Final Words

Over in the Imaginary Garden Izy presented us with the following writing prompt:

A few minutes from now, you will lose all means of communication with humanity.  You will not die, but will no longer be able to interact with the world.  What’s the last thing you say?  

Quite a bit, as it turns out!  I've been having trouble finishing up the 30 poems in 30 days, but it turns out with this prompt I came up with a couple of very different responses.  (And yes, I'm counting this as three poems for NaPoWriMo.)

The first thing that pops into my mind is the song from the Carol Burnette Show, “I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh or sing a song.  Seems we just get started then before you know it, comes the time we have to say so long.” 

Then I wrote the following:

If I couldn’t

communicate

with the world

anymore

how

would that

be any different?

   ~~~~~~~

If I couldn’t communicate

with the world

anymore

would I want to scatter

all my pearls of wisdom,

my humor

my clever, profound ruminations

that the world simply cannot live without?

Look out for the military-industrial complex

tell the people you love that you love them

but keep the people you hate guessing

be kind, be fair, be generous

use your parking brake on hills

remember the stories your parents tell you

time rules your life

be kind to animals

Earth is the only home we have

(so far)

show her some respect

Remember to water the plants

tell your gods to stop fighting

hang up your wet towels             

and the answer is

42

   ~~~~~~~

When I can no longer talk 

to you

perhaps it is time to listen

My Wish for You

Wistful and wishful

what more can I give:

a ladder to reach

and a screen to sieve

Then twine your fingers

through a meteor tail

and whatever lingers

collect in your pale

palms and drop through

your colander,

gather what’s true.
That's my advice 
for as long as you live.

Wistful and wishful

what more can I give?

Over in the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to write about fairy tales or with a "wishful" quality these stories often have.  The first poem is one I wrote today, and the second is several years old, but fits the prompt so well I couldn't resist adding it here.  The image is from what I believe is an open source, article.wn.com.  If you know this to be incorrect please contact me via email and I will remove it.

Bedtime Stories

Somewhere out in Nowhere Land a songbird waits for me,
and sings of things that never were, and that will never be.
I’m smitten with the music that he warbles sweet and clear.
He’s in the treetops high above, and yet he sounds so near;
and if I close my eyes and rest
I feel wings flutter in my chest
and magic places far away in space and time seem near,
like they’re more real than my home, and what’s around me here.

Princes bright and dragons bold fight battles round my bed,
and giant ogres want to grind my bones to make their bread.
Witches cackle, donkeys bray and cats wear leather boots,
Children run through forests, and play tunes on magic flutes.
Then knights and trolls and goats come out to skip across the floor,
and Irish women selling clams clap hands and call for more.
So bears and pigs and wolves join paws and dance ‘round in a ring,
and mermaids swim up to the shore to hear the sirens sing.
Old men grow young, and strong and straight,
whilst black birds argue and debate.

And it does not seem strange to me; I do not feel perplexed.
I shake my head and laugh and wait, to see what happens next.
Then the moon smiles down at me and asks me to come swim.
The stars agree. ”The air is fine,” they say, “so come on in.”
I dip my toe into the sky, and it does feel just right
and so I close my eyes and dive head-long in to the night.

Perspective

people of ash

despair in the wind

rituals broken

    ```````

people of ash

dance with the wind

ritual opened

For PAD Day #24

Food for Thought: Are You Pulling My Leg? or Does this Bug You?

Why my darling,

your legs are

long

elegant

glistening

succulent

said the spider to the fly.

~o~

I’ve

always been

a leg man

said the caterpillar

sadly

to the

butterfly

~o~

The average chocolate bar contains eight insect legs. –Yahoo Answers(and you KNOW it must be true if it was on the internet)

Over in the Imaginary Garden Karin has asked us to write about some aspect of  "last" and/or "legs". I really couldn't think of anything, so I did what I usually do in such situations - I went for absurd, gross, adolescent humor.  Really, that's all I could come up with, so apologies to Karen and the rest of the toads. 

The (Im)perfect Love Poem

Over in the Imaginary Garden we were given the formula to write "The Perfect Love Poem."  It is as follows: x (p + b + c + o), where P = Pattern (meter and rhyme,) B = Brevity, C = Comparison (describe the love or lover with a comparison), O = Obstacle (the difficulties inherent in a love affair), X = Mystery

But I was told there would be no math, so I didn't quite follow the formula. Instead I give you two imperfect love poems: 

My first love  poem is more like y(p+b+c+o), where y = humor.

Love Poem #1

Your love is like the bite of a tick

unnoticed at first, then making me sick

with fever and chills, aches and pains.

I hate that my heart doesn’t have any brains

when it sees this disease

that brings me to my knees.

If there was an injection

to stop this infection

I could save my heart from your rejection.

but I seem to be a philosophic waxer,

and a crazy, wild-eyed anti-vaxxer.

And my second love poem is sort of x(b+o)

Love Poem #2

You are 

the feel of wind

on my face,

the moon’s reflection

in my eyes,

the lens through which

I see the world.

You live

in the hollows of my bones,

in the lining of my skin,

in my dark center,

patient, waiting.

Poetics of the Road

     Image: Northern Ireland by Mary Bach

Step out my dear and don’t look back

adventures gather ’round the bend,

and they’ll make up for what we lack.

Step out my dear and don’t look back

with sturdy shoes and rain-proof pack,

a map, a compass and a friend.

Step out my dear and don’t look back

adventures gather ‘round the bend.

 Over at dVerse Poets' Pub we have been asked to write "poetics; of the road" in eight lines.  I've chosen the eight line form called Triolet, which is defined as a stanza poem of eight lines where the rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB, and often in iambic tetrameter: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines.

Half-Life

Here I am,

half way through

(if I live to be a hundred)

and what have I accomplished?

Not a lot…

a half-time job that

I only half hate,

a half-assed attempt

at a novel and a poetry book,

half a dozen children

and a husband who’s  

a half-wit,

but

gives me a full measure

of loving.

Meh…not half bad.

Alrighty then, over in the Imaginary Garedn Karin prompted us to write a poem that somehow used the word or concept of “half.”  Sorry, I was only half serious about this one. ;-)

In the interest of whatever interest there might be, I have taken some poetic license  in the above poem to incorporate the term “half,” i.e. I have two children, not six and my husband really isn’t really a half-wit.

Supporting Actor

“If you don't turn your life into a story, you just become a part of someone else's story.” 

-Terry Pratchett

She is a minor character,

the sidekick

the wingman

her job:

to serve as contrast, support.

she will never sparkle In the spotlight

but that’s ok.

She’s grown comfortable here,

in the wings

with less pressure,

less attention.

She comes from a from a family

of safety seekers.

Her dad used to say,

“Bid ‘em high and sleep in the streets.”

So she will stand aside,

and watch the big drama

splash across the stage,

lend support when needed ,

then disappear to the wings

during the grand finale. 


In the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to use a quote from either Leonard Nimoy or Sir Terry Pratchett as a jumping off point to inspire our writing.  I have used a quote from Sir Terry.  While I adore his humor and satire I didn't that direction with this.  Perhaps another time... RIP to Terry Pratchett and Leonard Nimoy.  The the world is a bit bleaker and weaker without you. 

Transforming Skies

   Wiki free images

Sun-shot, spun gold clouds

graze the morning sky above 

stratospheric flocks

                +++

Grey-stained spitting sky

crackles with power and life

sending out the winds

   Open source image

In the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to write haiku for Transforming Fridays with Nature's Wonders.  This is National Haiku Day, so go crazy in 5, 7 and 5 syllables!

Cosmic Egg Roll

    Cosmic Galaxy Egg by Andrew Logan

Time swirls across the cosmic egg;

what wonders will it hatch?

and what came first? the question begs.

Time swirls across the cosmic egg -

come roll with me on this next leg,

grab all the moments we can catch.      

Time swirls across the cosmic egg;

what wonders will it hatch?

Over in the Imaginary Garden Lolamouse asked us to write a visionary poem about an image from The American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore, MD.  I chose the Cosmic Galaxy Egg and wrote a sort of Triolet.  This is a stanza poem of eight lines. Its rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines, and often all lines are in iambic tetrameter (though not this time).

AnOther Folly

I started my project years ago,

with great enthusiasm.

I began without a blueprint

but as time went on

I dreamt up ever more

elaborate and outrageous designs.

But it seems the walls were built

without enough support
or a proper foundation.

Corners didn’t meet and

dovetails didn’t slide together

but from a distance it looked so lovely

I couldn’t bear to tear it down

and start over,

so I’d just add the next bit,

assuring myself this part would be better

until the haven I intended

was empty and labyrinth-like,

echoing with the sound

of broken promises

and better times that never were.

I tried staying there,

but it couldn’t hold up to the last big storm.

It’s been condemned;

declared unsafe.

From now on

I think I’ll just rent.

This is for the Imaginary Garden where Hedgewitch asked us to write about a folly; the kind that is, "...a building constructed primarily for decoration, but either suggesting through its appearance some other purpose, or merely appearing to be so extravagant that it transcends the normal range of garden ornaments or the class of building to which it belongs." - Wikipedia

Noisy Neighbors

At

bedtime

I hear coyotes

through the open window,

whooping it up

like frat boys

In the morning

a chaos of chirping

migrates into my dreams

until I wake

to the

final stars

winking goodbye

First night of springtime,

sleeping with

the windows open

Day #14 PAD, just a wee bit late.

Waiting

"Time is the school in which we learn."  -Joan Didion

The waiting room attendant

is bright, chipper, relentless

as an alarm clock.

The room itself is filled with

soft muzak and soap opera dialog

competing to be white noise, but

at least they cover over

the florescent hum.

I sip elderly, burnt coffee

without really tasting it

as I recite silent prayers and promises

to learn the lessons of patience.

In the Imaginary Garden we were asked to write something based on a quote from Joan Didion.

Amphitrite

     Painting by Daria Petrilli

When I went

to the doctor about

the growing lump in my abdomen

no one suspected I had an ocean in my womb. 

But

that did explain  

the leaking and the smell.

My uterus has become a coy (kio) pond; 

I am retaining water.

Of

course

the doctors

recommended

an immediate hysterectomy. 

But they were not sure if it should be done

by an OB-GYN,  or marine biologist, or ichthyologist, 

or some other –ologist altogether

I

decided

to wait and see.

Meanwhile, I’ve stopped

eating sea food and developed a fondness for kelp. 

Also, I’m considering a tattoo – maybe compass points 

on my right thigh.

After all,

I am

Mother of the Oceans,

caring for my realm.

I am

Goddess of the Waters

deserving your devotions

I am

Queen of the Seas

favored of all daughters

and all your marine dreams

reside in

me.

*Amphitrite: In ancient Greek mytholog Amphitrite was a sea-goddess and wife of Poseidon.  Under the influence of the Olympian pantheon, she became merely the consort of Poseidon, and was further diminished by poets to a symbolic representation of the sea.  -Wikipedia

Seasoning

    Four Seasons in One Day from Open Source Images

After drooping heat,

grey autumn rain chills into

winter’s mocking snow

which settles on bud and shoot.

That’s April in Wisconsin.

This is for PAD Day #11 and the Imaginary Garden, sort of. 

Dear Future Granddaughter

Your daddy was a funny kid

he loved dinosaurs more than anything

and even when he was only two

he could carry a tune

like nobody's business.

Aunt Kate was a cute little kid,

carting around kitties

and giving them “giggly hugs”

with her orange curls bobbing.

Grandpa had the best memory

he would say, “Three years ago today

we had an inch of snow

and the Brewers beat the Cubs three to one.”

You had to tag along after him,

cause he never stood still.

Grandma read to you

and told stories with you as the hero,

The cats and dogs loved her best,

and she always looked sort-of far away.

Great-grandma grew up in South Dakota;

she used to shoot prairie dogs

from her bedroom window.

She worked when no one's mom did,

but mostly she was kind to everyone.

Great-grandpa was sooo funny.

When he was little he loved cars and licorice.

He was always into mischief

with go-karts and fire crackers,

skating and card playing

and telling stories.

Remember the stories -

tell your children,

and their children

for as long as you can.

In the Imaginary Garden we were asked to write to your ancestors and/ or descendants.  I've chosen to write a very personal one, to my future descendants about their ancestors.

Deep

   Sculptures at the Bottom of the Ocean by Jason deCaires Taylor 

     image from johnboildstep.wordpress.com

Poets are not afraid to drown. -Janet Frame

From little on we are

rocked in cradles

on waves,

pulled back and forth

by sun and moon.

As we go deeper

we do not fear.

though we are ruined

we do not fear.

through countless days and nights

poets are not afraid to drown.

I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”  -Anais Nin

Over in the  Imaginary Garden we were asked to to combine words and art. using a work of art and a quote to inspire our writing.

Inspiration, Post Haste

Dear St. Cecilia,

I could really use some help here.

My muse took off

with a two-bit musician and a bottle of hooch,

and here I am just a week and a day

into Poem-a-Day month.

I’m desperate!

Could you sprinkle a little

magic dust from an old thesaurus,

whisper sweet nothings

(or bitter, sarcastic anythings)

in my ear?

Please, do something!

Desperately and Uninspiredly Yours,

-Other Mary

P.S. If I don’t hear back from you soon my next letter will be to Bacchus. 


Abhra over at dVerse Poets Pub has asked us to write a letter.  Oh, and in case you're wondering, St. Cecilia is the patron saint of poets, writers, muscians and artists in general.  And I'll bet you know Bacchus is the Roman god of wine.

On Love and Storms

We can’t always choose

spring rains quench, revive or drown,

but drought is lifeless.

Take your chances with the sky -
leave your umbrella behind.

This is for Day#7 of PAD and linked to the open write in the Imaginary Garden.

A Litle Schmaltz

    Image from Wikipedia.com

Under the stars

and over the moon
is where you take me, Love.

This is for Day #6 of Poem a Day for April, National Poetry Month.

On Easter

     Photo by Mary Bach

This morning the moon  

begins to wane

in the lightening sky.

Mourning doves call to

you, you, you

but jays and wrens and barn swallows

are chirping too.

Outside the window

there are ten thousand branches, more

that were dead,

now, near bursting

with a million, million buds.

Don’t tell me there are no miracles.

Thank you for the prompt of a 55 word piece, and the subject of Easter in the Imaginary Garden with Flash 55 Plus.  This is also for Day #5 of PAD.  Happy Easter or Sunday or whatever you are celebrating today.

Portrait

    Ambroise Vollard by Pablo Picasso

Here is the child,

running and singing

and drawing before knowing

that drawing is hard

cutting class,

fighting and loving

and thinking

of the magic between pages

and stars.

Here is the parent, the sibling the spouse

giving and tender,

arguing, withholding

open, reticent, stern

eating potatoes, sorting the mail

thinking of winter 
and making love.

Here is the worker, here the boss

productive, proactive, lazy

smoking a cigarette

worrying about shoes

and overtime 
considering the nature 
of beauty and loss.

Here is the artist

crying and spitting and drinking gin

darning a sock,

selfish, doubt filled, egomaniacal 

trying to pay the rent

and save the world

with a pen

thinking of the magic

between words

and stars.

Over in the Imaginary Garden we were asked to consider exerpts from Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons, which has been called verbal Cubism, and write a poem about an object, food, or a room in the style of Stein. Alternately we could write a poem without any gendered pronouns, as she did.  I tried doing my own "Cubist-ish" poem, considering Wikipedia's definition, "In the Cubist Style subjects are rendered from multiple perspectives using faceted forms and simplified geometric shapes."  And this is also my PAD Day #4. 

Alarm

We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and a mystery.  -H.G. Wells

I dread the ticking of the clock,

it dogs my steps, it shreds my wits,

and stabs my life with each tick-tock.

I dread the ticking of the clock

it’s both a weapon and a lock.

that snips my future into bits.

I dread the ticking of the clock,

it dogs my steps and shreds my wits.

This is my poem for Day #3 of PAD.  I got the idea of writing a "machine poem" from Robert Brewer of Writer's Digest where he is providing a prompt each day of April. 

First Home

I dwelt

under a cage of ribs,

and was fed from

blood pushed through

veins,

oxygenated by lungs

that sang and argued and

laughed and whispered

I was woven

from the dreams carded and

thoughts spun and

stories that knit together

generations

in a tapestry of

sun and wind and plains

and paths into forests

and over oceans

leading ever

home

Mama Zen over in the Imaginary Garden asked us to write about the house they built us for day #2 of National Poetry Month, Poem a Day.

Lists

Today is a day of lists:

return library books

board meeting 

mail statements 

grocery shopping:

  -meat

  -carrots

  -cinnamon

  -oats

  -Athlete’s Foot cream

  -sympathy cards…

for it is also a week of deaths:

agonies, endings

and the requisite attending

social conventions…

4 sympathy cards

1 wake

1 funeral

1 meal for grieving family

1 batch of cookies for grieving family

because after all, food really is love

or at least the only solace

we can figure

But poetry is solace too,

and this is the month of poems

so to the list I add

30 poems for April -

and for today

I sneak away
for one
entire
poem

This is for day #1 of PAD (Poem a Day) for April, National Poetry Month.  I'm linking it to the Imaginary Garden, because "lists" are not what sparks my poetic heart, but poetry is what saves me.