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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1926559-red-shadows-on-deserted-snowfall/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/6
Rated: 18+ · Book · Emotional · #1926559
A new book to house this year's (and future years) NationalPoetryMonth's daily poems.
I'm writing once again this year. This book is my special event place for thirty special poems.

Here for National Poetry Month in 2018, I'm participating but life has not been kind in the last 15 months, so I'm not always in writing mode.





Previous ... 2 3 4 5 -6- 7 8 9 10 ... Next
April 21, 2015 at 3:22am
April 21, 2015 at 3:22am
#847545
Today’s snippet was a broken taillight

The white cop first thought oh my god he’s got no need to run just because of one silly taillight he must've done something else something bad that’s why he’s running he’s guilty I got to shoot him I got to shoot him I got to shoot him so he’s dead I shot him in the back eight times

And that black guy pulled over by white cop shivering behind the wheel he thinks white cop black man well there’s a high chance he's going to shoot me whether I run or not so I might as well run so I run fast I run fast I run fast I’m faster than him my last thought damn getting killed just cause your taillight’s gone out

If and when there is a jury chances are they will view just a snippet of the video proving a white cop killed yet another black man and find him innocent



out of context
[2015.21.4…a]


Prompt: a snippet of overheard talk
April 20, 2015 at 3:13am
April 20, 2015 at 3:13am
#847455
A bright painted cow shares space with
         thirty frogs and a wood elephant.
Justify recreating horizons
         with ever taller buildings.
If Hilary wins, perhaps more of us
         will have extra for pet bats.


no rhyme nor reason
[2015.20.4…a]
( Three Ginsberg American Sentences )



Prompt: include four very specific items in the poem ( list is too long to place here. )

April 19, 2015 at 3:52pm
April 19, 2015 at 3:52pm
#847402
she spoke of her flower garden and the bees that are slowly disappearing and who would pollinate her herbs and vegetables so she could eat in her old age. it reminded her of her grandmother who lost the preciseness of her memories, confusing yesterday with tomorrow and the dog’s name with that of her husband, imagine Ferdinand digging up bones in the front yard, she fondly wept a single tear and wiped it with a blue lace handkerchief, why do things have to lose their shapes as we age? a lamentation she hears so many times in the hospice where she works. funny she finds herself saying the same things nowadays as if she were thirty years older, but at fifty she's still fresh as a spring chicken and even goes out dancing each Sunday afternoon, no senility in her family, nor anything worse, she chalked that up to working every morning in her garden, fresh air and healthful meals as all her family had always done. music, do you like music dear? the gramophone is such a wonderful invention. I listen before I pray each night.



badinage
[2015.19.4…a]          


Prompt: learn a new word and use it in a poem
April 18, 2015 at 9:47am
April 18, 2015 at 9:47am
#847261
in its Apocalypse
wind flattened all unnatural resistance
after millennia of hurtling against surfaces
harder and harder to penetrate
now it is calm as are the seas with nothing
to force its horizontal progress into
turbines of upward diversion
food fills the fields in seasonal bliss
starlight outwatts electricity
man, hereditarily unsatisfied, no longer
housed in comfort, still thinks of dominance
and how to repopulate the billions
lost thirty generations ago



the demise of man-made
[2015.18.4…a]


Prompt: write about a wall, fence or stile
April 17, 2015 at 5:53am
April 17, 2015 at 5:53am
#847179

lesson number eighty-nine
how to bend an angle
forget everything you know about foreign languages
and poetry
no, in spite of the premise
this is not really an exercise in math
we need creativity
visual, sensual, and anything else ending in U A L
except factual
no, fractions won’t help either
though there’s a lead with traction
at least for one solution
concentrate on typesetting
you there yet?
I said Pythagoras and Einstein won’t help
nor rhyme, although slant gives a direction
as does diagramming sentence adverbs
perhaps the sternness of Latin would help
Greek was so obscure with that cute alphabet
so few truly master in the twenty-first century
Arabic is too curved although so exotic in appearance
no, it won’t help either
….
you still thought this book has the answer?
have you learned nothing?
what did you do with the other eighty-eight lessons?
yes, it goes without saying
that we can speak of refunds
which are covered in the last lesson



other ways to learn
[2015.17.4…a]


Prompt: an angle or a bend
April 16, 2015 at 7:31am
April 16, 2015 at 7:31am
#847025
I am aware of a visceral need to stop. And a childish inability to auto-regulate. I wish my heart would stop. Not because I seek a deathbed but because I'm tired of its invincibility. Perhaps a fit of tachycardia to spice the boom box throb or a sudden rushing spin of being in love again. Ah! It's become so ordinary, this beating, so mundane so -- predictable -- isn't it time to stop counting? Footsteps on paths that only turn in circles. Wouldn't it be better to count them? Mindful dizziness would create a divine sensation. Akin to religious awakening where faith keeps track of the little hassles like using a clicker on things other than jogging.


to count life
[2015.16.4...a]



Prompt: write a counting (or measuring) poem
April 15, 2015 at 3:51am
April 15, 2015 at 3:51am
#846926
she used to call me her little Lord Byron
never knew why

threw horrible tantrums when she didn't use my own name
like I wasn't real any more

although I hated that same name cause it was
my father's

I wasn't an optimistic child, played the what if game
into the macabre corners

of everyone's deaths and funerals elaborately staged
mine was worthy of Easter mass

didn't matter I had a recurring nightmare
on the same subject

every night of cold sweats for over ten years,
she did not call me

the bloody murder screamer, although the eponym
of Munch

declined into a playful Munchy or Munchkin
I would have liked.



more on the power of words
[2015.15.4...a]


Prompt: base the poem on an eponym
April 14, 2015 at 3:33pm
April 14, 2015 at 3:33pm
#846879
Prompt; Write a very short poem.
So, haiku it is!




in cities
men are not equal
ashes weep

[2015.14.4...a]
April 13, 2015 at 6:21am
April 13, 2015 at 6:21am
#846733
mamma always sang
strange lullabies
bedtime was an Escher illusion
is the cat climbing
or does he fall
they too have superstitions
the body below
in a dusty corridor
a man, a woman
it's so hard to tell
in silence that haunts our vision
close your eyes and sleep
did they unbury him
or is he the morgue's newcomer
illuminated by a stark sliver
waning moon or dusty neon
we see no window
dead either way
the cat will have more lives
if he falls with clumsy
claws incapable of avoiding
this round of destiny
in the quiet up or down
of jazz or Tibetan singing bowls
how this scene plays out
doesn’t matter
not really


though her voice was beautiful

[2015.13.4…a]



Prompt: a stairwell
April 12, 2015 at 4:21am
April 12, 2015 at 4:21am
#846643
and after all the shit I've taken

how he messed with my head
took the home my money paid
all the black nights of insomnia
worthless as an earthworm
the weekly love letters we wrote to him
all thirty-five of them returned unopened
the cases of Chardonnay that mixed with my tears
a heart more broken than a thousand jigsaw pieces
the lost battle with coke cause only that let me escape
two suicide attempts, a month in psychiatric ward
a long limbo of ten months

I find out
you Facebooked each gruesome detail
my name, his name
and say you were always his mistress
damn you bitch



choosing carefully
[2015.12.4...a]



Prompt: poem that contains a confidence (private info shared in trust with an equal)
April 11, 2015 at 1:22pm
April 11, 2015 at 1:22pm
#846581
When I look inwards, it's all shady and dark, murky, a source of stress. I do not think this is my soul. Looking inwards is not a place I like to go and visit. Nor one I recommend to those trying to learn about me, like you, Father. When I look for words -- confessions perhaps? -- I find myself in wandering in a romantic labyrinth of circles, nervous, incomplete. Still like a teenager searching for love. Will he ever stop following me? That I am a child of God, I have no doubt. Although I prefer the epithet child of the universe. You Father may take offense. I don't think The Big Guy would agree with you. Does it matter who I hate since I have contained this hatred? The same question applies to envy, jealousy. These are some of my darknesses. Do you, after devoting your life to the light, have no shadows to discuss?



You know me as a simple man

[2015.11.4…a]



Prompt: a confession to a powerful entity. (or one of his minions....)
April 10, 2015 at 5:13am
April 10, 2015 at 5:13am
#846453
Love is such strange oil. It lubricates our hearts, keeps us ticking. The metronome of harmony. Though it has not invented ways to eliminate the squeaks of tears. Nor the squawking of grains of sand itching their way inwards after deserts explode with heat melting polar caps. We argue. The best of us, & here I cannot include myself, enjoy, even thrive in, the making up process. In my volcanic moments, my feet grow roots of hot lava, a tornado funnel narrowing on my positions, assaulting the grounds of peace with loud bravado, unrelenting, as stubborn as a seed afraid of wind's churn. I am ( not ) sorry. There. It's been said. A bit of excess oil to slip up my foothold would landslide more fertile soils. My age says I'm an old weathered tree. Roots already dug deep. I forget to force my branches outwards. Smiles. Even laughter. Love likes you to slide. Back & forth. In & out. Up & down. It is perpetual motion. Keeps us ticking. A little lubricant is an added plus.


a lesson in mechanics
[2015.10.4...a]



Prompt: write about an underlying emotion you never name.
April 9, 2015 at 7:31am
April 9, 2015 at 7:31am
#846332
to let opium's torpor throw me
like a bridal bouquet to land
between the balance of life
and sweep of painlessness

let it wrap me in silence caught
from the deepest black hole
to count starry pinpricks instead
of a flowing cut-throat pulse

let it caress me with the hands
of ne'er forgotten passed lovers
oh for the sweet diversion
of one last pleasant release

come hither dearest bride and distant
lovers and haunt my moonlit garden
sit with me in vast red fields of peace
and let me speak while I still may


the siren's song
[2015.9.4...a]



Prompt: write about a wildflower
April 8, 2015 at 3:40am
April 8, 2015 at 3:40am
#846185
After a prompt to write about birds.

they do not kill in the name of religion
its zealotry or martyrdom, they do not conquer
because of racial ego or political fervor
they do not invite untimely death
tempted by junk food, they have no need
for diets and justifying zero intake of fruit
or vegetables to risk the state
of lazy, flabby couch potatoes
they don't die of cancer, decrepit old age
with loss of everything including sex drive
sleep and muscle tone
they do not suffer the ridicule of baldness
needing to adapt to blind or deafness
they don't smoke nor cater to other
vices to lower their life span
their bones to not wither and crack
they die after full simple lives
as thirty-year-olds
but before
they follow the winds, dancing with currents
except the ostrich
who runs fast enough to keep up
or the exceptional torpedo like penguin
their songs inspire all other music
unlike elephants they do not mourn
I wish I were a peacock in his poet's robe



an alternate life
[2015.8.4...a]

April 7, 2015 at 9:54am
April 7, 2015 at 9:54am
#846089

ambient sunlight scares shadows
of thunder and lightning nonetheless
possessing my body to cramp
attached to heating pads
and ambivalent effects of codeine
(oh to dare to double the dosage)
is the arbitrariness of
a less upright countenance
and spells of rain so dense
I would samba with Brazil
for this latter are required:
sleep deep enough to scare
off these stormy spasms
and of course the proper dream
none of which a genie will grant



untitled for causes explained
[2015.7.4…a]


Prompt: rain, showers, and/or clouds
April 6, 2015 at 10:25am
April 6, 2015 at 10:25am
#845980
the shadows in broad daylight crack
as malfeasance stalks campus gates
and blacks out the day's first lives
this death is never a trophy

in the theology class students were
not praying to a differently named God
but talked seriously about religious diversion
and could it lead to their imminent deaths

in a dusty courtyard a few young men chatted
about western philosophers and how Africa
might benefit from these new viewpoints
more strange thoughts caught by gunshot

those dark-souled strangers, armed in hate
might have understood this desire to speak
of ways to change the future of uneducated youth
unchecked weapons of war negate tolerance

university teaches one art of sharing life
conversation about ideas and dreams
arms to tip-toe on a tight-rope called diplomacy
these students can never test its width


shutting out words
[2015.6.4…a]

Prompt: Write about sunlight.
Not much in Kenya right now.
April 5, 2015 at 5:41pm
April 5, 2015 at 5:41pm
#845913
After the revision Katya wrote about.

His hands are sun weathered, a bit burly with hairy knuckles, nails well cut. He spends his afternoon pruning rose bushes, planting new bulbs in his small courtyard garden. Sitting on the second bench. A migrating bird knows more about Lisbon than me. There is an old iron cage next to the fountain under the fig tree spreading over the south-east walls. I don’t know if he has a parrot. He uses imitation teaching Portuguese. I like getting to know new people, he chimes in. Dreamlike, rubbing his hands on his shirt. Hand on my forearm, you have a cat too, you know what it’’s like. Of course, I want to purr for him.


the enclosed garden
[2015.5.4…c]


This poem is structured accordingly:
1. Describe the person's hands.
2. Describe something he or she is doing with the hands.
3. Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place.
4. Mention what you would want to ask this person in the context of 2 and 3, above.
5. The person looks up or toward you, notices you there and gives an answer that suggests he or she only gets part of what you asked.
April 5, 2015 at 9:14am
April 5, 2015 at 9:14am
#845877

our dead fists raise against your ignorance
intolerant rivets of prayer, your inhumanity
one hundred forty-seven souls

our hands are nimble, they note
new ideas, write poetry, journal our future
with precious signs unknown to our fathers

our promise: We are Kenya will be your hell



sevenling ( our dead fists )
[2015.5.4...a]


Prompt: hands
April 4, 2015 at 10:26am
April 4, 2015 at 10:26am
#845791
He said I'm afraid of dying Dave.
Will you come hold my hand tonight, I don't want
to be alone. So I called you and said
I won't be around for a couple of days.
I've got this friend, he's in the hospital. I remember
you asked is it anything serious? Because this isn't the first time
you haven't been around. I hesitated, it was personal,
ended up sharing. He's in a palliative care center.
He's got a big room with a nice big bed,
two armchairs and record player in the middle,
a big window with south light that keeps it cheery.
He never gave up on the old 33 vinyl records
and kept a big collection.
Jazz, he liked jazz, New Orleans style best.
I'd never worked one so I had to learn to put the needle down
without a shaking hand, because my hands shake a lot
a bit since I've been taking care of him.

He’d say play it again Sam.
But he liked that line from Casablanca. His favorite film.
And I always heard the smile in his voice when he said that.
He knew my name is Dave.
And me, at night, when he curled up against
me in the big bed and held my hand, I shivered each time.
I had never held another man's hand before.
The firmness and the warmth. I thought it would be so frail.
All I could think of was that scene in one flew over the cuckoo's nest.
When the big Indian Chief held a pillow over Jack Nicholson's face.

I don't know, I told you,
if I have enough love to do that when my friend asks.



from the Book of David
[2015.4.4...a]


Prompt: Incorporate something from a film in your poem.
April 3, 2015 at 4:58am
April 3, 2015 at 4:58am
#845678
a good art critic is measured by the weight of his prose
Ekphrasis, simply put, is the art form exposing a gut reaction
to whatever soothes one's eyes, preferably something artistic

"Jack, I want you to paint me like one of your French girls.
Wearing this. Only this."


this quote needs no presentation
history is quick to repeat itself
follow me then, as we embark on
an altered reality not often explored
imagine:
we have journeyed in time
to the turn of the 14th century, Italy
making art of everything has become the national raison d'être
in his atelier, Leonardo and Marco
perhaps this second man was born with curves more suitable
to the fairer sex,
perhaps he loved women too much,
perhaps he had become discarded eunuch or castrato,
perhaps, a million things empowered their friendship
towards intimacy,
perhaps things never known, although
lost manuscripts have a way of finding light

"Leonarado your brush has never complemented my smile.
Enigmatic, haven't you said?
Adorn me with that beautiful green dress your model has been wearing."

allow me to finish here, with a strong
beam of presumption
on what might have transpired later...


the fate of a smile
[2015.3.4… a]


Prompt: write a poem reacting to a work of art, Ekphrasis, in other words

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1926559-red-shadows-on-deserted-snowfall/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/6