untitled (Wordle 9)

the spider lets out
threads of gossamer
yet for their thickness
stronger than steel
and she never allows
them to become tangled
she'll just break them
and make some more

she builds her home
in the sky, etches
in the very atmosphere
her place where she traps
and feeds and raises her young

she is not a creature
of bone, not like the humans
who dream of flight
or even the birds
with their hollow bones
who manage flying
from telephone wire to branch

without bones
her architecture is different

she hangs suspended
in her airy temple
light everywhere
no need for windows

as her babies hatch
she tells them the stories
they need to hear
how to trap prey
where to build a home

and the stories
that fill their souls
she points at the sparks
in the sky and tells them
they are stardust
everything around them
is stardust
they are sacred sparks
that she is sending out
to brighten the night sky

they let out a bit of gossamer
and they wait for it
to wave in the breeze
moving like serprents
then they let go
of their mother's gossamer
and float out on their own

if she had eyelids
she'd close them to slits
watching her children
float away
but she can't
so she just holds on
feeling the vibration
as each one lets go

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 9 at The Sunday Whirl. A whole week late, but better late than never.

Here Now

I sit in bed with my reading pillow
and my lap desk, my laptop nearby

iced tea on my bedside table
okay, just a splash of sweet tea
and then water to fill the glass
edged in blue at the top

a Lego knight on horseback
that my sons made for me
he guards my books
stacks of them on the table
and on the floor along with CDs
I'm ripping onto iTunes

three frames on the walls
each on a different wall
one of my wife and I
on our first trip to Vegas
where we'd later marry
it was taken in a photo booth
but looks like a pen and ink
sketch by Rembrandt
one a watercolor of cherry blossoms
painted by my mother
the last a picture I took
of our firstborn the first week
we lived in this house
it's not even a photograph
it's a digital snapshot
my wife printed out at work
on a color printer on plain paper
we were so broke then
having just paid first and last
and the security deposit

beneath the watercolor a coffee table
long ago removed from the living room
as we baby-proofed the new house
now a permanent fixture in our bedroom
where stands the Tiffany lamp
that was my grandmother's
an heirloom left to me
in my father's will
safe from boys who are not allowed
to play in our bedroom

even when I'm alone in here
reading, listening to music,
or writing a poem
I'm surrounded by my family

/ / /

This poem was written to the Write here, now prompt at We Write Poems. Thanks to Pamela for the prompt.

The Couple

he comes home late
and all he can do is complain
about the damp laundry

she thinks
but the clothes are clean
can't you see that

she holds her anger in
and he is incensed

she wants to avoid conflict
and he wants to fight

he is tired
and feels trapped
in her domesticity

she is tired
of his errant ways
his car the symbol of that

and the skid marks
he leaves on her soul

she's not sure
how much more
she can endure

/ / /

This poem was written using the theme of endure from One Single Impression incorporating damp, incensed, and skid from Three Word Wednesday. It is also a response to the cocktail of words prompt from We Write Poems.

I also offer it as my acceptance of the Perfect Poet Award for week 46 from Promising Poets' Poetry Cafe. I nominate Henry Clemmons, who blogs at The UnderSide of Green.

Priorities

it's difficult sometimes
to know if what I do
is aligned with my priorities

life is erratic
like it's charting a course for me
that doesn't seem guided
by fate or design

I look for omens
signs to show me
that I'm doing the right things

even the occasional bad omen would be okay
something to fight against
an obstacle giving me
a short-term goal to focus on
something to measure myself by

but the fact is I don't believe in omens
signs from above or below
what's here and now
in the middle matters

teaching young people
writing poems
making my small portion
of this erratic life
brighter and more beautiful

at least I think so
that's the question I started with
isn't it?

but then I look
at my boys
and see what is reflected
in their luminous eyes

and everything seems
true and good
what I know
and what I do
the things that are me
appear congruent

and I wonder
why I question myself at all

I should take that
as a good omen

/ / /

This poem was written for the cocktail of words prompt at We Write Poems. I used the priorities prompt from Poetic Asides and erratic, luminous, and omen from Three Word Wednesday.

A special "Thank you" to the great people at We Write Poems for using my prompt idea this past week. I enjoy writing to their prompts and being a part of their community. I am looking forward to seeing what others have written.

Incomparable

I wish that I could leave a journal
and pen by my bedside table
so that when I woke from sleep
I could jot down my dreams
but I rarely remember them
unless they are frightening
and I flee from them
to the waking world

instead I daydream
and make up stories
and on occasion I manage
to tell a story
that is inspiring to others
or so they tell me

there have been stories
of strange, enchanting lands
where the people sleep
beguiled by the lotus

there have been stories of bold heroes
with torsos bulging with muscles
alluring maidens who wait for the hero
or go off on their own quests
a devious villain to antagonize
the hero or heroine

what is incomparable
is not the pleasure of writing
because it's not just play

I work at it
more than I care to admit

but the joy of reading
what others have created
and I take immeasurable pleasure
in reading the comments
on what I've written

that is what is incomparable
the kinship of readers and writers
none of whom are my actual kin
just kindred spirits

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Incomparable prompt at Writer's Island, using the words from Wordle 8 at The Sunday Whirl.

Addendum: This poem also works for the cocktail of words prompt at We Write Poems.

Do You Like It?

of course you like it
your son made it
you like everything
he makes at school

but you paused a little too long
before you replied to his question

uhm... I like how much blue you used
and these black lines here
they're bold and uhm...
I like the way they flow

what's bold he asks
and you say brave fearless

good he says
'cause it's a policeman

I like your bold policeman you say
relieved that he seems satisfied
with your response

let's put it on the refrigerator
you say hoping to close the deal

okay he says

after he's gone to sleep
you stare at the bold policeman
in your kitchen
but you still can't see him there

the strange shape
its asymmetry
a little frightening

you wish
you could see
what he sees

more in his mind's eye
than on the page

when you realize
how much you've lost

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Sometimes something surprising! prompt at We Write Poems.

untitled (Thursday Think Tank)

of the autumn breeze
the leaves grew tired-
their shadows rested
on the empty bench

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the visual prompt at Thursday Think Tank #51 at Poets United.

untitled (Wordle 7)

she tried to ignore the inky murmurs
of the subdued women
gossiping about her purple dress

she heard gaudy and tacky
as their talk undulated
from unkind to cruel to mean

she watched as one of them happily
burrowed into her red leather purse
and pulled out her cell phone

she called someone and began
to spin her web of callous words
via cellular towers and satellites

though it saddened her
she sat unafraid
they were just words, after all

and she knew in her heart
that she glowed in her purple dress
because it made her feel light

she did pity the other women however
because they were so common
and their hearts were the abyss

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 7 at a wordling whirl of Sundays.

from a book of poetry

I was reading this poem
about a girl who sat
   on the same bench
   near some blue hydrangeas
   every Tuesday
   eating her lunch

which she had made herself
and brought from home
and I remember not much caring
about where the lunch came from
or why that bench or Tuesday
or even about who the girl was

when there was a sudden silence
of the crowd of people around me
in the courtyard where I sat

I set down my book of poetry
but I had missed what
had silenced the crowd

as I reached for the sandwich
I'd made at home that morning
I noticed the blue hydrangeas
in the planter behind the bench
and how the petals looked like butterflies
around a small world
and I looked up at the mid-day sky
so blue, and I wondered what we
looked like form the outside
and if anyone bothered to much care

/ / /

I wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago. It was written in response to a prompt from Not Without Poetry.

Grab a book of poetry. Try not to be too picky. From the last line of the first poem, take a word or phrase and write it down. Now, from the first line of the last poem, take a word or phrase and write it down. Now, from a random line from a random poem somewhere in between the first and the last poems, take a word or phrase and write it down. With those three words or phrases, and this picture, write.

I used The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins. I used the following three lines form his poems as my inspiration:

near some blue hydrangeas, reading this

I remember not caring much

there is a sudden silence of the crowd

To Their Right

Preposition Piku

It tells us
that
we're going. To.

Number Piku

Even and
prime.
Has to be: Two.

In Addition Piku

Also or
more
or very. Too.

/ / /

Contraction Piku

Pronoun they
and
verb to be. They're

Possessive Piku

Pronoun for
both
his and hers. Their.

Parts of Speech Piku

Adverb, pro
noun,
adjective. There.

/ / /

Angle Piku

Proper, good
or
correct. It's right.

Mark Piku

To compose
and
form words. To write.

Passage Piku

Procedure
or
solemn act. Rite.

Construction Piku

A worker
or
Frank Lloyd. A wright.

/ / /

These pikus were written in response to the Dancing with Pikus prompt at We Write Poems. Thanks, Tilly. This was fun.

Regarding the "Parts of Speech Piku": There is both a pronoun and a noun, thus "pro / noun". Still not sure if I'm happy with that or not.

Fire Dominates

we are turning toward the fire
some with dove tails think
it will protect us from the dark
others with hawk tails feel
the dark has fallen against them
they think the fire can be used
to push the twilight away
still others fear that the wind will rise
fanning the flames and the leaves will catch

we are all afraid
some of us cry tears
others cry out, striding forward in anger
that has been shaped
and layered on the fear

and the Earth spins and orbits
around its solar bonfire
caught between planets named for old gods
one of love and one of war

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 6, using twelve words from "Domination of Black" by Wallace Stevens, from a wordling whirl of Sundays.

No Sacrifice

Before the gods, titans, and giants,
there were beings whose names are lost
in the vast passage of time. Perhaps they lived
before time in a place we cannot know.

Some believe they fought amongst themselves.
Their spilled blood formed worlds
and all the things that lived on those worlds.
Our world, our universe, is not one of those.

Some believe that they sought to create.
They fashioned worlds, created beings and life
to flourish. But these were shadows, disappointments,
failed experiments. Our universe is not one of those.

I believe there was one of those beings
that understood what was truly necessary.
He gave of himself, unfolding all that he was.
Our universe is his body, mind, and spirit.

Everything around us is alive.
The rocks may seem dead, but they are not.
Every particles of our universe is sacred,
a gift freely given, an ongoing song of love.

Those who fight are foolish and deluded.
Those who create without the gift of love fail.
We must accept more than we can know
from our lives. We must believe in stories.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the We Write Poems prompt to write about how the universe began.

Dream of a Superman

my power waned

I was the problem

things got better
when I decided to surrender
myself to the light
of that beautiful yellow sun

I took flight
too seriously
it was supposed to be a joy
not a burden

I had forgotten that

I floated for a moment
saw myself reflected
in a window
thirty stories up

the people beneath me
gathered on the sidewalks
to look up
utter trust on their faces

if there are angels
it is they

for all my power
it is not absolute

but when they work together
they can solve
almost any problem

the only risk
is that the lull
lasts too long
that we fail to act
when we should

that thought started
me awake

I turned over
rearranged my bedsheets
into a cape on my back
and returned to sleep
and to joyful flight

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Wordle 5 prompt at a wordling whirl of Sundays.

I'm a full week late on this one. I'm getting back into the swing of things now that my school year is over. As I respond to certain prompts, I'll be catching up with others' poems.

Two Hands

my wife has some lovely
Mother's Day cards
from our sons
made at school

     Father's Day
     comes after school is out
     for the summer
     I get store-bought cards

I think it's great
that women and men walk
twenty miles a day
for three days
wearing pink

     it's not the cancer
     that kills the most women

     and where's the three day
     walk for prostate cancer?

this man is probably
too logical for you

     but I write poems

/ / /

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write an "on the other hand" poem.

untitled

opening day / of summer vacation looms
hours and hours of unstructure / waiting to be filled
no lesson plans to write / no other people's children to teach
no papers to read and grade / just notebooks to fill with poems
titled or not / capitalized or not / punctuated or not
let ungrammar reign / and feelings and meaning rain / down on the page

don't title / don't limit or restrict
don't set up preconceptions / let them discover
let that be the joy / not the cleverness of your title
forms or free verse / whatever the poem wants to be
just let it / give it permission to be / itself
just to be / to come into being
it doesn't have to do anything / let it be
listen to the Beatles / write a song / let the lyrics flow

give yourself permission / daydream / write
compose in your head / read some untitled poems
journey into their territory / with an incomplete map
you fill it in / they aren't blanks
it's not that kind of not / there is no negativity
just potential / energy inside you / just wanting to be kinetic
but it's not work / it's play / kinetic and kinesthetic

give it voice / fill the air with your words
we need them / I need them / keep them coming
like air / there's more there than you think

go out / and photosynthesize
take in some vitamin D / turn that into a poem
it doesn't need to be a thesis / a funky synthesis will do
a little antithesis / if you want
that goes with untitled / right?

/ / /

This poem was written to the prompt at Poets United to write a poem titled "untitled".

I really needed this. Tomorrow is the last day of my school year. I will be promoting 32 fifth-grade students to middle school. I have been working my tail off to be ready for tomorrow, and I am so ready for a break. Poetry is my sanity.

The Young Hero

The young Hero was foolish
to act with such relish
in his own power.

He did not stop to think
of mercy because his mind
was set on justice.

It was the old Villain,
in his death, who taught
him his foolish ways.

He whispered to the Hero
as he died: I would
have granted you mercy.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to a prompt from Three Word Wednesday: foolish, mercy, relish.

Making Vegan Burgers

Getting the water just the right
temperature for the cool
dorsum and the warmer palm,
then the liquid soap,
antibacterial or not, to cleanse.

Feeling calmer now, measuring
out the ingredients into the curve
of the bowl, no anticipation,
just action, kneading the gluten
with clean hands and a clear mind.

Forming the burger patties,
ready for the spring grill,
I notice that my anger
has melted away, and I have made
food for my family with love.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to a prompt from Three Word Wednesday: cleanse, knead, and melt.

This is the third of four poems I wrote over the last week for Three Word Wednesday. Number four will be along tomorrow, and then I'll be taking a short break. My school year ends on Friday, May 27. I have to finish grading papers and I haven't even started on report cards yet. Once my summer vacation starts, I will be much more active here, and I promise to get caught up reading and commenting on your poems.

Today also happens to be my younger son's seventh birthday. (Happy birthday, Aidan!) He likes my vegan burgers, and he likes helping me in the kitchen to make them.

Tonic Town

i wanted to surrender
to love of grace
but she made it so hard

she would thin her gin
her evening meal
every day except sunday
she didn't eat at all
on sundays
which is how
she stayed so thin

god, she was beautiful

empty calories
for an empty heart
that i wanted to fill

my better self wanted
to fill it with love
my baser self just wanted
to fill it
with a need for me

and she smelled so fine
that i was rarely thin
when i was near her
i would say her scent
was intoxicating
but that would give
the wrong impression

i joked that she had
surrendered to grace
the baser grace
that was a mirror of me
but it wasn't funny

a jigger of this
a jigger of that
then the jitters set in

i wanted to surrender
to grace
but i didn't

she had already
surrendered herself
to something greater
than me

i'm sorry, grace
that i couldn't save you
from your surrender

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to the Take the driver's seat! prompt at We Write Poems:

First consider what prompt would be an interesting and challenging prompt for you, including then what you think would be good for the group. Then 1) write a brief paragraph describing the poem prompt itself, and 2) go ahead and write your own poem to that prompt.

For my poem, I used surrender as the theme from Sunday Scribblings, and grace, thin, and jitter from Three Word Wednesday.

So, here's my prompt:

One, select a prompt from a site like Poetic Asides, Writer's Island, Sunday Scribblings, or One Single Impression. This will be the topic or theme of your poem. Two, select some words from a site like Three Word Wednesday or a wordling whirl of Sundays. Now, consider your theme/topic and your words. See if those words will help you explore or expand on your theme, or see if your topic opens up, leading down unexpected avenues, as you play with those words. Trust your poetic intuition and imagination. You could choose prompts that you haven't previously responded to, or revisit ones you've already done, or find a prompt that previously stumped you, and see if this take on it will help you get a poem written.

Public School Teachers

We brandish respect
and knowledge
for we are mighty inside.

We forbid no one.
All are welcome
to enter and learn.

We manage this daily
with little compensation
and little complaint.

I challenge you to do the same.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to a prompt from Three Word Wednesday: brandish, forbid, and manage.

Paula suggested that this poem might work for the Poetic Asides prompt to write a telling it like it is poem. I agree. Thanks, Paula.

Riding in the Passenger Seat

we were driving to see a covered bridge
in Moscow, Indiana, a rural configuration
that can barely be called a town.

it's hot and humid, salty drops
on our foreheads, so we're slurping
down sweet tea made with filtered

water, just as we take in
the fields and the big sky,
unmarred by hills or mountains,

textured by the low soybean fields
and the tall corn, the gold inside,
brandishing our cameras, so it's obvious

we aren't locals, a California infusion
to the local economy, because long ago
my parents substituted that home

for this one, when it occurs to me
that these farmers do not just eke
out a living, that life is all around.

sure, there was the wooden house,
abandoned, imploding in geologic time,
the bricks of the chimney the only

straight lines to be seen, but that
was the exception rather than the rule,
when my uncle brings the car

to a stop, and we're at the bridge.

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to Wordle 4 at a wordling whirl of Sundays. Thanks again to Brenda for hosting this wonderful site.