he shouldered causes

he shouldered causes
the ones that were broken
or which someone had dropped

he would bolt through the door
burst onto the scene
never asking to be forgiven

he would pull nonprofits from their shallows
jump through red tape hoops
as if he were dancing

his feet constantly moving forward
then gathered together to leap
over whatever hurdles there were

toppling indifference only
he was a burst of joy
striking like a bolt of love

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 26 at The Sunday Whirl.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post, or see the sidebar note between the two NaNoWriMo web badges. (I'll be posting an update here later today.)

I'm an obsolete

I'm an obsolete
the antonym of athlete
because I don't like rambunctious people

I remember the days
of polite swallows
of teas and crumb-cakes,
when men wore fedoras,
as handsome on their heads outside
as on the hat-rack in our foyer

and you had to admire the way
they'd open the door of their automobile
and wait for a lady to seat herself
before gently closing the door
and driving us to the Palladium Ballroom

now I sit by the pond in my garden,
left fallow in my obsolescence,
so I ring the bell to summon the nurse
for my pills and some pleasant conversation

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 25 at The Sunday Whirl.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post, or see the sidebar note between the two NaNoWriMo web badges. I'm one-third of the way to my goal!

It Had Been

his energy waned
he was fearful
he didn't mind being alone
except that he was lonely now
it hadn't always been this way

he had lived a life of adventure
his face had known many smiles
he had myriad loves
he could play music and jokes
it had been that way for a long time

he had wandered
and been lost
had looked for signs in headlines
and slept on concrete
it had been that way for too long

he regretted leaving the church
he remembered the circle of love there
he hoped the philosophy he'd cobbled together
would hold him in his final days

it had been his way
he just hoped it was the right  one

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 24 a la Leo at The Sunday Whirl and Wither Goest Thou Kevin Bacon? - Prompt #23 at Poetic Bloomings.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post.

And, in case you missed it, there is my interview with Sherry Blue Sky at Poets United.

Waiting for the Director

the cinematographer was measuring the light
on the cafe set, with the stand-ins having a chat,
just as the characters soon would be

she would occasionally look over his shoulder,
a slight motion that annoyed the cinematographer,
so he gave her that look, which she did not see,
her gaze through the window, to outside,
where she hoped she would see her boyfriend
amongst the passers-by, who were strolling
past the book-shop, oblivious to the clutch
of cast and crew inside, waiting for the director

he wanted to move, to block her view,
but he knew the cinematographer would bark at him
if he did, so he sat still, smitten with her,
wishing someone would script his life, to have her
fall in love with him, while he could only imagine
an accident, a jostle, to get her to notice him,
but he feared he would botch it, the comic relief
instead of the romantic lead, so he sat
very still and waited for her to speak again

when the director and actors arrived on set,
the cinematographer moved behind the camera
to capture the scene, not seeing the drama
that was beginning to unfold right before him

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 23 a la Viv at The Sunday Whirl.

Threads

take the woolen thread
that natural by-product of sheep
that symbol of the herd
for those who don't yearn
for those who just accept
and sew

choose what you want to fashion
a tapestry or banner
for a corridor of power
a sash or socks
to adorn or warm
or writer's gloves
with the fingertips exposed
take the woolen thread and sew

see the omens - if you can
hear the whispers of the muses
listen to your own yearnings
take the raw emotions of your life
and shape them with verve
take the woolen thread and sew

look into the mirror and don't blink
don't be fooled by the opal surface
look deeply - thrust through the layers
take the woolen thread and sew

clothe us - warm us
comfort us - warn us
we need it
even if we don't know it
just strengthen us
take the woolen thread and sew

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 22 at The Sunday Whirl.

rondeau: scrapers

We don't wake with a jolt anymore.
We just scrape across the floor
and look for our dignity,
rummaging in our pockets to see
if we can find any more.

We used to be urgent and aroar.
Now we're just simple and sore.
We used to strive - to be.
We don't wake with a jolt anymore.

We know we should be bold or
work to build scrapers that soar,
but we pass what we see,
cut out all roaring humanity.
We're all aft; there's no one fore.
We don't wake with a jolt anymore.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 21 at The Sunday Whirl. I was inspired to write a rondeau by an article in the October issue of The Writer which I am currently reading on my nook.

Custodian

He maintains the truth around him,
each and every room in turn.
Every vessel of knowledge matters,
each as important as the one before,
the last, the first, and all between.

He doesn't breeze through his work.
He sweeps away the dust and pencil shavings,
but doesn't wipe away the residue of art,
that which was created so fervently,
if yet without much skill.
He has a trunk at home
filled with his own children's artwork,
and each piece he sees fills him anew.

He sometimes skins his knuckles,
making minor repairs to this and that,
but that doesn't matter. It's just a covering,
as his job doesn't cloak who he is.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 19 at The Sunday Whirl. Thanks to Brenda, as always, for these wordles. And thanks again for choosing words from one of my poems. It's good to be missed, but it's even better to be back reading and writing again.

Obviously, being back in the classroom has influenced my subject matter.

A Francisco San School Day

It was one of those days.
You know what I'm talking about.
There was the tremor in the morning
that left everyone unsettled.
No plaster cracked or fell from the walls,
but we all still shuddered inside
sporadically throughout the day.

Actually, it started before that
when I forgot the words to the pledge
of allegiance, as if I was that no man
who is an island, bound to none.
Another teacher gave me the glare
that said I was being seditious,
but it was my brain in rebellion
against me, not my heart.

And then walking up the stairs
to the classroom, it was as if the tread
of my shoe was gone, every step
was wrong, the wetness of the morning fog
now squeaking off loudly on the stairs,
my foot slipping so I almost fell,
and then giving a flat tire
to the little fourth-grade girl
struggling up the stairs in front of me.

After the tremor, they were timid.
Afraid to ask questions, to take smart risks,
as if the stigma of the label of special education
had been stamped on them all.
They weren't themselves, as if their nether selves
had crawled up and thrown their sacred selves down.

I didn't teach a single thing that day.
I swear everything I did only hindered
their progress rather than aiding it.
My lesson plans weren't on my clipboard.
I couldn't find the copies I'd made
the previous day. The teacher's edition
wasn't on the shelf of my podium.
My every effort only enmeshed my students
in a net of incompetence and ignorance.
By the end of the day, we were a tuft,
a dense clump, of humanity.

I dismissed them at two,
and sat alone in my classroom until three
dismissing myself.

/ / /

For this poem, I combined two prompts, Wordle 17 from The Sunday Whirl, and a prompt from Poetic Asides to write an "everything is against you" poem. Thanks to Brenda and Robert.

The Banker

it's easy to see desperation
in the eyes of a stranger

not so easy to turn your heart
to granite and slouch by,
but you've managed it

you spin your stories
how they've wasted their lives,
that they've cracked their minds
on drugs, cheapened their bodies

you concern yourself
with how dirty they are,
not ash on their skins
but the oily residue
of urban life

if only they were clean
you tell yourself

but the truth is
you are afraid
afraid that they will screw you
as you've screwed them

you fear the revolution
that they'll rise
and throw you to the ground
from the corporate parapets
you think protect you

but when the revolution of your soul comes
when all worldly concerns are cleansed
you will not find yourself
in the presence of light

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 18 at The Sunday Whirl.

Track Meet

The boy hurtles himself into the air,
his limbs outstretched over the hurdles,
which he clears without injury or slowing down,
reaching for that finish line, its siren call
never fading, only growing stronger.

He never turned his gaze towards the others.
It was not close, no toss-up who won.
It was as if he flew the entire distance.
This was a first victory for him,
and as he flashed that fresh, winning smile,
he was glad he flossed after breakfast,
no flecks of cereal between his teeth.

/ / /

I finally finished this poem in response to Wordle 11 at The Sunday Whirl.

I'm only three weeks late. It's not a great poem. Frankly, "It was as if he flew the entire distance" is probably the most cliche line I've ever posted, but my self-imposed challenge of writing a poem to all of Brenda's wordles is intact.

Open

you have to open the curtains,
their edges touching the bookcase
with the gilded leather covers
standing at attention, waiting,
their wisdom rendered from life,
and blink for a moment
at the light scattered by the clouds,
cast your scattered thoughts aside,
let the whir of your mind cease,
do not scan for the plot twist,
just marvel at the natural world,
where nothing is reprehensible

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 14 at The Sunday Whirl.

Void

the divine spirit walked
onto the celestial balcony
to observe humanity,
their rhythmic jostles,
as they ignored the ominous
and fell prey to illusions,
flapping about in search of meaning,
a pantomime of the real,
fearful of the day
they'd be but bones
beneath the emerald lawns,
worried about the void
between earth and heaven
and not seeing the void
between each other

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 13 at The Sunday Whirl.

Poem

Logic is just one river
that empties into the Sea of Thought.

It flows, a path of nature,
as true as the river of Instinct
and much more so than Emotion,
that twisted tributary
feeding into Whim,
as so many others do,
and drink from as well.

But Logic is clear and cool,
not muddied like Fantasy
by all the unicorns and centaurs
galloping along its banks,
a world all its own
and yet just part of ours.

And Logic flows calmly,
no buzz of mosquitoes
in your ears
from stagnant ponds
looking for blood.

I don't understand
why some resist,
just refusing to drink
from this wondrous river.

Or why those who do drink
are not quenched of their thirst.
Maybe it's the lack of taste.

Then my eyes fluttered open,
and I realized I'd been floating down Dream.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 12 at The Sunday Whirl.

I have failed utterly (so far) to write a poem to Wordle 11, which is part of the delay in getting this one posted.

The Shape of Grace

First there was the shade of the tree
over the front steps, taking the sun's glare
out of our eyes, and when we opened the door

to my grandmother's house, it was inhaling love,
more than just the smells that came from the back
of the house. The living room we stepped into

was clean and silent and poorly named.
We did all our living in the kitchen.
At least my grandmother and I did.

I quickly made my way to the kitchen,
wanting to get there first. She was peering
into the steam of a boiling copper pot

and when she heard me at the kitchen doorway,
that swinging door always creaked on its hinges,
she set down the wide wooden spoon on its rest.

We met midway, by the marble countertop,
a funny thing to have indoors if you think about it.
She set her hazed-over glasses on that

cool, smooth, rock surface, kissed me once
on the forehead, and then enveloped me in her hug.
Then she was flitting out to greet the rest

of my family, but returning to the kitchen
with the grace it deserved. She glanced
at the cuckoo clock by the dining room table,

then turned over the hourglass she used as a timer,
its salt and pepper sands falling, building up
that miniature dune that said dinner was ready.

She called me over, saying time for kisses.
My grandmother never called them pinches or dashes.
They were kisses. That was the shape of her love,

us standing side by side by the old gas stove,
tossing kisses of salt, herbs, and spices
into the family meal. That was what I loved to breathe.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 10 at The Sunday Whirl. I'm very late with this one, writing it just the other day, but I have to write a poem to all of Brenda's wordles. It's just a challenge I've set for myself.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Snow Melt

the snow melts and slides
back to liquid
released from solidity

seen from below
the tugs look embroidered
onto the surface of the bay
tiny on that big water
fed by sixteen rivers

this is how the bay breathes
exhaling toward seaweed,
salinity, seals, and sharks
this is how the new
supersedes the old

awaiting evaporation
to be a mist rising
above its brothers
then a cloud, then snow

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to Wordle 3 at a wordling whirl of Sundays.