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 |   Poetry in April -- in celebration |
 This is my Second Book of poems. I may not have eaten the plums from the icebox, but I am guilty of writing poetry without thinking too much, without laboring over words and lines. This Is Just to Say I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold by William Carlos Williams You, too, forgive me for I only love the writing process; the result is secondary...And please never mind that I am also aping William Carlos Williams's false apology.    From where does the title Beetlebung and Kettlehorn come from? The name Beetlebung and Kettlehorn has to do with ancient whaling practices and Martha’s Vineyard and Cape Cod. During the nineteenth century, because of its dense white wood, the tupelo tree was used in whale oil casks made of copper. Beetle was the mallet made from the Tupelo tree and bung was the stopper in the cask hole. In Martha’s vineyard, the Tupelo tree is still known as the Beetlebung tree, and at Chilmark there, is a Beetlebung Corner, with shops at Chilmark Center, from where roads lead to other interesting points. Kettlehorn, as well as being an ancient surname, refers to a piece of equipment resembling to but much bigger than a shoe-horn, used to stir the hot blubber and separate the fine oil from the denser particles. Whale oil was a popular commodity and, as a fuel, was used for lighting the dark, burning to provide heat and as an aid in cooking. After the whale was hunted, men in a boat cut strips of blubber from the whale's back, tied them together and rowed ashore. There the fat was cut into smaller pieces to be boiled into oil in large copper kettles. In addition there exists kettle corn in Cape Cod which are corn chips fried in kettles and sometimes mistakenly called kettlehorns. For some reason, way back when, the words Beetlebung and Kettlehorn were used together and, at one time or another, were given to shops and other things that go together as titles. I adopted the name for my on-the-spot poetry in reference to the idea of blubber. "Poetry the shortest distance between two humans" Lawrence Ferlinghetti |
| sand between toes I glide at the water’s edge slate gray sky with streaks of color filtering in early morning ocean plays tag with the beach then gags plastic on yesterday’s beer cans mussels, periwinkles, a blanket of shells suddenly an orchestra of cacophony wings clap overhead as if laughter sea birds are awakening in a rush soft wind like a daring spirit brushes my face then my toe rubs against a discarded coconut oil bottle as a reminder of the bold world and instinct forces my feet back toward home for he is my priority over this stroll be that I am, on the opposite pole, only his option |
| too late! I will not cut you any slack far too many callbacks you missed in fact, I barred the door arranged another act on stage to raise the red-velvet drapes strange! how clownish you’re now but no more ad libbing, no curtain call to bring down the house play peacock to fans and clan ham it up to thump the show in a jam pathetic! your mimicry is not a feat a gig, a rap, a tour de force since failing to pick up cues, you fell through the trap into an infinite hell clutching the part you snatched from me ========================= Prompt: late, tardy |
| warnings on the blitz no outbreak yet, but a hurricane’s on the way fears, whirlwind thoughts, I have to get out of my head ripping in frantic pace my myths in recurrence no tripping on stones erratically lodged, but crafty magnetism to appease barriers bewilderment graces your face you pull the shutters down and lock all doors, terrified if only I could visit the hidden rooms in you discreetly, to stay safe ======== Prompt: a visit, visitor, or visitation... |
| out at dead of night darkness erases all pangs shadows fall on rough earth leaves rustle but in the zen garden no scent of soil, yet, stillness stumbling into rocks she floats down to the ground and cries, cradling emptiness --------------- Prompt: A mishap or an injury |
| spread over handicapped lines patches of soft pink a glittering necklace on the vacant sky its painful fate last farewell to the sun then to turn inward and dwindle in loss but, before the stars show up, my desecrating click tucks inside the camera a specter of its memory ======== Late last evening I took this picture:  |
| Was I the one eating fire, dancer on the painted horse of the merry-go-round, clown, acrobat, or juggler, or was I the whip-cracking tiger tamer, or elephant woman? Maybe I had the will of iron on the tightrope, passion to love all caged beasts, and zest to roll out the red carpet for the bareback rider. Maybe I swung high in red and gold sequins on the trapeze against the canvas top, then spun and fell. Maybe I was the one who heard his heartbeats while he threw his knives around me and missed. One night, on the clearing where the river curved, the tent folded up under a full moon, and the circus, without glitter or fanfare, left town and me. So, now, in my tiny room, wrapped in my shadows, I raise my eyes above the door to see my raven still sitting there and know there will be no other end after this. ========= prompt: the end of something, anything |
| “who are you?” he asks an alien in this weird place, among charming green palms a contorted oak, hosting crow’s nests high up and I welcome the burning sun “with hurricane winds, your grip is lost thus you’re firewood” his verdict is nothing for I choose my own pattern of synapses to rule him archaic and hold on, growing extra legs into sand, mindful of the lines he cannot cross --------------- prompt: a judgment |
| A celestial zoo this life is, she mopes, like the misty nebulae or the stars spilled in clusters, sparkling white on black, worming in holes, while she swirls in blues at the rim of the galaxy. Those glittering lights from aeons ago, apparitions playing at the vault of her world, she sees through them perfectly now, Pollux the bright golden boy and lascivious Venus from nearby. She guesses how they must have joined seeds in her own Milky Way, slipping out at night under cloudy skies, and how she watched him leave for good, flailing arms, stunned by her rage. He was born under Gemini; no wonder, a two-timer. ----------- April 28—the stars, or a particular star or constellation |
| knotted and dark a veiled pillbox with a ruthless tilt fluttering its fishnet over her pale face and I, a vanquished sardine caught from my ocean of dreams, learned from that hat how to pull policy for a pardon. ------- Prompt: a hat |
| The eyes, sprightly blues caught under lids for his special friend, ebony wood with polished face crafting sound through thin lips, with the wail of a passing train telling legends in a distinct voice. In my inner ear’s recall, not a treacly tone but silken, long, soothing balm, dense as the jungles of days spiraling with the grace of a ballerina, spinning notes, waltzing in air, exuding a tidal wave of solace. And now, I am shadow chasing, wishing him near, once again, as the memory blends the smoke of his cigarette, wasting away at ashtray’s side, and his intricate music drawing nostalgic patterns of elegiac tears. ------------- Prompt: a musical instrument |
| Davy has a huge SUV to burn gasoline and money he drives too high, he drives too low to meet up with his honey if dinosaurs returned they’d want their bogs back if dinosaurs returned they’d want their oil back Dude, you’re driving too much your thinking’s convoluted the traffic is always thick and the air’s polluted if dinosaurs returned they’d want their bogs back if dinosaurs returned they’d want their oil back if hybrid isn’t your bid look how blue is sky and sea combine trips, take transit stay green and carefree if dinosaurs returned they’d want their bogs back if dinosaurs returned they’d want their oil back =========== prompt: song lyrics (poem could be a song) |
| all he can think of is their bed read in it, sleep in it, love in it pyramid-like, or the Sphinx with the cat’s body cats love to snooze they can get away with it like pharaohs and their wives on the nights of their lives all he can think of is their bed how she led his foe into it, behind his back how she lay curled in it as a bloodied kitten under the quilt cold and alone like Queen Sesheshet sunk under the sands --------------- Prompt: A piece of furniture |
| “It’s not my thing, strenuous aerobics, like glassy-eyed bimbos,” I tell him, “I only let my heart dance,” feeling giddy with the taste of soup at lunch in front of TV. “All those motions are for the birds and fish, in water or wind.” Fine-tuned and high-toned is my discrimination against exercise, for I, clumsy and maladroit, share a vulgar languor with Doric columns and Easter Island heads. Meanwhile, someone on CNBC jokes about a Bugatti. What is a Bugatti? I imagine, a fancy car, its rubber squealing on pavement. He leans over to caress my cheek. “No aerobics, then, Honey. You don’t have to do everything they suggest.” His hands the instruments of demigods, and how I don’t want to drive past this vast moment… ------------- Prompt: one of these things is not like the other |
| nothing about you, no flash, since you’re off focus snapping shots of waves upon rocks seagull wings dripping brine butterfly-shaped acacia flowers as white as snow lines on mountains nothing about you only gales scattering leaves like orange-colored lanterns on nights your camera goes after a rare moon opening its shutter with harmonic clicks nothing about you this orbit-stirred chorus all terra’s textures its caress of life urging you to obsess in making ghosts out of everything with lens you can’t control -------------- Prompt: nothing about you |
| Welcome, to your new state, to that motion that genuine surprise in your drinks. You see, serenity is not the goal at the bottom of the ocean once you taste the salt once you let the imagination drag for nameless treasures at your own leisurely tempo despite the storms. Are you old enough to appreciate all this? Maybe too old? But to have such faith in the world... Exhilarating! -------- Prompt: a snippet of overheard talk ------- Ruby Tuesday’s at the mall, 4/18/2015 – The end part of a conversation between the waitress and a customer, a somewhat aged burly guy. W--How exciting! G--I’ll drag the bottom of the ocean for a change after being on a ship in the navy W--Welcome to Florida. Your drinks will be right up G--Welcome to Treasure Hunt. |
| A Prose-Poem This morning, the Queen Palm in the front yard is waving its fronds to greet the breeze, fresh like clean laundry under the bright sun. A celebration of some kind it must be, same as Taylor Swift’s mom presenting her with an award and a moving speech last night, her cancer scare thrown in for the bitter edge. Those bitter edges…if you just stare them down while you look into them...Then you see the loving hands, shining cups, people touching people like our local food bank launching Summer Hunger Campaign. Such sweet music in everything and everything's making so much sense that, if I have to stroll away someday, I’d so miss this world. If I could, I would fit them all into a picture frame and take it with me to remind me of beautiful people, green earth, and all this love. ----------- Prompt: make a poem from 4 things: 1) an object in your home 2) a natural thing in the landscape 3) a fact or news item from print media 4) a fact or news item from tv, radio, or Internet (the Relief from Writer’s Block exercise of Thomas Lynch) 1. Photo Frame 2. Queen Palm 3. Local Food bank launches Summer Hunger Campaign –Port St. Lucie News 4. TV last night-- Country music awards: Taylor Swift’s Mum Presented Her With An Award And Gave A Moving Speech After Cancer Diagnosis |
| you stretched on the chaise lounge in the balcony in complete control to let sunbeams rub you like a free masseuse veni, vidi, vici so what if you heard a door opening to the stairwell and knew they’d find her, cut-up facing the wall, motionless on the third floor landing veni, vidi, vici how she fell down several flights taken by surprise, bleeding, bruised, mouthing your name eyes huge, as large as her hunger for you veni, vidi, vici but now, so deep in sleep she still has life under her headstone blooming roses for you veni, vidi, vici =========== * trucidator = killer (from Latin) Prompt: learn a new word and use/define it in a poem |
| She sips 2004 Dom Perignon with flair, while she talks, like a well-oiled machine, of Cialis, Kardashians, his Waterloo, but in her eyes, loneliness in rivers, locked-up fears, and deepening nostalgia and she flutters her eyelids. Between us fences we hedge, islands of silence, redeemed jungles, my unruffled nods, and inimitable swing as I slurp Arnold Palmer resolved to never flutter my eyelids while she is Dom Perignoned. ----- Prompt: a fence, wall, or stile |
| her voice spins and leaps angling at a song of praise for that burnt bush its smoky smell assailing the nose mean somewhat like an exotic fragrance or the steaming water for Kreplach for family invited back she wants to reach out down the slope to what rolled away, long time ago next she’ll bake sugar cookies but not break, taking them out of the oven, aware of the time when he came down the mountain carrying that heavy load on bent legs and shattered the tablets what was lost can they ever catch it unlike what their hands couldn’t grasp? ----------------- Prompt: an angle or a bend |
| Evelyn, the number queen, watches the linking of night to day, while we sip Earl Grey inside the covered porch. Dusky purple clouds against a blaze of pearly pinks, golds, corals, and oranges, ruptured with burgundy red slashes like sudden strikes of lightning. Colors overwhelm in their dazzling fashion to soon blend into the dark night. Divine and mystical, Evelyn’s measuring life. Her voice surges as she mentions destiny, soul urge, and inner dream. “Each color has a number, like your years.” I wonder if she can intuit I have a bone to pick with colors and numbers. It started the day I was born when they waddled me in blues, with hopes gunned down for a son. After that, as if an underground cistern, I held, in contempt, colors, mainly blues, and numbers. Still today, while colors drive at my face, I hold a hand across my teacup to keep the sky from falling in. =========== prompt: —measuring or counting |
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