Insomniac Dreams

Last night I saw you walk by—

your face held the grace
of twenty-one
before you replaced me the first time.
Pine needles shivered in five
overhead trees, and waves
of scarlet linen brushed over my toes.
The sound of rain falling overhead
mimicked a crackling fire,
and off in the distance, a hawk
called out that he was leaving the nest
for good.

At the last minute, you tossed me a look
over your shoulder, but I don’t know
you anymore. I only know pine trees,
scarlet waves, and thunderstorms
pretending to be something they’re not.

I saw you walk by for the last time.

Those Waves Have Built a Wall

For today’s prompt, write a moment poem. The moment could be this very moment in time. Or pick a moment from your past and dive into it. It could be a huge moment or event in your life (or the life of another). Or you could share a small, private moment–like a walk at night or solitary adventure.

* * * 

For Good Measure

When you nick-
named her
Simpleton,
she built a secret

pleasure dome 

comprised of
       down
                 &
                   out-
                   ward
                   thrust
and a whispering
walkway to sustain
hymns & mantras
she chants
to soothe herself.
She no longer takes it
personally
that you friend-
zoned her
for life; she's been left
content, detained
in her self-made
Heaven
on Earth.

She's Become the Light

Today is our first Two-for-Tuesday prompt day. Pick one prompt for your poem today, or write a poem for each prompt, or write one poem that works with both. Today’s prompts are:

1. Write a pleasure poem, and/or…
2. Write a displeasure poem.

* * * 

Stolen Life of the Hungry Shoplifter

He was a self-educated
stain thief, donned
a burlap replacement
for his receding toupee.
He experienced
an awakening
of the corkscrew
& became a human
butter bean.
He went silent
on holidays
when that do-it-all
     paid him
no visit.
He tiptoed
around sidewalk jackhammers
& tickled the feet
of nameless beds
every night.
But he had
     prosperous
guardian angels,
lived until
     death
by scooter,
an invisible
white paper plate
his grave marker
of choice.

If Only Chewing Asphalt Remedied Hunger

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

For today’s prompt, write a stolen poem. And no, don’t steal anyone’s poem! But you can write about doing such a thing. Or stealing hearts, stealing time, stealing minds. Or steeling your mind (remember: I don’t care if you play on my original prompt). Steal away into a comfortable place to write and break some lines today.

*****

Not So Smart After All (A Poem for Day Five of PAD)

Day five (yes, I'm behind). 

For today’s prompt, write an intelligence poem. Of course, intelligence is subjective. What is common sense for one person makes no sense to another. But intelligence is more than IQ and test scores. There’s artificial intelligence, intelligent animals, and military intel. And I’ve found that many poets have a special intelligence of their own.

My Brain Was Scrabbled

Not So Smart After All

Tried to compose

a poem using only
letters found in
“intelligence,” but
I guess my intellect
falls one T short.

*****

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

Neon and Nitrogen: A Love Story? - a Poem for Day Five of PAD

It's hard to believe it's day five of the PAD Challenge already. Here is the prompt for today:

For today’s prompt, pick an element (like from the periodic table), make it the title of your poem (or part of the title), and then, write the poem. Anything goes from hydrogen to oganesson.

He Lit Up My Senses

Neon and Nitrogen: A Love Story?

He took my breath away . . . but he always 

thought he was so important—needed (or used)
practically everywhere. I’d always thought
it was flattery when he said I was a noble
gas—a rarity on Earth. Later I heard
he’d referred to me as “Neon the Volatile.”
But really he didn’t know me very well—
non-toxic, illuminating, slow to react.
At least no one could ever call
me burnt air. After we parted ways,
I read in the newspaper, he’d died
from self-asphyxiation. Yes, it turns out,
he also took his own breath away.

***

Coma (a Poem for Day Five of PAD)

I'm posting earlier for day five only because I'm afraid I wouldn't get to it. And I'm still trying to get over the I'm-not-thrilled-with-this-poem hump. Practice, practice, practice. 

From Poetic Asides: 

“For today’s prompt, write a vegetable poem. I once wrote a poem titled ‘Tomatoes,’ and that would count. If you want to write a poem about a specific vegetable, go for it. If you want to write a poem that just has a vegetable mixed in somewhere, go for it. If you want to praise or curse vegetables, go for it. If you want to play with the idea of vegetables, including a vegetable mental state, couch ‘potato,’ and so on–well, you know, go for it.”

The Gift of Nourishment

Coma

Immobile tendrils the only roots

left of our ancestry; he’d reached
the top of the trellis on his path
to leaving. We, his only seeds,
now mature offshoots, stood
by, looking down, yet looking up
to him for guidance, wondering
why his stems had turned, wondering
if we would find any life left
to live without the strength
of his vines to lean upon. 

*****

Discovering I Am Not over It Yet (Day Five of PAD)

Today's PAD prompt:

"For today’s prompt, write a discovery poem. The narrator could discover an object, a person, an animal, a dishonorable deed, or any number of things. Poets can focus on the discovery, examine the aftermath, or even just mention it in passing."

The Jetty Lives On

I sit alone in my Jeep with no words
at the ball field, wind so strong it sounds
like the stormy ocean waves splashing
twenty feet above the jetty the last time
we stayed there. Off in the distance
crowds cheer. And behind that, a jet
full of travelers invades the sound
barrier of my private time, the only place
I allow myself to cry anymore. A lone
red-headed hummingbird takes a quenching
sip from a bird feeder like the one in your prized
rose garden. I imagine you pressed into the seat
next to me, breathing, being proud of my son
the way you would if you were (still )
real. And then it hits me
all over again. You will be dead for the rest
of my life. And I must be part of the living.


*****