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

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.

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).

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.

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

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.

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.