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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/757065-Green-Peas-at-Stake/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/5
by Joy
Rated: 13+ · Book · Personal · #757065
A poetry journal of everyday clippings
Free Photo


"The astonished muse finds thousands at her side." *Laugh**Laugh*
R. W. Emerson

I made this poetry journal because I like to play with words and lines and I wanted to put somewhere some of my practice work (or first draft) in verse, written--within a very short time, probably daily on the spur of the moment, with the idea to work on the entries later--with or without the help of the astonished (should I say shocked?) muse. *Laugh**Laugh*


Some of the haiku I have mixed with senryu, not only because I am not a purist, but also because I like to do what I like to do given what I feel at the moment.

Previous ... 1 2 3 4 -5- 6 7 ... Next
April 25, 2007 at 7:07pm
April 25, 2007 at 7:07pm
#504171
Who says, at sixty plus,
lacking
a polished surface,
I cannot roam
on the tarmac?
While this limpid dream of flesh
--in dalliance--sulks at the traffic,
a power wants me to exist
like a prominence
high over a ravine
about to break off.



April 25, 2007 at 7:03pm
April 25, 2007 at 7:03pm
#504169
I survive, groping around
in the dark, searching
for something
round the bend,
above the trap doors
of wishful thinking, pain,
betrayal, and residues
of ego's primeval silence,
as I long for another dream,
skipping over
pirated promises,
so incomplete,
like the stones I took for pearls,
not knowing
their expertise lay
in words unsaid.

Write a poem using the prompt “Above the Trap Doors,” quote of a chapter heading from the Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux.

For "Poets' Practice Pad


{
April 20, 2007 at 9:09am
April 20, 2007 at 9:09am
#502940
Risky Business

Stranger, you,
from the dark roads,
come to me every night
dreamlike, creating a myth
of starry hours,
but I am made of solitudes,
and my sorrow you cannot obscure
with seizures of tenderness.
Still I, attempt to spin
a thin, threadlike bridge
to a world newly invented
with a feverish hope
that my feet won’t fail me
when I cross over
to you.


For "Poets' Practice Pad
Write a poem to the prompt “crossing a thin, thread-like bridge.”

April 20, 2007 at 9:03am
April 20, 2007 at 9:03am
#502938
Haikus and Senryus

the pebbles and stones
want to get out of the sand
needing to be thrown

in awe of the earth
moon’s face shimmers on water
like aurora’s flame

On darkened stairways
walks the enemy within
and I hide in words

desperado seeds
like sour grapes turning purple
need moist soil to sprout

Moon river, your name,
an echo fading to gloom,
whispers a swan’s song.

for global warming
nature gives us no reason
but cancels our lives

For enlightenment,
I’m flying low on approach,
just before landing.

Night rocks her to sleep;
she walks in the light of dreams
on short, stubby legs.

picking up their tales
once more, narratives swagger
in verbosity

Thriving on contempt,
my poems have halitosis.
No applause needed.


------Found poems from horoscope-----

you've got it flaunt it
enjoy fruits of your labors
don’t lord it over

You, firecracker, you!
You’re out of the starting gate.
Don’t waste time, thinking.

Flexibility
now is the name of the game
forget fears and doubts

You’re just not ready.
Look! Unlike a perfect start,
he threatens to leave.

Mars in sextile sun.
Get to it and do it now.
Attend local gym.

Think forest, not trees.
Accident not on its own;
you took the wrong turn.

Some forward movement
Ending old ways of living
Now, express yourself!

Stop, look and listen.
Be on your best behavior.
Saturn goes forward.

Focus on success,
work, responsibility:
All these Saturn themes.

Upbeat demeanor
euphoria in your heart
injects levity

You reach a new peak
Lunar orb in Gemini
Literary times

Moon-Venus union
Love vibrations amplify
late in the evening

--From “Your Daily Tarot”--

The Knave of Wands Card
My power is in testing
opportunities

In the game of life,
adventure, enterprise, fads.
signs of approval.

Found poems (haikus-senryus)
--from the local paper on the same day--

Housing market’s plunge
is a whale of a fish tale.
Town needs more rentals.

A doctor shortage.
What can you do about this
Medicare factor?

Do good to feel good.
Volunteering improves health,
since life gains meaning.

Population shifts.
Tackle the issues head on,
Our aging nation!


“Do not go gently”
young dancers appear on stage
for eighty year-olds.

Artistic pursuits
kids perform an Indian dance
Community ties

Tomorrow’s leaders,
kids connecting lives, dance with
feet not touching floor.


Our great highways, but
vacation’s on weak dollar;
gasoline costly.

Expensive story!
Euro pulls rug from under
last minute airfares.


Monumental stress…
It’s not about the war, but
The wounded warrior.

Start working with vets,
get active by raising funds,
keep programs going.


He fights unlike most.
Some people think it’s cheating,
but boxer has style.

Fishing tournament,
Third Annual Offshore Big Three.
Gift bucket and prizes!


Art gala scheduled
capturing essence of sea
by modern artists

Fun things you can do
in spring extravaganza
at Whispering Pines

Ultimate Frisbee
Just bring a light and dark shirt
learn a fun new game.


For the ambiance
Fine dining on the island
Piped-in jazz music

Art deco menu
Casablanca wooden fans
candlelight romance

For appetizer
yellow fin tuna and shrimp
on oval platters


In branch library,
events every Saturday
author talks and more.

Marsh Music at night
-banjo, mandolin, fiddle-
featuring Bluegrass


Bars, tables, and stools…
We have what you’re looking for
at Barstool Station.


In obits, a man,
ninety-three and from Poughkeepsie.
“Please don’t send flowers.”






March 12, 2007 at 6:45pm
March 12, 2007 at 6:45pm
#494583
Garden

The flowers in tacit formation
arrange the beds to their liking,
as they ascend from dirt and dung,
with colors like wavering constellations
separating themselves from the green.
But I stare ahead at the snail
with horns erect
flaunting courage, creeping,
leaving a trail that glistens in the sunlight;
like a fledgling poet,
it empties its insides
along scattered lines
with cut-up meanings.


A Shortie

The feisty red yarn
in a child’s hand
is searching for
a grandma.

February 7, 2007 at 12:36pm
February 7, 2007 at 12:36pm
#486354
Dark practices spells
to change everything
without touching;
shapes paled like roots
climb out of the floor
letting me pace among them.
When icy feet bump
into fierce, dreamless things,
stifling a moan,
I attempt to ward off--in vain--
other woes
that surface
in ebony waves.

For "Poets' Practice Pad
January 22, 2007 at 9:28am
January 22, 2007 at 9:28am
#482887
The sun drills holes in the skyline
for tipsy lights to swagger in,
and I wake up from dreams
destined to be untold.
I should hide them in the dumpster
and cover them with amnesia
so they don't reek.
Nothing captures me today
although I could do a million things
to betray any illusion
on the horizon.


For "Poets' Practice Pad



December 13, 2006 at 10:54pm
December 13, 2006 at 10:54pm
#475013
I feel the whiff
of insecurity…for
chaotic, lucid,
stealthy
jealousy nails
its herringbone fangs
in your frail frame,
stifling reason.
You whine green,
eaten alive
in bits,
every sinew, every bone
rattling with
the mad fever.
Pride chases shame;
wrath burns
in the blood.
To temper it,
I still want my arms around you,
at this precise moment
before you end the world.

September 21, 2006 at 2:16pm
September 21, 2006 at 2:16pm
#456376
I still hear the music of
her fingers tapping
numbers; she does not comprehend
who the child is.

First, I stare
long
at her, without blinking, while
the shimmer of a distant light
from her hair--the blonde smudge
on burnt umber--writhes
to infiltrate my retina,
mismatching the frail blossoms,
rather the thistles, of young years.
My tongue, burning, tastes ginger,
the hidden roots of evil,
and I laugh
out loud
with repetition,
pointing a finger
at her. Look,
who's the tyrant now!

Not good manners, but revenge
is sweet, and
this is the woman
my father ran away with.




---------------------------
For "Poets' Practice Pad
Prompt: Write a poem about a cashier.

September 14, 2006 at 11:36pm
September 14, 2006 at 11:36pm
#454846
I have no compulsion
to broadcast the details, but
"I knew I was going to take the wrong train,
so I left early,"
inundated by protests
for missing my drumroll moment.
Through some ritualistic humbling
with petty reasons, such as someone
peeking in on my sappy romance,
I left that bel canto terrain
and my front-row seat
with jackhammer speed
to shield specific bits from
the public and to kind of muddle
my way through my own
preposterous new plot,
amid buckets of tears of dismay,
so, I could survive the grueling race
between fame and defeat.
On to the platform I rose as if a newcomer to life,
although I knew I was taking the wrong train.

--------------------

Prompt: for "Poets' Practice Pad
Write a poem from any Yogi Berra Quote.
""I knew I was going to take the wrong train,
so I left early."

September 14, 2006 at 2:49pm
September 14, 2006 at 2:49pm
#454754
She thought
she was born secluded
in Neptune's arms,
where the fish conversed
with hints and allusions
like some kind of junk
resembling Zen,
then the waves ushered her to
this mundane world.
"She's psychotic," people said,
but I saw her as spirit,
weighed down by a label
and confined by an
inherent flaw, pondering
the ocean's edge,
her infinite softness akin to
the foam on waves, searching
for a potent inner life
as the world waited for
the invention of a conceptual cure
for manufacturing minds.

----------------

Written for "Para/Poem Challenge "Open" using 6 words:
Confine
Allusion
Hint
Seclude
Mundane
Usher
September 11, 2006 at 11:33pm
September 11, 2006 at 11:33pm
#454176
With a torrent of longing,
clouds disarm the folly
of a spun-out summer,
and the first brown leaf tries to cope
with the branch's disloyalty
of letting it plummet on
the immaculate lawn
in sincere obedience to the wind.
Little does the leaf know
that, from the moment of birth,
all leaves are made
to crumble and vanish.
September 8, 2006 at 11:49am
September 8, 2006 at 11:49am
#453458
We strolled in the woods
arm in arm, like an offering
of ourselves, kindling
hope to live within
each other's dreams,
until at the clearing
a rusty reddish fur moved,
then twisted about to lock eyes
with you, and the fox,
after wagging its white tipped tail,
fell motionless, dying
upwards into our lives;
next, a phantom glow flashed
from your eyes as if a dart
aiming at the life we could not plan.
The shock piled like the leaves
under my feet; thickening
my prickly blood and I
marveled at your distress,
letting out a sigh so fractional
you could not hear.
That day after the Red Fox,
you left, rolling with
the tide of your transformation,
a lover hovering over your own image,
to stare into the portent in Red Fox eyes,
still bright as if alive.


---------------

For "Poets' Practice Pad
Prompt: Write a poem about an animal as if it's an omen of good or bad. (Poe's Raven, for example)
September 6, 2006 at 9:37pm
September 6, 2006 at 9:37pm
#453159
To make a madcap mockery
of the full moon, the water ripples
to reflect it back on the hull,
macabre like a dead man's visage
with a ghost's mien, meddling into
the grief of the day, to appeal
for aid from the dark side,
as if in mimesis of
a liquid fallen angel,
while I think of me without you,
tying up the oars.

====================

For Para/Poem using the words:
Macabre
Madcap
Meddle
Mien
Mimesis
Mockery

September 4, 2006 at 9:20pm
September 4, 2006 at 9:20pm
#452698
I stagger with a single memory,
dubious now through time's questioning,
while night rains in transit
target the dark crossroads
of the sea town of my birth
and a palmetto leaf's pure hands
reach out to comfort
the tar-stained beach.
Then, as I try to recall an old guitar
that once thrummed an ancient, frisky tune,
someone's laugh collides
into my thoughts.


---------
Written for Para/Poem using 6 words:
Collide, Transit, Dubious, Pure, Target, Single
September 4, 2006 at 4:25pm
September 4, 2006 at 4:25pm
#452645
If I stand now in front of you
as daring as the housefly
on a frog's nose,
it is because I have
not done before
what I ought to have done,
for I am not an angel after all,
and to unwrap a happier tomorrow
from these frigid winter hours,
I would like to rearrange the
timetable of an adverse past
to let a tacit scar fade away
into the dead language of myth,
so we both feel blessed
for the warm wind's promise to transform
my prickly image in your heart.


Prompt: Write a poem in which you make an apology to someone without using "I'm sorry" anywhere in the poem.
August 17, 2006 at 10:46am
August 17, 2006 at 10:46am
#448727
Iron and concrete poles
entwine in a whimsical embrace
while the doves as toppers--perched
on the railing--absorb
the rays of the sun.
Inside twitching seasons,
their days seesaw,
as all life must come and go,
but a dove does not scorn
with a harsh, critical gaze
the railing on the bridge
it roosts on.



(from "Para/Poem Challenge "Open")
August 8, 2006 at 6:10pm
August 8, 2006 at 6:10pm
#446551
to my son who now has posttraumatic stress syndrome, because during 9/11, he was working near Ground Zero.


You are churning again
like water above the falls, but
I will hold your head in
my hands--as I once did, when
you were just a foot
and a half long--to conjure up your
courage and shoo away that
current of fury, so you'll
sail out of the radiation zone
of one hypodermic radical barb.

Then, somewhere from the dense
memory of structures coming apart,
you'll arise like a supernatural
creature to hold the world aloft
with your kisses.


------------------------------------

Prompt: Magical thinking is the belief that we can somehow cause something to happen in an unscientific but magical way. It's causal reasoning that mistakes correlation for causation. Whether you consider it superstition, magical thinking, or faith, write a poem about magical thinking.

July 19, 2006 at 12:49pm
July 19, 2006 at 12:49pm
#441698
Time tick-tocks
at a beach where
I loitered among a thousand
heads, winging shadows, tumbling
into hollows
of damp sand, searching;
then, on the stairway where I first
saw you in shaky heartbeats,
although I had met you
a hundred times before; in
the places where you explored
me, caressing in
the nightlong frenzy of
your game; and at
the exit where you
spun away, dancing into
the cobwebs.



Prompt: We don't always count our time in hours, days and years. T.S. Eliot's Prufrock says "I measured out my life in coffee spoons." Some count by the weeks till vacation, hours classes till the end of a school day, months to summer, regrets, For this prompt, write a poem which addresses the passage of time in an unconventional way.


July 6, 2006 at 12:50am
July 6, 2006 at 12:50am
#438623
It seems to have been a while since,
trusting my act in the kitchen, I touched
the knife on the wrong edge, sliding
my thumb. The shock of blood, rediscovered
so red when fresh, spun out of the mind--with
the pain and humiliation--other
things that bled, while I blinked to
wave off carelessness, but the pattern
of the warm liquid zigzagged to
fill my perverse temper with
the recall of sharp-edged words that cut
like cutlery when he said I was full
of s*** and I should watch out, as he
cast off my human skin and made
me bleed to a peculiar numbness.
Now, I hold my thumb to the light and
think, after the ointment, my blood
will clot again.


Prompt: Write a poem about rediscovering something

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