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. |
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 |
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. ) |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
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 |
Prompt; Write a very short poem. So, haiku it is! in cities men are not equal ashes weep [2015.14.4...a] |
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 |
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) |
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....) |
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. |
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 |
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] |
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 |
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. |
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. |
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 |
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. |
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 |