Migraine’s His Name

He lugged his way
through the labyrinth
in pursuit of a trumpet,
but instead,
he thumped the drums,
disturbed my nerves.
If only he’d book
a gondola ride,
exit one of those
waxen Grand Canals,
take a vacation, relieve me
of the pain
of this overactive
imagination.

Through My Ear is the Only Way Out

For today’s prompt, write a trap poem. There are physical traps—like mouse traps and bear traps. But people also sometimes fall into language traps or social traps. Many competitive types in business and various games try to set traps for their competitors. Of course, for every person setting a trap, there’s likely another person trying to avoid falling into traps.

* * * 

After the Storm

Needles reveal

your antics;
tracks expose
the route
to the place
you hid yourself 

Replace Bad Habits with Nature

Here is the prompt for Day Six of the April PAD Challenge (copied from Writer's Digest):

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “After (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “After Dinner,” “After You,” “After Hours,” and/or “After I Finish Writing This Poem.”

*****

He Saved Her with See’s (A Poem for Day Six of PAD)

Well, I got home late and haven't been to bed, so it's still technically April 6, right? 

Here is the prompt for day six of the April 2018 PAD Challenge: For today’s prompt, pick a food, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem. It can be a food you love, food you hate, or food you’ve never even tried before. Your poem can be about the food–or not. Your choice.

It's What's inside That Counts

He Saved Her with See’s

A white paper bag
about eleven inches
by five, hidden in sight
on the shelf above
the entertainment center,
filled with marzipan,
chocolate-sprinkled
Bordeaux, and some-
times a few nuts
and chews—
he’d hold open the sides,
offer it to her salivations,
offer her salvation
from the effects
of being whacked
on the head, of being
the entertainment
of those five bored
eleven-year-olds, of ducking
away from them into bath-
room stalls, her feet
planted on toilet seats,
while she silently prayed
she was invisible.

*****

[Please note that all prompts have been copied from the Writer's Digest Poetic Asides website.]

She Laughs No More - a Poem for Day Six of PAD (April 2017)

I'm a little behind, but I hope to catch up today. 

Here is the prompt for day six of PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a poem about a sound. The poem could be about a small sound, a loud sound, a happy sound, or a creepy sound. And yes, music sounds count as well.

Her Footsteps Are Gone

She Laughs No More

Restless child
murmurs sleep,
grasping sheets
for something
to hang onto—
comfort, peace.

Screeches fill
the midnight sky,
abduct innocence,
pillage dreams
rumbling underneath
imaginary safety
of shuttered
eyes.

Tiny fingers
slip
from the futile
grip
of adult guidance—
none left
in her world
as she takes
her final
gasp.

Off
in the distance,
a church bell
sways,
and clangs,
the only sound
left
in the rubble.

***

The Voice of a Cold Woman (a Poem for Day Six of PAD)

The owner of this website does not necessarily agree with the poetry posted here. Seriously, I thought I'd step outside my comfort zone by breaking out of the usual style and subject of poetry that I write. I don't have the heart of the woman in the poem posted below.

The prompt for today, day six, from the Poetic Asides website is as follows: For today’s prompt, write a things-not-as-they-appear poem. Poetry is filled with metaphors, similes, symbols, and layered meanings, so this should be a softball prompt. If you’re struggling, look at your current surroundings, pick an object, and turn it into a metaphor for something. Or think of somebody in the real world (mail person, gas station attendant, etc.) and make up a secret double life for them. C’mon, you can do this.

Not That Woman's Best Friend

The Voice of a Cold Woman

His whisper is the drink of a drooling Saint
Bernard, panting hot, fishy growls
into the feminine curve of my ear.
His love is a tornado of flies
caught in the stinking storm
of a horse-stable shed ceiling fan.
His once-handsome face has become
the tear in my worn-out underpants,
comfortable, but embarrassing to look at,
giving me the urge to throw him away.

******

Recommended Reading:

• Whimsygizmo's Blog
• I Hate Poetry: The New Buddaha Moskowitz Archive
• Drift of Bubbles

******

Where Does Poetry Come From? (And a Poem for Day Six of PAD)

Before I talk about my poem for Day Six of the PAD challenge, I have something to say.

I'm okay.

Some people have expressed concern for me over the last several months after reading my poetry. Yes, I have had my heartaches. And I imagine those bits of me will never leave, but I'm stronger now than I've ever been. Of course I have had my difficulties, too. I'm not perfect and can't imagine I ever will be. I don't think that would be much fun anyway.

When I write poems, I dig down into those pieces of my life that have brought on despair and try to express them in a new way, though I don’t consider poetry my therapy. (That doesn’t mean I think that process is bad; if it works for you, then carry on.)

I am continually working on my craft. Sometimes I “write what I know” and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes random things trigger a memory from which I build a poem. And sometimes I guess. 

Mostly it is me playing with words and emotions.

That said below is the result of my “playtime” for today, a poem that came from a real heartbroken part of me.

The Day Six prompt:

“For today’s prompt, write a night poem. Vampires and werewolves? Cool. Clubbing and saloons? You got it. Lovers together alone? Right. Ex-lovers alone on their own? Sure thing. You figure out your night poem–and, yes, (k)night poems are fine too.”

 

All That's Left of My Knight Is His Armor

Every Night is the Same: Lasionycteris (Hairy and Nocturnal)

Night brushes her eyelashes
over my broken heart.
She calls them bat kisses,
lingering upside down, suckling
on unsuspecting creatures
darting in and out of my shaded dreams.

My eyelids twitch of memories
no dream can help me
to escape from, so awake I stay.
I feel your hand better than you do,
your body numbed from daily rituals
you’ve adopted to forget me.

*****