His Name Was, Yes, I Remember

Today I’ll make a list
of all I need to remember:
read Breathing the Water, ex-
     ercise, write
essays about conception,
death & dying,
achieving success,
& a poem here
& there.
That rowdy teen
inside my brain
snoozed all day & night—
gave me a break
from distraction,
gave me a chance
to feel & smell my long-gone
wanton ways.
Oh, what was my truelove’s name
from nineteen-eighty-four?
Oh, yes, I remember,
but I can only share
when playing
truth
or dare.

  

[Based on the wish prompt from day four. My original poem is here: http://www.lindaghatton.com/2020/04/his-name-was-so-and-so.html#.XqRguGjYrIU%5D]

Now, What Was I Going to Do Again?

For today’s prompt, write a remix poem. That is, take one (or more) of your poems from earlier this month and remix it. Make a free verse poem into a villanelle. Or condense a sestina into a haiku or senryu. Or forget form. Just completely jumble up the words…or respond to the original poem(s). As always, have fun with it.

* * * 

Left Behind - a Poem for Day Twenty-Five of PAD

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

It’s time for that final two-for-Tuesday prompt of April. Regulars probably already know what the prompt is.

Here are the two prompts for today:

• Write a love poem. The poem could be about lovers, but also the love of family, love between friends, or even loving your job, chocolate, or music. Or…
• Write an anti-love poem. Maybe you’re a hater; that’s fine. We’ve got the anti-love poem prompt for you.

You're Transparent to Me Now

Left Behind

You speak
     to animals,
     but you don’t tell me
     what they say.
You are
     as dangerous
as dry ice.
You scrape
     away
my childlike hide,
     and go seek
     dilly-dallying
alone
     inside a yurt
     with dirt
for your bed.
     You’re a shipwreck
waiting to happen
     on the imaginary 

     riversides 

of Cathedral City.
You’ve set
     twelve thousand
goals,
     but never attained
     one.
You are
the moaning
reverberations
     of a brass gong
and
     the cry
          of a sitar
all rolled into one.
You gallop
     like the beats
     of a tongue
drum.
You said
     you would always
     be my
sleep doctor.
You held
     my hand,
     shared
the sunrise on the crest
of Mount Batur. 

Then,
you jumped
     off a cliff,
     left me alone,
said you had
better things
     to see,
     had to do it
on your own.
So now,
you sit
     on my shelf,
a thematic dictionary,
defining
the ensuing
     death
     and after-
     life
of my heart. 

***

In Search of Your New World (a Poem for Day Twenty-Five of PAD)

The prompt for day twenty-five is across the sea.

There's Life in You Somewhere

In Search of Your New World

There’s nothing fake
about your shipwreck.
All the history books say
somewhere out there, you still
live on an island,
the heart of the sea. You cast
away my love for hers, but still
you aren’t satisfied. You stack
palm fronds with coconut
husks, hoping to stay afloat
when you set out again
on a ride you can boast
about because standing
on solid ground
wasn’t thrilling enough
for you.
But I’d take your island
any day
and trade it
for this howling sea.


*****

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.

THE DAY 25 PROMPT FOR PAD:

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.

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.


*****