Wordle Prompt

they may look like hovels
to you - but they are in fact
homes - rundown, yes

but clean - you will find no cobwebs
here - the outside may be gloomy
but inside - dandelion yellow

she'll invite you in and try
to feed you - she may be slow
on her feeble leg

but watch her scrambling eggs
with bits of chopped vegetables
and cold rice over the wood

stove burning limbs of ash
listen to her corrugated laugh
rising and falling

she will hum and smile
offering you a plate
food is love

and love is crucial
but give her no looks
and no words of pity

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to the wordle prompt by Brenda at Beyond the Bozone.

Product Placement

It's 9:06 p.m. I already bought
a writing book, Wild Mind
by Natalie Goldberg at the Borders
just a couple of blocks away.
It will be closed in six days.

I'm sitting at a small round table
at a Barnes & Noble Cafe,
where they proudly brew and serve
Starbucks coffee, writing poems,
taking the occasional sip of my venti
Chai Tea Latte, with soymilk, no whip.

I'm almost directly beneath a round
Bose speaker set in the ceiling,
which is drizzling a live Willie Nelson album
down on me. It's got a jazz vibe, and
I think I also hear Norah Jones.

I try to write a good poem, but
my mind keeps wandering to my dream
of being a Hollywood screenwriter.
I think I'd be good at product placement.
It works in a big action movie,
but it's killing my poem, choking it
on all those capitalized words.
I'm sorry if you read this far.
I'd refund your money if you'd paid anything.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write a time of day poem.

If They Were Songs

each one is a little different
having its own
strengths and challenges

some just show up
whole and ready
and want to be left alone

others need to be trimmed a bit
so eyes can see
and ears can hear

still others just need more
structure and support
a guiding hand

some play the cello
others the oboe
some a drum kit without cymbals

some lead off the album
some end up as b-sides
some never make it past a demo

some are serious
some are silly
all are sound

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to the prompt at We Write Poems to "write a poem about writing a poem".

NaPoWriMo Day Twelve

a  breaking window is dramatic
arms splayed, shards flying

what was just whole
now unmistakably broken

and we just watch the fall
in slow motion

all the tumbling surfaces caught
by the light - a dark beauty

it doesn't happen to the protagonist
it happens to a supporting character

(spoiler alert)

John Locke, before he was lost,
being pushed through an eighth story window
by his father

Julia McNamara crashing face first
through the plate glass window of a sliding door,
brain befuddled by painkillers and wine

there are cuts, signs of external pain
to reflect the hurt inside

a fractured heart, the refraction
of love's pathways, which should be

straight and true, but light,
like love, is both a particle

and a wave

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to the prompt to write about a broken window at Big Tent Poetry.

Nursery Rhymes

Holy Moley lived underground,
and he had faith in above.
So his thoughts did resound
that life was guided by love.

* * *

Nowy Cowy was very zen.
Live in the moment did he.
The eight-fold path he walked
and sometimes rested beneath a tree.

* * * * *

These two short poems, posted for Monday, were written in response to a prompt at NaPoWriMo to write a nursery rhyme.

Sunday

So, I'm not going to post a poem for today.

I have stuck to the challenge and have written at least one poem every day, but I'm not satisfied with some that I have written. For example, the one about writing a poem "about something that happened 15 years ago" from Big Tent Poetry. I wrote a poem to that prompt, but I'm not going to post it. It's autobiographical and personal in a way that won't appeal to anyone else. It can just sit in my poetry journal. And, frankly, it's just not a very good poem.

Writing a poem a day has not been the challenging part about NaPoWriMo, the poem-a-day challenge, whatever you want to call it. So far, I've had plenty of prompts and other ideas to get me started and I have written a poem a day. And no one's going to judge me or criticize me because I didn't write a poem every day. I'm challenging myself to write a poem a day, but I've also given myself permission to be happy with writing 30 poems in 30 day, which I'm well on the way to doing because I've often written more than one poem in a day.

The first day of April was a day I was off work on Spring Break, and then we had a weekend. I had three days to get a head start on writing poems. I think I wrote six poems over those three days.

What's challenging is the quality issue. Last year, I was more nervous about posting poems on this blog and as comments at Poetic Asides, where I got started with this poem-a-day thing. But then partway through the month I got over myself and began posting poems. And the community of people reading and writing poems that I have encountered has been positive and supportive. So, this year, I had no problem posting poems. And yet, there's still some part of me that won't let some poems see the light of day. I'm not saying that everything I've posted is good; I know that some are better than others, but they're good enough for me to put out there for others to read.

I did post a poem for Saturday before I left for the weekend, but it was one I had written the day before. I did write a poem Saturday, but I'm unhappy with it, so I'm not going to post it as Sunday's poem. I even worked on it more on Sunday, but it's still not there - and I'm not sure it will ever be. It's a response to the prompt from Big Tent Poetry to write a poem "with lungs in it".

And then, Sunday night, after getting home, I ended up writing four poems. So, I think I just needed the time away, to let things percolate in my brain for a bit. Because, the words just flowed, and now I have a couple of short poems ready to post for today, Monday. I've got another that I need to let sit for a day, but which I will probably post. And the last is one that needs some work, some structuring, and may be worth posting.

So, thanks to everyone who has been reading my poems. I've read some wonderful poems myself so far this month, and I'm having a great April filled with poetry.

And I will get caught up on reading and commenting on poems. I was so tired last night after writing, that I didn't even go online.

define dancing

i know he's heroic and all
but i imagine Clark taking Lois
dancing after dinner

he'd hold her tight
and they'd slow dance
on the clouds

so that when he set her down
on the balcony
of her high-rise apartment

the hem of her dress
would be damp as if
she had walked on dewy grass

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to the musical ekphrasis prompt at NaPoWriMo.

As I was reading poems, I was listening to my writing playlist, which includes a number of soundtracks. "Define Dancing" by Thomas Newman from the Wall-E soundtrack came on and caught my attention. Then I flashed on that scene in the movie, which got me thinking about the hero dancing with his love.

Only Twenty-two

In 1753, Governor Dinwiddie trusted
Major Washington to deliver a letter
to the French commander who had occupied
the Ohio territory in dispute.
Not only did Washington return,
but he prepared a full report
of the situation, including a map
with the locations of the French forts.

The Ohio Company had begun construction
of an English fort at the junction
of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers.
Washington, now a lieutenant colonel,
was sent in 1754 to complete and defend
this fort. But before his detachment
could reach the fort, the French had captured
it and renamed it Fort Duquesne.

Washington continued his march, and parleyed
with Indians he encountered. He was unable
to convince any to join the English.
On May 28, he attacked and captured
a small French force, thus starting the war.
Finding their advance position dangerous,
he and his men hastily constructed
what they called Fort Necessity.

The French advanced on the English
and a skirmish ensued. There were losses
on both sides. Washington knew
they could not successfully defend
their position. As he prepared to surrender,
he was killed by a French musket ball.

What if George Washington had been killed
at the start of the French and Indian War?

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to yesterday's "what if" prompt at Poetic Asides.

Addendum: Process Notes. The first three stanzas are historically accurate. It's in the fourth stanza that it becomes hypothetical. I've long been fascinated with Washington's military prowess in the American Revolution, but it was here in the French and Indian War (Seven Year's War) that he learned so much that he would later use, as an American, against the English. To the best of my knowledge, the time he surrendered Fort Necessity is the only time he ever surrendered in a military campaign. That seemed to me a logical place to play "what if".

The Father

thing number two wants lasagna
thing number one wants pizza
i feel like thing number zero

i'm hungry too, but i feed
the boys first, and feel guilty
that i called them things

i didn't say it out loud, but
it's at that point i realize
i've misplaced my patience

milk in the cupboard
cereal in the refrigerator
it must be around here somewhere

maybe i can cook some up
find it again in the zen
of mise en place

the feel of the blade
cutting the carrots into brunoise
the blade dulling by molecules

the tiny chimes the carrots
make as they fall
into the stainless steel bowl

i'm putting the third bite of my
dinner into my mouth when
thing number two asks for dessert

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write a poem about a type of person.

A Poem by Billy Collins

I just got an email from Barnes & Noble, and they had a link to a poem by Billy Collins, Memento Mori, from his new book of poetry, Horoscopes for the Dead. Just thought I'd share it in the spirit of National Poetry Month.

The Art of Making Fire

The scientists gave up and
began praying to Prometheus.
Give us fire, they pleaded.

Unto mortals, he replied,
the gift of fire
I have already given.

We want to power
the planet, they explained,
with star fire, with fusion.

That art I cannot teach,
Prometheus stated.
That is the realm of the gods alone.

But it is cold and dark,
they begged, and the light
will feed the green plants.

You have more than enough,
he replied, for your needs.
Your wants you must temper.

Then silence he gave them,
for he had answered
their prayers with wisdom.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt to write about the art of making fire at We Write Poems.

I wrote this a couple of days ago, but am posting it as today's poem. I haven't written a poem yet today, but it's only 6:15 a.m. here on the west coast.

What Do You Make?

What committee of goofs
decided that professional
baseball players should make
millions of dollars a year?

What concord was reached
in a thirtieth-story conference room
that corporate CEOs should
make more than baseball players?

What apathy was invoked
so that public school teachers
make just enough to eke out
a living above the poverty line.

Baseball players are mere
entertainers.  They hit a ball
with a piece of wood
and run around a rhombus.

Corporate CEOs supervise making
a profit. They don't do anything but
make decisions that prove
avarice is the root of all evil.

If you know what
a rhombus is, odds are
a teacher is responsible.

If you know right
from wrong, you can thank
your parents and teachers.

Teachers don't make a decent wage.
Don't kid yourself that they do.
However, they do the most important work.
They make a difference.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write a serious poem.

Agitation

my world is prodigious
blue and wide and fluid
not that dry, brown stuff
you go on and on about
it's just dirt - it has no depth

you've harried it to the point
of sterility, so you have to
leave fields fallow to recover

what should be omnipotent
is instead just docile

I don't mean to come off
sounding supercilious but
who do you think you are
naming our planet earth
sounds like your preconceptions
talking again

you should be more like me
go with the flow, as we say

(I almost said down here
but that would just feed
your misguided superiority complex)

but now that I mention it
when I look up at the sky
your world pushing down on mine
I see the way the sunlight speckles
the surface, the way the light
itself journeys into our world
from yours, auroras that constantly
shimmer and dance during the day
and then I find I pity you
and your small, flat, dry world

* * * * *

This poem was inspired by a wordle created by Brenda Warren.  Thanks, Brenda. I also used the prompt idea from Big Tent Poetry to write a poem "as though you are a fish".

Modern Epidemic

A messenger was tasked
to warn the populace
of the epidemic
of terrorism.

He succeeded.
People were afraid.
The plague spread.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to Messenger, prompt 261, at Sunday Scribblings and Epidemic, prompt 162, at One Single Impression.

Lune

With their riches,
lobbyists are loud and persuasive.
A democratic republic?

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Three Word Wednesday using the words: loud, persuasive, and riches.

The form I have used is a variant of the Lune, which I learned about at Poetic Asides.

Without Me

There would be a slow decay
of the soul. Children would wake
and not want to play.

On faces, dread and dismay
would appear. The ground would shake
and buildings would tremble and sway.

Fire would sweep fields of hay.
Fish would abandon the lakes
for land on which they couldn't stay.

My absence, you wouldn't say,
for I'm a lovable rake,
is a thing you'd wish for any day.

* * * * *

This poem is my tongue-firmly-in-cheek response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write a poem in which you imagine the world without you.

Postcard a la Rondel

I'm wishing you were here.
I miss you when you're gone, you know.
It's only off to Grandma's you go,
but at home it seems more austere.

Without you, there's a little less cheer,
along with toilets that don't overflow.
I'm wishing you were here.
I miss you when you're gone, you know.

No worries about talk you'll overhear,
peace and quiet we'll have, although
I'm anticipating your return hello.
I can't wait for you to reappear.
I'm wishing you were here.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write a postcard poem.

Still Life on Balcony

Because he knew I liked classical,
my boss gave me tickets to go hear
a performance at the Herbst Theater.
They were good seats, but I didn't
care for the contemporary classical
music they were playing that night.
At the intermission, I stayed out
on the balcony. I was too moody
for a glass of wine, so I sipped
my carbonated water and squeezed
the wedge of lime to flavor it.
As the others went back inside,
Pavlovian dogs responding to the chime,
I walked over to the stone railing,
and stared out over Van Ness.
The moon, almost full, loomed large
just over the dome of City Hall.
Then I realized I was not alone.
A man stood looking out as I had been,
his hair was mostly gray, cut short,
and he himself was trim and fit.
I swear it was Neil Armstrong.
I could feel my face flush in the cool
evening air, too cool for obscuring fog.
No, it couldn't be. Why would he be here?
A dozen questions fought for supremacy
in my mind. Do you still fly?
Were you scared on Gemini 8?
How did it feel to be the first man?
I looked from the moon back over
to the man. Was it really him?
And then I remembered
what I had read about him.
He was shy, reticent. Warm once
you got to know him, became his friend.
He was not aloof, but even
the other astronauts said they
didn't know what he was thinking.
And weren't a man's thoughts private?
I realized how much in temperament
he and I were alike. Would I want him
to come over here and ask me
what I was thinking? No, I wouldn't.
And then he walked past me, heading back
to the theater, and we just nodded silently
to each other as he passed. I looked back
to the moon and the distance there seemed less,
as the gulf between me and others
also seemed smaller, one that could be crossed.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Big Tent Poetry to write about "standing on a balcony with someone you've read about in the paper".  I don't read the paper, but I am reading A Man on the Moon by Andrew Chaikin.

I Love Poetry More Than I Thought

I started writing poems in high school.
It was for a creative writing class,
not because I was some moon-eyed teenager
in love. I was a misfit then as now,
and my poems brought me a tenuous
acceptance from my peers.

Then, in junior college, I studied
literature intensively and took a poetry
writing class with George Barlow.
More acceptance. My writing ability
wasn't a fluke.

When I transferred to Cal, I applied
for a writing class with Thom Gunn.
I was rejected. Hurt, angry, I wrote
poems in solitude.

I entered the full-time working world,
not studying and reading poems. I wrote
when inspiration came to me.
There was the sestina I wrote
while manning the reception desk
from 5 to 6, when it was quieter.
At another job, on my lunch hour,
I used the tugboats I watched
working out on San Francisco Bay
as an extended metaphor.

And so it went for many years
until I began teaching. I used
ideas from Kenneth Koch and taught
poetry writing to my students.
And when the opportunity came,
I was ecstatic to have a published poet
from California Poets in the Schools
come teach my students to write poems.
I wrote poems too. And I named
my blog after a poem one of my students
wrote that was published in a CPITS anthology:
Sadly Waiting for Recess.

Then, I discovered NaNoWriMo and in 2009
I wrote a novel in thirty days.
Hungry for more, I wrote 30 poems
in 30 days the following April.
Then another novel in November.
And now it's April, time for this misfit
to write poetry again.

Acceptance from my peers
wasn't a fluke.
Poems in solitude
as an extended metaphor.
Sadly Waiting for Recess
to write poetry again.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt from Poetic Asides to write a "what got you here" poem.

A lot of my poems are not this personal. This is autobiography in verse form.

I cannot speak highly enough of California Poets in the Schools.  And I love this quote from their website so much I have to share it here as well:

"Listen to these young poets and you'll discover the voice of the present and hear the voice of the future before the future is even here." - Phillip Levine

NaPoWriMo Day One

Why is it that boys going through puberty
are so self-conscious about getting undressed
in the YMCA locker room? They keep
those white towels around their waists, even
as they step into their briefs or boxers.
I'm not sure they've completely toweled off.
Aren't they uncomfortable pulling dry clothes
over wet skin? I know I would be.
The near-acrobatics each will go through
so that no one else sees his penis.
And yet, they are almost always there
with a friend. Why doesn't one of them
change in one bank of green lockers,
while his friend can undress in another?
They could both relax a little if they were
apart, but they stay together, tense.
I would find the whole thing mildly amusing
if it weren't for the fact that they're so
brazen when they're fully clothed,
talking to each other on the way out,
oblivious to the fact that others can hear them.
There was one time I was waiting near the exit
for my wife to join me after our workout,
and heard two boys, walking by together, talking,
and I was shocked, when one said:
That's so gay.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Big Tent Poetry to write a poem about "getting undressed somewhere besides the bedroom or bathroom".