Read Write Poem’s challenge #93, The Big Whopper, didn’t come easy. What would I never do? This.
The Vamp Is Singing
It’s on a bet
that I take
to the scarred old stage
and sing up my inner vamp.
With smoke all around me
like a kiss on a frog,
I become what I’m not,
and the notes
come out blue,
and the words sultry.
Even the clatter
at the pool table
can be taken
for applause.
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ReadWritePoem #92 was a Wordle prompt. I decided to try American sentences for this one. Technically, these aren’t American sentences, although each note contains 17 (+ or -) syllables .
Field Notes
i.
Belled cat stares at patch of sun. Small movement. Small chime. Patch flickers and flees.
ii.
Two gnats circle in pillar of sunshine. One leaf falls through the limelight.
iii.
Like a hip scofflaw, snail extends its foot and jaywalks across window.
iv.
Heavy air conforms to hill’s contours; no breezy confections aswirl.
v.
Black cat glides through garden, warbler in jaws. Bell remedy didn’t work.
Do any of you have Google Voice? It is pretty cool because it will make a transcript of your voice mail messages and send the transcript to your email. The transcripts are often imperfect, but they do have their own poetry. The day after we arrived in Istanbul, I received this transcript.
The poem that will appear on an Albuquerque bus – Where Will You Walk Today? – was part of my NaPoWriMo work in April. In case you aren’t on an Albuquerque bus, you can read it here.
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Read Write Poem #89: It Came from the News. The challenge was to write a poem inspired by a headline. This headline came from the New York Times, August 23, 2009. I loved the prompt, but I don’t like the poem yet. For one thing, I’m having a hard time with its grammar. Where does a sentence begin and end? What’s a comma for? Should a poem have sentences, commas?
A Cul-de-Sac of Lost Dreams
Here they are
with their houses
and lawns,
each different
yet identical,
the ones who wanted
to be
when they grew up,
swirling in an eddy
of obligation
like flecks of gold
in a stream
waiting
for the prospector
and his riffled pan.
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The weekly prompt from Read Write Poem was to choose a vowel and play with it until you got a poem. Here is what I got.
Ode to U
You
are the open cup
of language.
In your
crucible,
you
transform
one word
into another.
What would
house be
without you?
Or suit,
or lieu,
or you?
You
make
sense
of Q.
You
are the sound
we turn to
when we are
unsure,
dumbfounded,
bemused.
You
are the hum
of unencumbered
contentment.
Happiness
bubbles up
from your lip.
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This poem follows Read Write Poem Prompt #86 from poet Dorianne Laux. The challenge was to write a 23 line autobiographical poem using the format of “Pokeberries” by Ruth Stone. I don’t think this one is finished, but it is Thursday, so here we go.
Footloose
Even back then I was wont to escape,
to climb the elm tree, toes gripping the bark,
and settle into the branches with a book;
or to swim laps at the town pool
until a trail of bubble and spray
foamed up behind my flutter kick;
or pedal through the flat fields
of corn and beans and hogs.
That prairie stretched for miles,
and everything depended on my feet.
Then, like fledglings, we all left.
Dad died, and Mom moved to the city.
My brother went to work,
and I went to the desert.
But I cannot settle down.
I have one house here, another there,
lives in two countries, and worse,
one of my cities straddles
two continents as if to drive home
the point of this footloose life:
When I wander the world, I wish for roots.
When I put up my feet and rest,
I wish for fins and wings.
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Visit A Handful of Stones to see ideas for a rainy afternoon.
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This poem was inspired by Read Write Poem Prompt #83: use as many or as few of the following words as you want. I used heart, slump, and sky. Loiter became linger, and flaming became flares.
________________________________________________________
The Terrace
It seems pretentious
to call what we did
landscaping,
cleaning the neglected yard,
shaping its slumped surface,
fitting flat stones into a small terrace.
A few plants soften the edges
of its heart in which we now linger
watching the slow pulse of traffic
and the shimmer of heat
beyond the shadows.
Overhead, the sky is blue,
but sunset flares behind us,
and night is on the horizon.
Here is the information about the 2009 Poets and Writers Picnic in Mountainair. I will be one of the readers at the picnic, and a participant in the Sunflower Poetry Writing Workshop. Everyone is welcome, so come on down!
I am honored to have a poem on Fiona Robyn’s site, A Handful of Stones, today. Take time to browse her site; it is full of lovely surprises.
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