Poem a day #25 is a response to prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: 1) Write a love and/or anti-love poem and 2) write a poem that explores a small, defined space.
Comforted by your stilted laughter
I linger too long, recall our song
issued over coffee-shop chatting,
our crooked grins splatting after.
Shoulder to shoulder our heads still smarting; you consume the comic
books only to kill time before starting
the car. Horn blaring in the street
you are raring to go. I stand by,
a victim of such harmless violence.
Yet, my anger fumes at what I will
never tidy or knot neatly in a bow.
So tilting off the fence I leave dust
in your pocket for you to never find.
Poem a day #24 is a response to prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: 1) write a faith poem, and 2) write an ekphrastic poem. I am poeming about The Luncheon Of The Boating Party by Pierre Auguste Renoir.
In this luncheon gathering, I see no meal.
Straight to the bottles, my eyes are cushioned
in grape bunches, multi-color fruit reflected
in tints, well ripened amidst a messy table
top and conversation. All cloth napkins fall
askew, creating textures that mirror white
lace fringing the lady dresses, men muscles
showing from shirts and summer jackets.
Violet gowned girls lean in, elbows poised
to talk and listen to after lunch gossip,
as if fueled and fed to the hilt with only
wine, grapes, and warm summer wind.
Poem a day #23 is a response to prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: 1) Take the phrase “Last (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem, and 2) write a double elevenie, an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem.
Air is expelled
Honey seeps in
The heart expands
Love travels upstream
Poem a day #22 is a response to prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: 1) Write a fable poem, and 2) write a georgic. The original georgic poem was written by Virgil, and while it was ostensibly a practical and instructional guide regarding agricultural concerns, it also offers political commentary on the use of land in the wake of war.
Like the global specter that haunted Marx
I walk the path of blind historic deeds.
Whimpering feet flailing among the reeds
still sing lost lullabies in napping sparks
while my arduous steps can’t calm my rush
cause toes to cringe against shoe battling orbs.
Yet high on mountain lakes, my heart absorbs
time pass amidst a blue-green placid hush.
Once I held you and built a bridge to end
the feud between us, at whatever cost.
Like dirty pigeons from the city lost,
we blinked at the moon, as if it could mend
creases carved deep in our sequestered berth
blend the front lines into a single earth.
Poem a day #21 is a response to prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: 1) Pick an object (any object), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem., and 2) write a poem that incorporates overheard speech.
What I know
No longer mere comfort
sleepers still tucked in
under their blankets
suckling on dreams
of their mothers
Warm peat bog smells
have gone silent
the kitchen rattles
hearth and kettle fume
Gray steals the red
of the dawn
rips through blue hue
Hope charred on a stick
a tumor I can’t remove
I wrench my neck
as if I could hear
just the lull of a Sunday game
spread wide through the dark
driving us home to Hoboken
I dream up those first leg-striped
boys, who once divided the park
into diamonds, playing for fathers
mothers setting early dinner tables
in one packed row house or another
their ears always keen to the street.
I could create another bridge
to forgetting, leave behind
ageless eyes that still wrinkle
with past mistakes, that twinkle
anger into mean jokes and jabs.
I am singed in small tokens
of loss that still seep tinged
in some fading rainy gray kiss.
Touch to an elbow held back
I kneel to smell the damp
watch my neighbor slip home
from the night shift looking
for medicinal sips like shoe
polish to shine the morning
before sleep, how I did as a child
surfacing my father’s bureau nosy
to locate his smell: minty
inhaler, crisp handkerchief
the dangling of pocket change
how I always knew it was him.