

The Day Seventeen prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a pop culture poem. I guess I broke out the Bon Jovi a day early, eh? But hey, write a poem about Bon Jovi or Van Halen; write a poem about the Kardashians (or don’t–and say you did); write a poem about a popular SNL skit; write a poem about Dr. Who or Downton Abbey; write a poem about any kind of popular culture thing-a-ma-bob you wish. In fact, write three! (Just kidding; you only need to write one poem–but seriously, write three and be sure to add a little more cowbell.)

photo by fousik
These Are the Waves I Listen to Now

Clubbing in the '80s

Mom and dad told me to come inside
when city streetlights shined up the night.
Instead, I (Du)ran out into darkness
as strobe lights blinked on, stumbling
over 10,000 Maniacs and a Flock
of Seagulls rushing across the front lawn.
Those were the days, Driven to Tears
on My Own Secret Journey sprinting
from Police, then Walking Like an Egyptian
with Bangles dangling on both rigid wrists.
I passed Stray Cats strutting in alleys,
on sidewalks, and on teenaged car roofs,
and then cried Tears for Fear
of men after Tom petted my ego
and then turned aloof. I Squeezed self-
consciousness into black tights and big hair
daring to fit into a League beyond Human,
dressed to impress my Loverboy
constructed of a Simple Mind. Now I suppose
that was all right, nights forgotten across river Styx
after growing up attending Spandau Ballet,
left behind to become the nineteenth member
of the town’s secret Cult, praising charcoal-eyes
and forty-ouncers in hormonal back seats, still waiting
on Tom, too tiring for me, sucking his Red Hot
Chili Peppers, I snuck back inside
before morning came and Mom flipped
on my bedroom light.


Your Absence Smells like (a Poem for Day Sixteen of PAD)

Hmm . . . I sense a pattern. Midnight approaches and I haven't yet written my poem for the challenge. So here I am again posting when I should be sleeping. 

This poem isn't quite what I wanted to create, but I'm too tired to fight it.

Day Sixteen of PAD:

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!

photo by Marco Michelini
Can They Smell Your Absence?

Your Absence Smells Like

Cozy smells like thickened casings
of your arms wrapped
around the parts of me
you left behind. Sometimes
I sit, waiting for your appearance,
cross-elbowed, back slumped over
above folded legs, staring
into mirror’s warbled reflection, irises
shifting colors like mood rings.

My life smells like waiting for a sign
you haven’t left me, like you promised
you never would, your bones hardened,
have become cement statues decorating
rose gardens you tended in my youth. Staked
into ashen soil, you try hard to hang on
to vine-y leaves before disintegration
takes over, makes me smell the death
I don’t ever want to face.


Wednesday, April 16, 2014

What Love Wants (a Poem for Day Fifteen of PAD)

Once again I'm writing at midnight. And I'm tired, so I'm sticking to just one. My poem for Day Fifteen is below.

Today's prompt is a Two-for-Tuesday:

  • 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.

Photo by lolo piepie
Finding Peace in Love

What Love Wants

Love does not sag to jowly depths,
criticize dusty shelves or scowl
at speckled, mud-spattered floors walked
one thousand miles upon.
Love sees only Sunday morning
misty hikes in those sharp and chiseled
cracks around your weary eyes.
And in wobbly legs, stiff with age’s routines
and boredoms, she sees only moonlit runs
on oceanfront property you both stole
from the serpentine sea. Love wants someone
to see through her skin and bones,
someone to expose her soul, to call
her home, someone to bring heaven
to her earth. That’s all she wants.


Tuesday, April 15, 2014

There Is No Man in the Moon (a Poem for Day Fourteen of PAD)

My poem is partially in honor of the lunar eclipse and partially from my heart. I'm tired. Good night. (My poem is below the picture.)

The Day Fourteen prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “If I Were (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 might include: “If I Were President,” “If I Were Smarter,” “If I Were a Little More Sensitive,” or “If I Were Born on April 14.” If I were you, I’d get poeming about now.

photo by Eduardo Siqueira Filho
Do You See the Woman in the Moon?

If I Were a Moon

I wouldn’t be a man at all—just eyes
of a woman with eyelashes thinned
from witnessing your life of seclusion.
You, surrounded by glass stemware, red-filled
evenings with those you call friends,
blasé about every plump and luscious cell
pumping through your skin, pretending
not to be universally selfish, caring
only for trendy atmospheres they breathe
and eat, scuffed wooden stages, lipstick-
stained pages of sheet music left behind
in dressing rooms. They live unaware of existence
beyond their Friday nights on earth, nonchalant
about you who I love and adore, bitter about the space
you call home. Now I’ve drifted away—
we’ve never been. We can be nevermore. 


Monday, April 14, 2014

What Is Your Animal Spirit Guide? (A Poem for Day Thirteen of PAD)

I thought I would take on the full challenge and write a sestina. Only yesterday was a busier-than-usual day, so I had to finish this today and it needs additional editing. To keep up with the challenge though, you can read the work-in-progress below.

Day Thirteen prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, write an animal poem. Pick a specific animal or write about your animal spirit. Maybe you’ll get tricky and write about mustangs (meaning the car) or jaguars (meaning the American football team). Maybe you’ll do an acrostic, or even go crazy and write a sestina (crickets).

Photo by thomas informater
A Raccoon Delivering a Message?

Nocturnal Chitterings from Animal Guides

Somewhere around the middle of self-examination, raccoons
splashed into my internal chaos, slipping a dip in my pool
of confusion, leaving behind a delicate message
I yearned to interpret. Wait by the corner just beyond
sheltered borders of your complacency, spread yourself, unfold
your soul, and embrace your endearing curiosity

But sleep won me over, wooed back to slumber by chittering curiosity
bouncing from bedroom walls to backyard grounds where raccoons
tip-toed in, took quite a drink, their possessiveness beginning to unfold
and take a lick at solitude I’d gotten used to beyond
the last twenty years of beer mugs, dartboards, and pool
tables, unable to hear signals of smoke hidden as a message.

My eyes drifted back to planes where spirits floundered with a message
for those in touch enough to see, nurture innocent curiosity
about things eyes cannot perceive
, only senses beyond
the usual five can enhance awareness for talking with raccoons
or interpreting things they do when they pool
around your life, helping your spirit to unfold.

Still, nocturnal creatures at each corner yearned to unfold
the fleeting earth, draw attention to time’s sacred message:
take off your mask, trust in others, pool
resources with those of like curiosity.
I began comprehending signals from those raccoons
weeping and screeching—what is greatest lies beyond.

So lost in the depths of immobile-bodied dreams beyond
any I’d ever had, my understanding of existence began to unfold.
Yet refusing to let go of my time and attention, those raccoons
tried once again from outside and in to get across the full message.
Refuse to lose yourself in daily routines, nurture curiosity
for all grand things, and take a plunge in life’s nourishing pool

By this time, I was quite exhausted, splashes in my backyard pool
disturbing me again. Stomping to sliding door, I looked beyond
the raccoons’ outer appearance, admiring their curiosity.
Pursuing desires left them unafraid. I’d watched their character unfold
before my tired eyes, once and for all receiving the message
from those masked bandits disguised as raccoons.

Quench your thirst for curiosity with a spin in life’s pool,
buoyant with vigor.
I’m left thankful those unwavering raccoons navigated beyond
from their home to mine all to unfold this vital, now-recognized message.


Saturday, April 12, 2014

Fragments of City Life (a Poem for Day Twelve of PAD)

It's just after noon and I am posting my poem! I'm proud of myself for writing it early.

The opening line in the last two stanzas starts, "In this city" as opposed to the first three stanzas where it says, "In the city." This is intentional; those last two stanzas are more personal to me.

Day Twelve's PAD prompt:

"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!"

You Can't Tell from Looking

Fragments of City Life

In the city, tire treads resemble rattlesnakes,
and sun-dried flags look like old crows
guarding four-way stops, inspiration’s
pushed out by three-piece suited
headaches, blood tied up in veins
of yesterday’s dreams.

In the city, where death hides inside
bedside tables and youth has turned
to old age overnight, princes
ride in on motorized
scooters, skin sandpapered smooth
under a doctor’s exam light.

In the city, her favorite loose linen pants
have thinned in the rear and a rope of threads
at her toe flops with every step. Houses
line the streets like cubicles where fences
are so flimsy neighbors can smell
last night’s macaroni on your breath.

In this city, where the dusty road to magazine
canyon is littered with “dumping prohibited”
signs, a tickle turns into a lump
you can’t swallow away just as night
turns into a never-ending day. And days turn
into years to the power of ten.

In this city, a daughter hugs someone tight
until his light goes out; father dies while the rest
of the world is sleeping. Mother and daughter
kneel beside him, kitchen shears in hand,
snipping stranded samples to tuck away
with his ashes now smudged on crumbling decay.


Friday, April 11, 2014

Instead of Counting Sheep (a Poem for Day Eleven of PAD)

At the end of my long day I had a bit of Fireball and now I have lost my mind. This is such a fun prompt, too! I will come back to it. For now, I'm having trouble focusing, so a haiku it is.

The prompt for Day Eleven of PAD:

For today’s prompt, make a statement the title of your poem and either respond to or expand upon the title. Some example titles might include: “A Date Which Will Live in Infamy;” “Guns Don’t Kill People, I Do;” “This Is Your Brain on Drugs;” “Smile for the Camera,” and “Be Kind Rewind.” Of course, there’s an incredible number of possible titles; pick one and start poeming!

Photo by omar franco
What Do You Dream Of?

Instead of Counting Sheep

Count on me to lie
awake wondering what you
dream of without me.


I thought I would add in the other version, which some people on Poetic Asides preferred:

Instead of Counting Sheep
Count on me to lie
wondering what you
dream of without me.


Thursday, April 10, 2014

My Future without You (a Poem for Day Ten of PAD)

Every day I hold my breath just a little when I sit down to write my poem for the day, wondering if I will be able to let the words (and my emotions) flow. Only twenty more poems to go. Hopefully by the end I will have learned to breathe through the whole process.

The prompt for Day Ten of PAD is:

For today’s prompt, write a future poem. The future might mean robots and computer chips. The future might mean apocalyptic catastrophes. The future might mean peace and understanding. The future might mean 1,000 years into the future; it might mean tomorrow (or next month). I forecast several poems in the near future to be shared below.

The Empty Chair Became Too Much for Me

My Future without You

In the future, this set of cherry-colored dishes
I now line each mortal meal with—the one that holds
us all together, our legs so close our knees knob
against each other (those hardwood legs, too),
we sometimes even joke about playing footsie—
in that future, those dishes will have lost their shine,
chips marking their tired edges, along with a crack or two,
invisible unless you look just the right way in the light.
In that future, I rush to sit, quickening my intake,
and then get back up from empty chairs I (try to) overlook,
giving anything to yell at you, “Clean your plate.”
Giving anything to see your hands
clearing those cherry-colored dishes.


Wednesday, April 9, 2014

What Will Your Last Shelter Look Like? (A Poem for Day Nine of PAD)

I'm keeping it simple tonight. Below is my poem for Day Nine of PAD.


"For today’s prompt, write a shelter poem. Shelter might be a structure like a house, apartment, or hotel. Shelter could be a tent or cardboard box. Shelter could be an umbrella, overpass, cave, or car. Shelter could be a state of mind, part of a money laundering scheme, or any number of interpretations."

Photo by Michael & Christa Richert
Where He Now Lives

The Niche

After he’s placed inside, the crowd gathers,
forming a half-circle, eyes shifted
downwards, feeling him overhead.
Behind them, a lone koi lifts its mouth 
above the water, sucking for air, sustenance.
A blond-haired child of five sobs quietly,
the acacia leaves rustling father’s last breath.


Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Have You Met the One? (A Poem for Day Eight of PAD)

I had a moment of panic when I read the prompts. A violent poem? I decided to focus on that one since it was outside my comfort zone. The below poem is for Day Eight of PAD
Today is a Tuesday, so two prompts:
  • Write a violent poem. Could be person on person violence, person on animal, animal on animal, nature on person/animal/nature, and so on (insects, erosion, cosmos, etc.).
  • Write a peaceful poem. I suppose this might be the opposite of a violent poem. But perhaps not.
Photo by Michael & Christa Richert
Are You "Chicken" When It Comes to Love?
The One
She brought me home to meet her new guy.
The one with kindness like no other, she said.
He’d doctored the tear in her fleshy knee, the one
she got on their mid-morning hike, after tripping
over a stray piece of barbed-wire fencing hidden
under crushed brush. He’d knelt down
to take a look, then placed his chubby lips around
the gash, sucking all poisons away, even pecked
it like he was kissing his princess.

My feet cracked over grainy feed of gritty pellets
scattered up the walk to his house where we came upon him
—that guy she called The One—he stood beside that mutilated
stump, bits of wood sticking up like wishbones, young rooster’s
neck strung up in the grip of his meaty fingers, dangling
like we’d missed the act. He tossed us a glance,
then laid lifeless chicken down, gave my friend a big grin,
came in for a landing, his chunky arms swooping
around her waist, taking her for a circular flight. Then setting
her back down to the blood-spattered ground,
presented his hand outstretched to mine. She looked my way,
eyes glassy with enchantment. Ain’t he something, she said. 


Monday, April 7, 2014

Self-Portrait (a Poem for Day Seven of PAD)

I am not thrilled with the below poem, but since I want to keep up with the challenge, I'm posting it anyway. I will probably get around to editing it someday. It was written for the Day Seven prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a self-portrait poem. Pretty straightforward, right? That doesn’t mean there’s not a lot of room for creativity. Just look at artists and their self-portraits; there’s a lot of differences in the self-portraits of Kahlo, Schiele, Dali, Van Gogh, and others–and not just because the artists look different themselves.

Photo by Anita Berghoef
How Do You See Yourself?


I am letters rearranged in countless
combinations. I am still life of The Scream
with fruit. I am watercolor instead of sketch.
I am outstretched seams of secret
pockets. I am globs of paint with no
instruction. I am mountain peaks
and carrot tops. I am metal detector
built of fleshy heart. I am inedible carets
and ampersands. I am search-and-rescue
for drought-plagued worms. I am a hot iron
leaving no impression. I am blown away,
weightless, like love’s heartfelt wishes
on dandelion seeds, forgotten
once out of sight.