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.
*****
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| 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.
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.
*****
I love it! As always Linda, excellent-
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Cindy! (Though I think my subject matter has turned off some of my readers . . .)
ReplyDelete