Ripple in a brown bag,
his saner days tumble
head-over-heel backward
before the tossed became...
ker-plop
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Cracking an Egg
What makes it
that perfect egg,
laying there, simply
narrow-turned nose
to broad-bend
bottom
?
What is it
about
this teardrop of smooth,
its quickening
shell not easily cracked
or taken
to a coating dye —
the slippery
dips in mocking pink,
acid-tongued blue,
and indigestible
pea green
?
I can't begin
to unlock that knowing,
and I'm not going
to swallow it
hardboiled
.
We're 10 days in and a third of the way home to the NaPoWriMo finish. Today's ReadWritePoem prompt is to celebrate. My most recent family-based celebration was a lovely Easter brunch at my sister's home. There's a peculiar little ritual we've practiced since we were kids, which involves a competition to see whose egg has the thickest shell. We tap them nose-to-nose and bottom-to-bottom until one emerges uncracked. After a champion is crowned, both losers and winners should be consumed with equal relish, but I've never liked hardboiled eggs. The tradition has been passed on to my nephews, so the cracking will continue at least one more generation.
that perfect egg,
laying there, simply
narrow-turned nose
to broad-bend
bottom
?
What is it
about
this teardrop of smooth,
its quickening
shell not easily cracked
or taken
to a coating dye —
the slippery
dips in mocking pink,
acid-tongued blue,
and indigestible
pea green
?
I can't begin
to unlock that knowing,
and I'm not going
to swallow it
hardboiled
.
We're 10 days in and a third of the way home to the NaPoWriMo finish. Today's ReadWritePoem prompt is to celebrate. My most recent family-based celebration was a lovely Easter brunch at my sister's home. There's a peculiar little ritual we've practiced since we were kids, which involves a competition to see whose egg has the thickest shell. We tap them nose-to-nose and bottom-to-bottom until one emerges uncracked. After a champion is crowned, both losers and winners should be consumed with equal relish, but I've never liked hardboiled eggs. The tradition has been passed on to my nephews, so the cracking will continue at least one more generation.
Friday, April 09, 2010
Sour milk
Merry is the marionette,
almost a miniature man, who finds
his wires new-severed do flap
where once strum-tight they dictated
the when to fall octopus-limp
or to dance a sprightly jig
accompanied by silly jug tunes
he never even liked.
Stringlessness comes at a price.
On disjointed steps, Merry
would he have to make his own way
as an unprovided walker.
He sets out, philosophical
tomes in hand, for the wooded
fringes where a brook gurgles
and he'll grapple with consequence.
"I have a goodly appetite,"
Merry remarks. "I'll attack
these meaty words with fork and knife."
But the ideas do stew
and uncomfortably stowed
between Being and Nothingness,
Merry wonders whether freedom is
not what he bargained for.
Just then he's startled by the tug
of wires gone taut, and caught up
by the dangle of an enormous
eagle, its talons eagerly
trying to untangle the strings
of a new play thing. Merry
might have wept, but who could cry
over the spilling of sour milk?
It's day 9 of NaPoWriMo and things are getting a little complicated. The ReadWritePoem prompt is a mission with a few tricky steps. Click the link to see the list of ingredients that went into this confection.
almost a miniature man, who finds
his wires new-severed do flap
where once strum-tight they dictated
the when to fall octopus-limp
or to dance a sprightly jig
accompanied by silly jug tunes
he never even liked.
Stringlessness comes at a price.
On disjointed steps, Merry
would he have to make his own way
as an unprovided walker.
He sets out, philosophical
tomes in hand, for the wooded
fringes where a brook gurgles
and he'll grapple with consequence.
"I have a goodly appetite,"
Merry remarks. "I'll attack
these meaty words with fork and knife."
But the ideas do stew
and uncomfortably stowed
between Being and Nothingness,
Merry wonders whether freedom is
not what he bargained for.
Just then he's startled by the tug
of wires gone taut, and caught up
by the dangle of an enormous
eagle, its talons eagerly
trying to untangle the strings
of a new play thing. Merry
might have wept, but who could cry
over the spilling of sour milk?
It's day 9 of NaPoWriMo and things are getting a little complicated. The ReadWritePoem prompt is a mission with a few tricky steps. Click the link to see the list of ingredients that went into this confection.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Stigmatic
I've a sui-generis tendency to ape
that sainted cat from Assisi who lends me
this moniker with mouth-confounding interests.
I cop ascetically tasteless means for living
and an auto-inflicting knack, but we part
weepy ways at the nobler wherefore of his arts.
He self-stigmatized for Faith, I stab at lesser
Love's tortured metaphors, and my plump palms bare
only the throb of a heart foolish for one once gripped.
Move on I must, wholly hand-in-hand with hag Hope
to cajole a jab by bumptious Charity,
touch of her tip flushing blues from my fleshy side.
It's day 8 of NaPoWriMo and love is on the agenda again. The ReadWritePoem prompt is unusual love connections. I started with a tortured metaphor, and then it got away from me.
that sainted cat from Assisi who lends me
this moniker with mouth-confounding interests.
I cop ascetically tasteless means for living
and an auto-inflicting knack, but we part
weepy ways at the nobler wherefore of his arts.
He self-stigmatized for Faith, I stab at lesser
Love's tortured metaphors, and my plump palms bare
only the throb of a heart foolish for one once gripped.
Move on I must, wholly hand-in-hand with hag Hope
to cajole a jab by bumptious Charity,
touch of her tip flushing blues from my fleshy side.
It's day 8 of NaPoWriMo and love is on the agenda again. The ReadWritePoem prompt is unusual love connections. I started with a tortured metaphor, and then it got away from me.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
He pleads
He pleads wicked wants
the willing locked in strong box
Love's a deaf-mute lass
She bites his shilling and mocks
glassy stares of disint'rest
Week one of NaPoWriMo concludes, as ReadWritePoem suggests love, funny side up. The task was to write a tanka on an amusing encounter. My personal experiences with romance don't lend themselves well to humor or poetry, so I went with a made-up bit of the twisted.
the willing locked in strong box
Love's a deaf-mute lass
She bites his shilling and mocks
glassy stares of disint'rest
Week one of NaPoWriMo concludes, as ReadWritePoem suggests love, funny side up. The task was to write a tanka on an amusing encounter. My personal experiences with romance don't lend themselves well to humor or poetry, so I went with a made-up bit of the twisted.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Three lay stranded
These three lay stranded, spit back
black by a whipped and layered sea.
How now, if ever he was vengeful,
Jonah must joyless chuckle to see it
These three who lay stranded with toys,
littering the sand -- their phalli anchored,
oars stilled, and portholes spilling out
a last salty gasp to grasp it
These three who lay stranded, chasing
seamen with a frantic gaze, to fetch help
or seek simple solace from the monstrous
riddles staining their glassy eyes
These three who lay stranded, smitten
again by land long-ago left to reverse
evolution's tide. God can't undo
their nifty trick swift enough to save
These three who lay stranded and wait,
lonely for their brothers still headed to shore.
It's Day 6 of NaPoWriMo, and I'm still churning out the words. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to converse with images. I found the image above while looking up some information for another poem. It's a 1577 engraving entitled "Three Beached Whales" by the Dutch artist Jan Wierix.
Acedia
As each noonday nears,
bedeviling with its heat and hunger,
Acedia sweetly abides to offer
the coolness of her shadow.
bedeviling with its heat and hunger,
Acedia sweetly abides to offer
the coolness of her shadow.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Filbert T. Gibbet
Your name is Filbert.
I'd rather use you as Fill.
Fill, gods may have put you here
for a victimless chatter,
but I'll bring you up
with the nonsense charge to meet
false expectations. I know
we don't see heart-to-heart, that
parting shouldn't stop us
from connecting the pesky
dots of our pupils. Let's learn
to be adult about this
uncontrolled glowing.
Your flighted fancies
can't leave the tarmac
without making one feel bold,
another frightened,
and everyone is a skosh
confused in the end.
I hope it doesn't bound
too negative. I meant well.
Day 5 of NaPoWriMo dawns, and I'm still up to the challenge. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to make your poetry personal. If I understood it correctly, that meant personifying my poetry.
I'd rather use you as Fill.
Fill, gods may have put you here
for a victimless chatter,
but I'll bring you up
with the nonsense charge to meet
false expectations. I know
we don't see heart-to-heart, that
parting shouldn't stop us
from connecting the pesky
dots of our pupils. Let's learn
to be adult about this
uncontrolled glowing.
Your flighted fancies
can't leave the tarmac
without making one feel bold,
another frightened,
and everyone is a skosh
confused in the end.
I hope it doesn't bound
too negative. I meant well.
Day 5 of NaPoWriMo dawns, and I'm still up to the challenge. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to make your poetry personal. If I understood it correctly, that meant personifying my poetry.
Stormy Strum
Pointer and thumb stormily strum
backing his flammeous warble.
Terrified toes, fleshed thick and slow,
commence an arrhythmic flouncing.
backing his flammeous warble.
Terrified toes, fleshed thick and slow,
commence an arrhythmic flouncing.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
A Man, All Four Seasons
His spring was short, and he wore it
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.
His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.
His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.
His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."
This is Day 4 of NaPoWriMo. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to write an inside-out poem, taking the out-of-doors and bringing it in.
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.
His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.
His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.
His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."
This is Day 4 of NaPoWriMo. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to write an inside-out poem, taking the out-of-doors and bringing it in.
Dapper
A dapper yellow man, he dances by
too careless with his caresses.
Tickled fields of flowering fancies
nip at rosy heels. Skipping west,
he doesn't notice.
too careless with his caresses.
Tickled fields of flowering fancies
nip at rosy heels. Skipping west,
he doesn't notice.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Rainbow Abduction
There's a temperamental rainbow
he's seen, peeking out now and again, when
not shyly hid in cumulus cubbies.
He might, he can, win a sparkly trust,
luring it to him, between rainy bouts,
with promises of mood-altering
medication. Then, clapped with a lightning
clout, he'll stuff it in ten-gallon tubs
to struggle, bawl, and futilely fill
his deviant's plan. For in that muffle
of tinted pleas, its droppered breath will
condense against lids clamped-down tight,
and bottoms can collect sunny flavors
he needs to slather on the lolling
tongue of his too humdrum day-to-day.
This is the third day of NaPoWriMo. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to write about your fears. Well, who isn't afraid of rainbow abduction?
he's seen, peeking out now and again, when
not shyly hid in cumulus cubbies.
He might, he can, win a sparkly trust,
luring it to him, between rainy bouts,
with promises of mood-altering
medication. Then, clapped with a lightning
clout, he'll stuff it in ten-gallon tubs
to struggle, bawl, and futilely fill
his deviant's plan. For in that muffle
of tinted pleas, its droppered breath will
condense against lids clamped-down tight,
and bottoms can collect sunny flavors
he needs to slather on the lolling
tongue of his too humdrum day-to-day.
This is the third day of NaPoWriMo. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to write about your fears. Well, who isn't afraid of rainbow abduction?
Friday, April 02, 2010
Repeated, I Worm
A decomposer
of brutish sins oft
repeated, I worm
past the pretty germs
shut tight in candied
shells, bursting to birth
untapped corruptions.
It's on the sawdust
dollops buried deep
I feed, biting bits
from soiled skins riddled
by regrets of not
offending good more.
Turning their oaken
flavors o'er gently,
my mouth will work them
down to a relish
of soft, black leavings.
This is my second NaPoWriMo contribution. The good folks at ReadWritePoem.org are providing prompts for the entire month. They suggested using an acronym, but I've always been more partial to anagrams. I fed "Read Write Poem" into my favorite online scrambler and found "Repeated, I Worm" to my liking.
of brutish sins oft
repeated, I worm
past the pretty germs
shut tight in candied
shells, bursting to birth
untapped corruptions.
It's on the sawdust
dollops buried deep
I feed, biting bits
from soiled skins riddled
by regrets of not
offending good more.
Turning their oaken
flavors o'er gently,
my mouth will work them
down to a relish
of soft, black leavings.
This is my second NaPoWriMo contribution. The good folks at ReadWritePoem.org are providing prompts for the entire month. They suggested using an acronym, but I've always been more partial to anagrams. I fed "Read Write Poem" into my favorite online scrambler and found "Repeated, I Worm" to my liking.
Three Gory Bits of Holy Week
Three short poems, possibly sacrilegious, but inspired by Holy Week:
I.
His vows don't just break.
They torment-tease, with the wait
of maundy kisses.
II.
His faith is scratch deep,
not piercing. He'll take this nail,
etch coupled crosses.
III.
His hammer flouts god
and grammar, punctuating
dull groans with sharp thwacks.
I.
His vows don't just break.
They torment-tease, with the wait
of maundy kisses.
II.
His faith is scratch deep,
not piercing. He'll take this nail,
etch coupled crosses.
III.
His hammer flouts god
and grammar, punctuating
dull groans with sharp thwacks.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
An April Fool Ends Badly
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
This is my first poem for National Poetry Writing Month. 29 more days to go...
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
This is my first poem for National Poetry Writing Month. 29 more days to go...
Crops
Each year, he sows
barren lots with bits of spring,
assorted gears and gizmo slop.
Still, the earth won't yield
his robotic crops.
barren lots with bits of spring,
assorted gears and gizmo slop.
Still, the earth won't yield
his robotic crops.
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