April 24, sound

napowrimo #24: listen up!

The world seems to be getting noisier all the time and often writers find themselves needing to block it out so they can concentrate. Well this week, don’t do that. Instead,  listen to all the noise and let it inspire your poetry!

For example, you could write a mood piece based on the sounds around you at the moment or write a narrative driven by sound. Or you might prefer to write about silence. Or something else entirely.

The cicada call for mates makes me stir
in bed late at night, shuffle, shuffle the sheets
where legs meet without lubricant-no glide only pop-stick.
Away from here--dogs howl trying to be wolves
and cats cry like babies I should have by now.
But the phone doesn't drip--it's empty
I took the last sip when I said, "Good-bye."
Good-bye, a hush of breath mumbled
under your words, folded, folded, pulled
plucked, gone, swished over and spit out.

april 23
Not as consistent as I want to do. So this will have to be a quick one.

My own computer is plagued with virus
a trojan horse gift of a battle
it takes and makes my property
revolt on me. Such horrible timing
that I have to wander computer labs
full of wounded soldiers and sometimes lazy ones, too
and beg friends to have mercy on me and let me use
their technology for a moment

(no subject)

read write image #14 and napowrimo #20

The Bride Wore Red

The Bride Wore Red

Here’s your image prompt for this week. If you decide to write a poem to this image, or another one that sparks your creativity

Here is the poem:

Bangladeshi queen
carried on the shoulders of others
red like a rose like a rose should be
and glass bangles up the sleeve
you, my friend, show me your wedding pictures
we always said that I would come
henna hands, designs that last a few days
wedding gifts and the look heavy lashed down

it's been a long time since we walked
underneath trees that could grab our tresses
and leave us haunted, glassy eyed beads
or nights spent under foggy stars speaking poetry
smelling lilac and magnolia before it faded
and became crushed under frequent walkers,
It is a few years since or more--
I was supposed to come, wasn't I?

Red dress, you wore, for me it would be
white or creme or a pant suit I could wear afterwards
for you, it is red, color of tradition
a ruby glow to fracture the camera into feeling.
Thank you, I say, for showing me--
red studded sparkle gold edges
red--the way a wedding dress should be
lusciously, lusciously living

For April 19th, a few minutes late
the “real” prompt for today is friendship. Write about the blessing that is a true friend or the heartache that comes from losing one. Tell us how you are a good friend (or where you fall short). Have you ever betrayed a friend or been disappointed by a friend? Have you ever slept with a friend? Did you marry a friend? Describe one of your actual friends. An old friend. A new friend. An imaginary friend. Remember an adventure you took with a friend or one you’d like to plan. What is it about friendship that we seek so consistently throughout our lives? Think of the ways in which we become friends with people. Think about how we lose touch.

Even though it’s NaPoWriMo and you may be in a bit of a rush, try to write your friendship poems without sentimentality and try to use concrete images instead of generating your poem conceptually. You can do it. You are a hardened, career criminal. I mean, “poet.” An experienced, NaPoWriMo poet. A “lifer.” Accept the challenge!

Unfortunately I have missed a few days. I blame school. Does that work? Anyways here is my April 19th, just past midnight.

To not be sentimental about a friend
is to not carry a camera to a high school reunion
is to not miss people so deeply
that you feel a knotch in your heart
like a belt buckle tightening.

Certain days remind me of you.
Certain days I feel that you could be
around the street corner, waiting.
Certain days I call, and certain days we talk
trying to make distance evaporate by voice--
if we could travel by air, by absence of air
by merely thinking of the other, would we?
Is today our day but tomorrow separate?
how many friends do you keep in your pocket
only to lose them and lose them and lose them?
So sentimental, I am--I draw hearts on my letters to you
always loop-sided with the ink bleeding.


list poem April 15th
Today's prompt: List poem in avoidance of poetry

Go for ice cream
lick the cheap spoon
make it break, remember
the scent of fake fudge glistening.

Go for a walk or at least think about it
the wind teases through thin trees
making them stretch to their knees
or at least the sky will be pretty

I should clean, I always should clean
dishes stacked like I invited
the whole neighborhood to dinner
streaks of paw prints on the scratched up furniture
floor with dust of feet meeting dust of outside air.

Oh and then there's taxes and errands
that list I have on the wall that I never get to
and the changing of my life--the resolutions tamed
to two goals this year, that's all.  I'll do those right now

Call mom, maybe dad,
stress about that I'm not a good daughter
Think about talking to my grandparents
or at least writing them a note. Wish I'd kept in touch.
And Shit, I keep on forgetting my dreams, too.

So my muse got tired of waiting for our date,
skipped town, started to date a sailor and a mermaid,
sends me postcards, says it misses me
thinks of me often. But me, well, I have a lot to do
I mean to but I never write back.

april 14
Road trip prompt with cars and driving

My speedy silver bullet
used car lot treasure
imprints of past owners
on the steering wheel
and rear view window
tries to chug up the hill
a mountain for its tracks
beating battery of a heart
deep breath lungs exhausted
other cars cruise on by
jeering at my little Toyota
they speed with old men in their frames
oh my silver bullet so named so claimed to be
just goes slowly to appreciate the scenery
the way the desert blows dust to the highway
the historic markers of past journeys
Even the birds sometimes singing
at least that is what I tell myself
on this long voyage
embraced by anothers' past
slime of grime of fingerprints holding mine still.

April 13th, one day late
From the prompt of incorporating a ton of random words into a poem.

My face was acutely green smiling
from each pool me a changeling
I see a metamorphis in each stranger's eyes
in the room around the irises
where images sit single as a hotel
without the occupants.

Day 12

napowrimo #12: where do you come from?

Another Sunday, another day of (poetic) introspection … .

So, where do you come from? The mountains? The plains? The city? Do you come from spaghetti on Sundays? Brown bag lunches? Do you come from shag carpeting and plastic slip covers on the sofa? Cows out the kitchen window? Do you hail from noise and congestion or stars and silence?

Today, think about where you grew up. The country, the state, the town, the street, the house, the bedroom, the bed. Be specific. Be sensual (as in capture the smells, the sounds, the taste, the scratch of your towels without fabric softener). Write a poem that shows where you come from in all its unique glory.

Buttercups silk rub me
Ants parachute in the sky
cicadas seduce the neighbors
in their quest for wings at night.
Grass so soft I smash
myself into damp, dew clinging
to the underarms of stalks.
Bumble bees browse to find
Great Grandmother's hollyhocks
transported to the front yard by the decorative crab apples,
sweet peas vine and take over,
and creepy charlies, flowers so tiny
they fit in my Barbie Dolls' hands--
I collect purple clover, suck their honey,
and search for honeysuckle, I think I smell it
there are cat graves in the deep poison ivy and slugs
stone crosses sunken
and dad says that the body has moved
closer to the leaf pile where the worms thrive
One little oak tree that I planted--trunk so slight
grown under big oak's branches.
There are fairies everywhere. In the violets
by the water hose, in the branches--
this yard, years and years of composted magic
growth, awakening, and escape.
If I could catch fireflies, I would get a wish
if a butterfly landed on me, I would be lucky,
if I saved the rabbits my cat throated, I would be a hero
a square of green filled with artifacts and stories
not just a place to do laundry and sit before the mosquitos get too bad
or answer a phone conversation when you need privacy
change, I want back my wonderland.


What the hell, I'm still up. Unto April 11th

napowrimo #11: seen any good movies lately?

Old movies. Name three. Pick one, research it, remember it, use it as an extended metaphor in a poem. Here is a poem for inspiration from Poetry Daily.

You get bonus points if you can name the movies mentioned. Extra, extra bonus points if you use the same movies in a poem of your own! (Points not redeemable, but very cool to have in one’s poetry pocket nonetheless!)

Friends make good lovers
when there aren't any others
to have,having meaning to hold,
to mold and the to be.
Hell, give me the ring
I'm waited so long
I have calluses on my dreams.
my haunting came behind and closed
the telephone talks,  his  knowing the inside
of a female without having to be intimate.
All friends are laced with chemical properties
enhancements emerge enchantments
possibilities and probabilities.
The more hungry I am
the anything I'll take and water my buds
So I think of you as a helpful gardener
with many books that talk of parasites
what to do, what soapy mixture to apply, how to fix
I imagine your hands over mine as
 I sit drinking a coffee with too much cream
stirring and settling . I'd like more sugar
I honestly would, but is it worth getting up to ask for
When I could just have you?

For April 10th, an hour late
Found poem is the exercise. I found this phrase from a google book, some important differences exist between human vision.

So here goes it

Some important differences exist between human vision
clouds tainted with the craft of fireworks
jammed with smoke and splinters and the screams of children
who feel like jelly eyes exploding--
that woman over there sees lavender sprigs entwined with night
and that man hears the loud boom of a bomb too close to the ground
Lawnchairs with spiderwebs between the cracks
and spiders are struggling to make babies
tiny eggs to hatch on some tired American's shoulders.
"Look at that one. Isn't it pretty." The radio plays sentimental USA
and we pretend to remember the lyrics, "So proud to be an American cause at least I know I'm free."
Free and all my library books are tagged radical.
Hmmm. Beer and chipsand sips of patriotism.
Here let me take your picture, see your practiced smile
yes we're proud, yes we are, or yes we are for this day.
Stars against a blue background or navy or just dark
they are drowned tonight. Suble traces floating behind canon fire.


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