From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
At break of day the College Portress came
This is the place. Stand still, my steed
The mist is resting on the hill
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough
I remember, it was a morning, in summer
In this war we're always moving
Poem a day #28 is a response to prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: 1) Write “sight” poem and 2) write a concrete poem is one in which the lines are shaped in a way that mimics the topic of the poem.
One can’t but see from Central Park its new neighbor towering above it seems so lonely teetering in wind the sky still blue yet dark clouds hover making one wonder if here close to earth is not better than flying close to heaven.
Poem a day #25 is a response to prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: 1) Write a “responsive” poem, and (2) write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live.
To that woman sitting on her stoop her face toothless
and small she smiles shyly with lonely eyes as I walk
Poem a day #24 is a response to prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: 1) Write a “superhero or supervillain” poem, and (2) write a poem in which you describe something with a hard-boiled simile.
You arrive at my door like a ticking time bomb in a box
Super hero or villain you rest clueless, a bird on a fallen wire
a squirrel pacing a fence while tramps rummage through trash
I call this place my home like a rat snuggling the rafters
a burned down ruin deaf, dumb and blind to your charms
Poem a day #21 is a response to prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: 1) Write a “sound” poem, and (2) write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.
I remember the sound of your footsteps on the ceiling above me as I waited for your return to bed after hours twiddling with contraptions to make the world slow down
I wondered what happened in the attic if your designs were only in your head. I thought I heard things cranking there. Or may be they were down on paper
sketched then copied in blue as if to share I made those prints often in multiples the whir and crank of a gigantic machine
it spit out the smell of ammonia, a stinging scent saturating all my clothes, memories for years to come. I recall the Scream
on the museum wall also inflated to large and small, even worn as a mask. Is sending a print or post card ever enough?