Car & Driver & Hitchhiker

She hitchhikes rides

in your tire . . . d
mind
every night
as cotton t(h)reads
cradle your head,
the way she did before
you . . . drove her away . . .
You haven’t seen her
cruising around,
she’s too busy
hijacking sleep
from man-ifold drivers
who hit the skids
on delivering her
de . . . man . . . ds . . .
But she’ll keep hitchhiking
rides in your mind,
the way she did before
you . . . drove her away . . .

She Invites You to Take a Ride

We’re three weeks into the challenge now, which means “Two-for-Tuesday” day today. This is the one I break out every challenge (alumni know which one I’m talking about).

For today’s prompt:

1. Write a love poem and/or…
2. Write an anti-love poem. Because some folks just aren’t that into love poems.

* * *

Origami Bowl - a Poem for Day Twenty-One of PAD

Here is the prompt for day twenty-one of the April PAD Challenge:

For today’s prompt, pick an object (any object), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “Toothbrush,” “Rake,” “Pilot G2 Premium Gel Roller Pen,” or any number of other objective titles. Have fun with it.

A Gift from My Son

Origami Bowl

Paper edges like boat sails,
red as the tips of bottle-
brush, paints my soul 
on the desk from where stories 
grow. Its contents, 
the ocean 
in roughened form—

a shard of green soda bottle, 
edges smoothed by uncounted
licks of the sea,

a droplet of orphaned turquoise,

the start of a savings for my next
summer vacation
plunked down in coins, big
and small,

a broken seashell that fits 
in the bend of my fingers,

a charm mirrored after
a swimming creature, blue
on one side, 
my dreams on the other, 
rub it 
like a worry stone. 

I thank my son 
for his creation,
holding memories 
while he grows tall,
and further away 
from where he started,
a perfect piece 
of unfolded paper, 
floating out to sea
leaving me behind 
on the hillside
with my garden.

***

On the Move (a Poem for Day Twenty-One of PAD)

The prompts for day twenty-one, a "Two for Tuesday," are to write a “what you are” poem or to write a “what you are not” poem.

 

Alone Doesn't Mean Lonely

On the Move

I am energy pulses, strobing
to the beat of teenage feet.
I am a fleck of floating
dust, a smudge under
the thumb of someone
I no longer see.
I hesitate my life away—
or at least I used to. I tap
every day, pounding out
rhythms to the tides within
my wobbly shores. I find
myself, then run again,
searching
for those parts
I lost along the trail.
I am the breadcrumb
dropped from someone’s
snack, kicked around
by joy seekers, but satisfied
with where I land.

*****

(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.

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.

*****