It's Always Something

In Memory of Dad 17 January 1905 - February 11, 1985

2012-02-11T22:54:00.000-08:00

Twenty-Seven years ago today
Dad slipped away
In a manner not to his custom…
Quietly, with little fanfare. We’d fluttered
in and out of the room
saying goodbyes and laying our cheeks
next to his
unwilling to let him go yet granting him
his leave
because it was the noble
thing to do.
When he was gone my brother
keened and I
gathered sheets
and made mom tea.

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River Stone

2012-01-31T21:55:00.000-08:00

stones in the river

gone for the ocean…

like words that I search

to remember this time,

this place;

senses seeking

one stark obsession.

Calling Stone

2012-01-30T21:47:00.001-08:00

Call me out across the field
With abandon you will
Arrive upon my crumbling step
At last
We’ll close the door
Behind us
Just for the day

Memory Stone

2012-01-29T22:46:00.001-08:00

There were things on Kathryn’s table;
I knew each small pile had a story.
I could have stayed all night to listen.

Book Stone

2012-01-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

I found these books for you today
I tried to tell the man about our past
He’d heard it all before

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Missing Stone

2012-01-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

I gasped and it
Felt like something inside me went missing
But
I looked around and
Everything was accounted for

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January 27

Hope Stone

2012-01-26T20:03:00.000-08:00

I stand there for you
I stand
Listening for sweet sounds
Anticipation
Keeps me anxious for
Another time

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Blooming Stone

2012-01-25T21:16:00.000-08:00

Where did our baby go?
The girl who comes in her place
Doesn’t give respite…
It’s constant transformation;
Childhood dueling with time.

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Cat Stone

2012-01-24T22:11:00.001-08:00

My apologies:
Once a jungle cat
Now Familiar to a
Nascent diva

Tree Stone

2012-01-23T21:13:00.000-08:00

This…
Is why I live here:
The green outdoes
The blue
Outdoes
The green
It’s what they do.

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Girl Stone

2012-01-22T22:04:00.001-08:00

wonder of small worlds
eyes large
dreams immeasurable
future unlimited
endowed with no bounds

The Children Have Gone Home

2012-01-22T12:02:00.000-08:00

Everywhere are little things;
Broken crayons, stiffened paintbrushes,
coats of glue on the table.
Pink princesses and odd shaped horses
taped to doors, windows.
Papers scribbled black, blue or brown,
Just a blob of color but…hello…
Now the children have gone home.

Bits of yarn, yellow and frayed
Wanted to be on a doll’s head but abandoned for
some noisy distraction on television.
Train tracks scattered under the dining table
and at the bottom of the stairs,
A once lost locomotive, a well worn caboose,
Easy to trip on but…hello…
Now the children have gone home.

Brushes and combs with goo and sprays;
ribbons and elastic ties in a maze;
Basket upended with bottles and pots;
bathmat a dampened mess on the floor.
Toilet lid up, then down, then up again;
Doors slammed, drawers crammed,
Streaks on the once spotless mirror but…hello…
Now the children have left; where have they gone?

Petals of flowers dried on the rail;
A red bow tied on the dog’s tail;
The cat finding refuge under the bed;
water bowls tipped and spilled on the kitchen floor.
The fridge door left open again and again;
Piles of towels and clothes, dirty or clean;
Bees left buzzing in jelly jars but…hello…
Now the children have gone home.

Rusted sleds in the basement;
Mittens with moth holes;
Jackets hung in the back of the closet,
Forgotten there by glistening boys and girls.
Trikes and bikes with hardened flats;
Pogo sticks and hula hoops.
Shovels and sand pails;
Wooden boats without sails,
Meant to come back to, but…hello…
Now the children have gone home

Yearbooks and primers gather dust.
Hairless dolls not to be tossed;
Comics and photos that won’t be lost.
Boxes dragged out with crumbling toys,
paint dulled and chipped
on trucks and puzzles
For children who gather where children have aged.
Don’t miss a moment or wish they’d be still because now…
Hello…
The children have gone home.

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Lingering Stone

2012-01-21T22:10:00.001-08:00

She knows how to wait
Let the sea be the lullaby
Patience is the core of the faithful heart

Youth Stone

2012-01-20T20:34:00.000-08:00

When I was young
I dramatized being old and wise
My hair was dyed silver.
Now I carefully pretend my hair is brown
And scratch the surface of memory
For who I was.

Flight Stone

2012-01-19T19:01:00.000-08:00

Two birds.
I followed their course as
They faded in the haze...
And could have been saying
“Oh, for the want of wings.”

Sledding Stone

2012-01-18T21:54:00.000-08:00

Feathers falling
Sticking to the earth
Making pillows to slide down

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Homeward Stone

2012-01-18T20:51:00.000-08:00

I must make it home tonight
Clouds are full of dragons and ice
Shining pavement
Carves my way
I can hear a kind of warmth
Calling me

JANUARY 17
(Before the snow)

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Dream Stone

2012-01-16T09:42:00.000-08:00

Dignity in the eyes of a dream
Truth at the end of the day
Relentless hope
Persistent optimism
Some things won’t be undone

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Snow Stone

2012-01-15T09:00:00.000-08:00

Quiet softness
Broken only by crunching travelers
Who must go out
Into the white

Zarathustra Stone

2012-01-14T08:17:00.000-08:00

Given the battle of the natural world
I touched upon the lightness of being
Life in C major
The joy of perfect intervals

Sunset Stone

2012-01-14T07:39:00.001-08:00

The sun is in the water
My feet are in the clouds

Road Stone

2012-01-12T11:19:00.000-08:00

I leave again
Always leaving somewhere
Taking with me
The things I lug around
Painted on the pedestal
That roots me where I land

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Big Stone

2012-01-12T07:27:00.000-08:00

I write stones
You send boulders
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Luna Stone

2012-01-12T07:23:00.000-08:00

Now I see the moon
Until tonight
The sky was vacant

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Rose Stone

2012-01-09T17:19:00.000-08:00

Symbols sit behind us
Vows and curses the ticket for admission
Old jokes and tales ride the night
Secrets unveiled

Sand Stone

2012-01-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

Black sand of Sayulita
clings to me
can’t wash it away

Moon Stone

2012-01-07T18:57:00.001-08:00

There it is again
It followed me, I suppose…
Better to not try
hide
from the moon.

Jungle Stone

2012-01-07T08:05:00.001-08:00

The night distillery
Takes the nectar from my heart
Ferments the sweetness
Into remembrances

Road Stone

2012-01-05T21:25:00.000-08:00

My teeth gritty with dust...
the ocean whispers
rolling by on the left;
the other side
is the river
full of stones

Time Stone

2012-01-05T14:48:00.001-08:00

With eyes closed
What comes back…
My youth
Lingering like a perfume
The music
Never changing, never the same

Music Stone

2012-01-03T21:15:00.000-08:00

Vagabond notes
Call it music
Where anyone can listen
Sing off key
Anyone can listen

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Landing Stone

2012-01-02T21:08:00.000-08:00

Just down that wing
If I slide
I could land in your sand
Take your hand
Fly
Your way

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Cloud Stone

2012-01-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

Clouds
like smoke rings
beneath me.
Fall through them
Like O's

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Feliz y Prospero Año

2011-12-30T20:21:00.000-08:00

I shall be spending New Year's Eve in Puerto Vallarta and starting January 1st will participate in the River of Stones, few words of observations, little stones in the river. I am excited to spend the first 12 days gathering stones from old friends and favorite places. Then return to Seattle to figure out how to get back to paradise again.

Thank you for reading.

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Waiting for Christmas

2011-12-03T12:18:00.000-08:00

I
If the absent proprietor neglects the trussed up trees much longer
they will be no good for Christmas…
their arms pressed so tight to dark middle
crippled-like, unable to relax, unfold;
Sad branches unwilling to be adorned
and support shiny stars from tinseled fingers.

Soon needles
compressed, suffocating
will turn color
shed
thin in some places
thicken in others
no longer suitable for Christmas
not fitting for joy, pleasure, presentation

A smell will emit
once pleasing
now akin to casualty, rotting from inside to out
no longer cedar, pine, life
instead mold, must, morose

II
They called you Mr. Christmas
pride, splendor, wit
those were your gifts
given and got
some things made so much difference to you
new to your journey
you embraced those traditions and transitions
made them your own

III
Ornament collections now like key chains;
Full of questions, vagaries, whimsies, loss.

IV
A live tree or a fake?
One is not alive
having been cut down and bound like an animal
and the other is still a tree
neither is it alive
How steadfast, how loyal are the branches
How steadfast, how loyal are the branches

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NOT, ACTUALLY

2011-11-30T12:08:00.000-08:00

It’s the late 1960’s. Robin, a pregnant runaway in Los Angeles meets Davey, a darling British boy who happens to be gay. Davey proposes marriage to Robin so he can stay in the US and work; continue his relationship with Enrique, the son of a Venezuelan diplomat; and Robin can keep the baby she has pledged to give up for adoption. To muddle their lives and create complications of the ordinary and inane, Robin engages in an adventurous relationship with a dancer who turns out to be enormously wealthy but less available as time goes on. Robin and her friends, who live together in a house by MacArthur Park, become involved in the sticky web of Scientology, connive against the INS and protest the war in Viet Nam. NOT, ACTUALLY takes place at the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, when young people grew up quickly, altered the world they lived in and changed the meaning of innocence.

Black Friday

2011-11-25T10:27:00.000-08:00

Giving their thanks with no ordinary feast
Americans from coast to coast
Shamelessly devour food enough to cause complaint,
Which quite often puts them to sleep
So they may
Store energy for the equally traditional
Black Friday shopping on the following day,
When consumers boost the country’s economy
And push the red ink over the line,
Turning it magically to black.

Doorbuster Deals to entice the post-Thanksgiving shoppers
Was not a concept taken seriously by Jdimypai Damour
Until the entrance bulged, snapped and overflowed
With eager New Yorkers
At the darkened hour of 5 a.m.
Seeking a most important supreme Christmas gift.

The blood and bones of Jdimypai Damour
Remained on the floor
Of the Wal-Mart store
As checkers scanned the treasures of holiday shoppers,
Who went back home to eat leftover turkey sandwiches
With chilled cranberry sauce,
And watch the 6’o’clock news
Of the California shootings that left
Two people dead in the aisles of Toys-R-Us,
For the sake of one sought after toy,
Giving new meaning to Loss leader.

(Based on actual events Black Friday 2008)

Thank you for reading.

Awake in the Mid Night

2011-11-20T12:10:00.001-08:00

The moon
A crescent
Rolled over on its back
You could toss your hat in the air
Land it on the chin of that moon
To say hello to me

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The Secret Life of Jasmin Garcia Guadalupe

2011-11-08T11:40:00.000-08:00

The Secret Life of Jasmin Garcia Guadalupe

Halfway down the steps close to the church
behind the merceria
where she bought thread in late afternoon
after she tells her papi her stockings need mending,
Jasmin Garcia Guadalupe
spreads her skirt into a fan,
folds it across her behind
first left, then right,
this for a little cushion
keeps her tender skin
from the dusty, cracked cement.

Her lips gather the corner of one small plastic bag
filled with water, nectar, jarabe,
sucks like a baby.

Leans her cheek on warm rough wall
watches buses rumble below,
going places she will never know.
Jasmin Garcia Guadalupe
dreams of a seat
in the window
of the big blue bus...
Jesus painted on the back
arms spread wide
oversized palms
with rusty centers.
Jasmin would say
if anyone asked her
that the Bus Jesus says
“Why follow me?”
eyes rolled up to heaven
oily black smoke blowing out his feet.

Lovers steal kisses in shadows;
Señora Diego leans out her window, pulls at her moustache;
niños plucking mangos over a broken fence…
juice runs down their chins, between fingers,
laughing, cussing, shoving, “Animo!”

Ignacio makes the knees of Jasmin Garcia Guadalupe tremble;
bent weary, he comes up the stairs,
work shirt thrown over shoulder
dangling from wiry hanger
he keeps it spotless 'til he gets to the sizzling café.
Ignacio's undershirt with soaking armpits
so white the sun lives in it.

He comes to where the girl sits
whose father would like to kill him,
and stops to find his breath.

“You are the delicious peach.
I think to sink my teeth into your skin.
I think to lick your seed.”

Ignacio passes,
Jasmin shivers,
church bells clang.

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SEVEN WAVES

2011-09-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

On Labor Day Monday I can acknowledge that I have momentarily put my labors to rest. After months of editing, my novel is ready for the scrutinizing eye of the eager agent. The title, having been changed from MOZO to SEVEN WAVES, takes on a bit of a new light with this identity.

Here is the pitch I gave at the PNWA Conference:

Rachel Lawrence is a woman without a midlife crisis. Married young to the right man, mother of successful adult children, her life is financially secure -- Rachel leads an enviable existence. Without warning, circumstances rip her stable foundation away, forcing Rachel to rethink her identity and future. Rachel moves restlessly between Seattle and Puerto Vallarta, discovering the full scope of her options until she makes a well considered decision to live in Mexico. She is wise enough to recognize danger at sight, but human enough to follow her passions as she witnesses violence, deceit and the upheaval of a cultural core. As she stands on her balcony on the Mexican Riviera, watching the small tour boats turning toward shore -- "It is the seventh wave that will bring you in " -- Rachel realizes that she must develop her own instinctive timing to navigate the years ahead.

No, it is NOT autobiographical. I have, of course, been able to write this story because of my own experiences living and loving in Mexico.

I’m excited to announce that I’ve begun to work on my next novel and long to devote my waking hours in front of my computer as I once was able to do. Alas, that is not possible at this time in my own personal story. But I fervently believe in myself and remained convinced that a change gonna come, oh yes it will.

Recently JK Rowling told her readership “No story lives unless someone wants to listen – so thank you, all of you.” A woman of great wisdom, that one.

I cannot give enough thanks to Enoch Anderson for his diligent and faithful editing. To my friends who have read SEVEN WAVES and commented, criticized, added, deleted, I am infinitely grateful. Your enthusiasm and encouragement have given me the boost I’ve needed to convince myself of the worthiness of this project and the possibilities that await my future.
Thank you for reading.

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PNWA Conference, Poetry and Prose

2011-08-06T22:00:00.001-07:00

Last three days spent at PNWA Conference in Bellevue. Left early tonight so I could spend the evening with my girl. Daughter Number Two took all three kids to the Lake City Pioneer Day’s parade so we could have some time. We parked ourselves at some little bistro in Juanita and covered many wine fueled subjects including my aforementioned conference. I have great hopes for the contacts I have made and feel a certain contract by the end of the year. New name for the book is Seven Waves, which is receiving good reviews. Major highlight of the conference was the discovery of Gary Copeland Lilley, of whom I heard lectures regarding poetry and prose and how well they work together. I am looking forward to taking a workshop from him in the future. Putting my novel away for a couple years and concentrating on my poetry had an impact on my writing in the most constructive way. Also tonight Emily and I discussed the tragedy we witnessed on July 24th (my stone of July 27th). I will long remember the feeling of knowing I was in the presence of a leaving at that time. I am convinced that when death comes so suddenly, souls linger in confusion. You don’t need religion to teach you that.

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River of Stones

2011-07-31T22:17:00.001-07:00

Thirty-one stones
In the river were tossed
This bird has flown
Another bridge crossed

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Family Stone

2011-07-30T18:44:00.000-07:00

Two feet
Two countries
One heart
Many children

Mother Stone

2011-07-29T08:27:00.000-07:00

You called Dad the main spoke in our wheel.
You were the axle; you didn’t know that?
I dreamed of you again last night,
This morning I reached for the phone.
You must be somewhere.

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Low Stone

2011-07-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

Inertia
Surfaces, then vanishes;
Reappears
Some days are like that…

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Grave Stone

2011-07-27T12:49:00.000-07:00

I heard your name on the radio this morning
It rendered me cold
I was there when you flew

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Stone Half-a-Year-Ago-Today

2011-07-26T19:42:00.000-07:00

It was a bus ride
Through clouds of dust
You
Out of nowhere

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Stone Twenty-Five

2011-07-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

This thunder
Like feeble tapping on summer back door
Reminding me of tempests I love;
This rain
A dribble that cannot measure up

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Tragic Stone

2011-07-24T08:48:00.000-07:00

World events
Minimize my grievances
I embrace loved ones
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Borders Stone

2011-07-23T22:24:00.000-07:00

A bird can land anywhere,
Fly where his whims take him
Not so man

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Morning Stone

2011-07-22T12:00:00.001-07:00

Sidewalk corner
Dog scratches belly
Man scratches chin
Look both ways
Let a new day begin

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Weather Stone

2011-07-21T21:29:00.000-07:00

thermostats rise
twenty perish; while the heat takes breath away…
my corner of the planet
chills

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Stones and Dragonflies

2011-07-20T19:34:00.000-07:00

Dragonfly against the morning fog
Visits my window screen
A thousand eyes
Say
Be kind, be wise
Gets me through a hazy day

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Progress Stone

2011-07-20T07:07:00.000-07:00

Abandoned malls
where
in my childhood.
peach groves
flourished
This is progress

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News Stone

2011-07-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

“meat cooked in an approved kitchen”
food vendors can now sell on the street
commence with some serious bitchin’
imagine your taco with pre-cooked meat
.
Morning news announced Seattle legal eagles have finally approved street vendors with food carts. They must, however, have their meat cooked in an “approved kitchen.” And -- can only be located 50 feet from an established restaurant. Is there any commercial street in Seattle that doesn’t already have three restaurants competing with one another, with over-priced victuals on miniscule plates? Buena suerte, vendedores.

Sister Stone

2011-07-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

This day
Forty-one and thirty-five years ago
Anticipation
Baby girls
Dutch twins.

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Cold Stone

2011-07-17T21:46:00.000-07:00

Wind chill factor
Coming in from the east
Getting blanes from
Your cold shoulder

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Dark Stone

2011-07-16T23:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight,
It was a crow
Fried in the power line;
Normal life pauses, resumes.
Crows mourn.

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Stone Song

2011-07-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

If I were a song
Tonight I’d be Calling You
Across that lonely dry expanse
Of my thirsty past

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Ticking Stone

2011-07-14T22:41:00.000-07:00

The blaze at the end
Is just the speed of life
The sonic BOOM of
One
Clock
Ticking

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Moon Stone

2011-07-13T21:53:00.000-07:00

Hangs like a balloon
Shines like a spoon
Makes us swoon
Act like a buffoon
Sing a silly tune
The moon
I wish for you the moon

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Stone Recalled

2011-07-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

Recalling a song
You came to mind
Like a déjà vu
Forgotten dream
Familiar scent down the hall

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Poetry Stone

2011-07-11T08:35:00.001-07:00

Adore poetry simple:
Give me a message,
Tear open the heart,
Spill your beans,
Grovel, swoon, fart.

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Love Stone

2011-07-10T18:36:00.000-07:00

I’d stand on my head
Feet in the clouds
Walk upside down
Love inside out
What I’d do for you

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Sad Stone

2011-07-09T08:48:00.000-07:00

I thought you were crying,
But it was just play.
I wish you’d truly cry,
So I could comfort you.

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Space Stone

2011-07-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

Implacable roar of majestic rockets
Deafens with finality
Flawless lift off

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Cloudy Stone

2011-07-07T08:13:00.000-07:00

Like sad drooping shoulders
The clouds are back
We’ll make our own sunshine

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Missing Stone

2011-07-06T08:55:00.001-07:00

I remember Mama
Shared jokes, cigarettes, drama
The esquina, never the same
Adios to the lady of red dress fame

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Grant Eric Hunermund RIP
April 20, 1960 - July 6, 2011
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Pick Up Your Trash. Say Thank You.

2011-07-05T08:52:00.001-07:00

Pleading the 5th
Forgetting manners
Conduct unbecoming

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Liberty Stone

2011-07-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

‘Her name
Mother of Exiles’
Sighs
Lowers torch and
Strains to hold open the sunset gates

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Flat Stone

2011-07-03T22:11:00.001-07:00

Taking the day bit by bit
Slowdown, drawn-out
Can’t rush …
Deflated takes on new meaning

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Stone Day Two

2011-07-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

Love and care and feeding
Mother’s handbook
Missing chapters

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First Stone of July

2011-07-01T19:39:00.000-07:00

Starlings are still nesting
Big fat crow comes to visit
Noise outside my summer window

My Petunias, a Rest Stop

2011-06-01T09:24:00.001-07:00

While bitter complaints run rampant in other communities
Neighborhoods of Starlings don’t much mind the rain
They tear into my pansies and infant tomato plants
As if to avenge some unforgotten rude offense
Yet the Hummingbird makes an appearance
So fleeting as to nearly be missed
My petunias, a rest stop
A taste of honey
In a busy day

Rest Then

2011-04-30T21:13:00.001-07:00

This is a repeat from last year. Because it is the last day of the month, the last day of the poetry challenge; because I worked a 9 hour day and am fending off an evil bacteria that seems to be attacking my sinuses; because it is a Saturday night and I must give up the ghost and head for the hay; because my poetry nickel is spent...I present a poem some missed in last year's posting. Thanks for reading.

Rest Then

Your hands with all their sadness,
Cradled in your lap,
Have long toiled honestly your entire life;
It’s time to rest then.

You pushed with mighty strength,
Expelled from your body
An entire human being with an uncontrolled destiny;
So you can rest then.

Your legs pumped with relentless vigor,
Drawn from unknown depths
And the victory is yours now;
You can rest then.

Your heart sang like the thrush,
A sacred melody of love until your very bones
Ached with joy;
It’s your turn to rest then.

You fought the unknown enemy
In darkness seared with only blinding light.
Weariness takes you in its arms
And you can rest then.

You gave,
And found the resources to give more.
You never relented and encouraged others to go on
Take time to rest then.

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The Headlines

2011-04-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

Today is the second to the last day of the PAD challenge. Thank you to everyone who has read my poems this month. I’ll be posting again in July for the River of Stones (very short poems that reflect the doings of the day.)

April 29, 2011

Write a poem using today’s headlines as a prompt.

Butterflies passed through Alabama yesterday
Elsewhere wedding veils were being prepared
And subjects slept on pavement
With beds left cold
The sun rose in the morning
A tornado with two minutes warning
Left wings shred
And a prince was wed
More people died
In faraway Iran
Football fans booed
Crowds listened to Ryan’s plan
Someplace the weather was good.
Some babies struggle to survive
While one proves birth in doubt
Astronauts don colorful suits
Prepare for a blast
A blind sea lion seeks residence
Two convictions rest on evidence
Rape victims request peace at last.

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Espérame

2011-04-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

Today's prompt is to write a poem while pretending to translate from another language. Since I have the choice whether to follow the prompt or post a different creation of my own, I have chosen to give you Espérame, a poem actually written in a different language. I won't pretend I have perfect Spanish skills either.

Espérame
Ti, la magica en mi selva
Ti, las mensajes en los nubes
Ti, los cuchicheos en el viento
Ti, el dulce en el beso
Espérame
Ti, la promesa en mis sueños
Ti, mis canciones en la noche
Ti, la risa en la lluvia, la risa grande, la risa pequeña
Espérame, espérame
Ti, la fuerza en mi mar
Ti, el champaña en mi cabeza
Ti, la miel en mi luna
Ti, el amor que se queda en mi alma
Ti, ti, ti…
Espérame….

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NO

2011-04-27T20:44:00.000-07:00

Write a poem using your least favorite word.

No.
No, you can’t.
No, that’s not possible.
No. That’s just not the way it is.
No. We are closed.
No. I don’t have the money.
No. You can’t win.
No parking.
No talking.
No shoes, no shirt, no service.
No, you’re too late.
No…you’re too early.
No, there’s not enough.
No, you can’t go.
No, you can’t stay.
No. You can’t come.
No. You must go.
No dogs allowed.
No children allowed.
No smoking.
No, it’s too short.
No…it’s not short enough.
No. You can’t have it.
No show.
No mercy.
No, it’s not yours.
No, it’s mine.
No way out.
No dice.
No shit.
No, it’s too dark.
No. It’s not dark enough.
No noise.
No doubt.
No excuses.
No girls.
No boys.
No reservations.
No wind.
No rain.
No…you’re wrong.
No. It’s not right.
No, that’s incorrect.
No, you must be mistaken.
No, that’s your perception.
No, I don’t see it that way.
No one.
No nonsense.
No, it’s done.
No. It’s not finished.
No.
No. No. No.
No.

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January 26, 2011

2011-04-26T22:08:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to use spam from my junk mail to write a poem today but I don’t have any…(“greetings of said porphyry unicorn proposal” from “Honor Hornwoofter” was part of the suggestion.)
Instead I decided to go back to exactly three months ago and a stone that I wrote on that day, which never got in to the River of Stones (knowing how way leads on to way...) I started to turn it into a longer poem and then realized que es como es. (It is what it is.)

Jan 26

It was a bus ride
Through clouds of dust
You
Out of nowhere

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Riddle Poem

2011-04-26T12:20:00.000-07:00

The prompt for Monday April 25 is to write a Riddle Poem. Let me know if you can figure out what the answer is. Thanks for reading.

I love you, I love you
I hate you in the morning
You love me, you love me
But never give warning when
It’s a kick, it’s a kiss
It’s a kiss, it’s a kick
And the ride, and the danger
The thrill, the contentment
The rose and the thorn
The pain and resentment
You arrive with a pop
And leave with a thud
You twist my words
You mess with my blood
Sometimes you’re a brut
At times I’m a lady
Sometimes we’re in love
Other times we’re just lazy.
The law can get after you
Your alias betrays you
Illegal or lawful
You make me crazy

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Easter's Posting

2011-04-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

Easter Sunday, the challenge is to write an autobiographical poem.

With my belly full of restless child
I paid the closest attention to
Rose as she held my hands, palms
up, gazed from my face to the lines and creases
and back again.
Spoke of visions of cowboys and sailors,
called my life a circus in three rings and said
“you rely on your children too much.”
She later, when asked, corrected this wording to say
“dote. devote. give. too. much.”
I was 26 then
and weeks later would birth my first planned child
one of the only things I planned in my life.
How could this little gypsy lady,
wizened, wrinkled, rasping,
have known?
and I would discount one and then another;
end up here in some other springtime
still full of wonder.
Still surprised.

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Bouts-rimes Sonnet

2011-04-23T18:42:00.000-07:00

Today’s prompt is to write a bouts-rimes. The bouts-rimes is a sort of poetic parlor game: you write a poem using the rhyming end words from another poem. They’re usually done with sonnets in English. So today I challenge you to write a bouts-rimes sonnet, using the end words from either K. Silem Mohammad’s poem You White White Teatime Teen, which was itself constructed anagrammatically from Shakespeare’s The Silken Tent. My end words are: rage, doom, age, tomb , sighs, breast, thighs, west, mad, blues, plaid, shoes, fail, mail

My skin betrays me in its apathetic rage
While I face my future with a sense of doom
I cannot deny although I detest my age,
I’ll hold beyond arm’s length the sight of tomb;
Though witness conceited youth with heaving sighs
And those I nurtured at now withered breast,
Weary sit with elbows propped on tired thighs;
Watch while autumn sun drops in the west.
Some think and perhaps are right that I am mad
But I think suffer from a simple case of blues;
Cast away all things laced, buttoned and plaid,
Shuffle to meet you in my orthopedic shoes.
Make one thing clear, Ponce de Leon must not fail
To send me drops of elixir in the mail.

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Double Dactyl

2011-04-22T16:36:00.000-07:00

The double-dactyl is a short verse form invented by the American poets Anthony Hecht and John Hollander in 1966. The poem consists of one sentence containing forty-four syllables that are distributed over eight lines and fall into two four-line stanzas. The first three lines of each stanza are dactylic dimeter; the last one is a choriamb. The two stanzas end with a masculine rhyme on the last syllable of the choriamb. The final feature of the form is found in line six of the poem: a single, six-syllable word which is a double-dactyl. Most start with Hiddledy-Piggledy, but there are some variations.

Higgledy-Piggledy
The arrogant Donald
Threw his hat in the
Political briar
Be aware that Trump
Egomaniacal
Has tossed hairline into
The line of fire.
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My Cento

2011-04-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

This was a lot harder than I thought it would be and took me more than a day, so now I’m behind, when I thought I’d just caught up.
The prompt was a Cento, which is a poem composed entirely of lines from other poems. Danielle Pafunda tweeted the lines all day yesterday. The poem doesn’t need to be long and there is a grand prize for contestants at Academy of American Poets. I’ll let you know if I won! (Don’t anybody hold their breath. The competition will be stiff.)

My Cento

Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theater.
I’m drunk.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
Implicit with stars in active orbit;
Let silence drill its hole.
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A Ghazal to Love

2011-04-21T08:24:00.001-07:00

Write a Ghazal (an ancient poetry form from Persia)
Five to fifteen couplets; first couplet ends with same word, both lines; 2nd line of succeeding lines include word; include author’s name or veiled reference in the last couplet. Ghazals are traditionally passionate and erotic.

I suppose to me, you would speak of things like burning embers of love.
And I have heard you in stark moonlight sing; you sing of love.

Made for black corners and churches and empty streets and hidden cafés and lagoons
Where things are dark as pitch and no one knows our love.

You. Plunge amongst broad, dense, dripping jungle growth and leave me standing alone,
To return with armfuls of bountiful fruits, a declaration of your love.

Your sweet fingers touched my lips and I kissed your hands before you used them to wave farewell
Standing in the road, looking back where I peered through secret veils; you sang to the world, of our love.

What was truthfully being said, sung, trilled, whistled, warbled, hummed?
Did it matter anymore? This thing called love?

The ocean roared like a charging animal and deafened us and jumbled our perceptions
As we strained to understand the gibberish of what we claimed were words of love.

How long do we pay the wages of sin? The perils of a journey of passion,
Our flight to elevated stations where we interpreted our declared love.

Sing the song of memory that whispers and bellows Jodyne to the heavens, to the clouds,
To the sun and the moon, in dark or light, day and night, of whom you love.

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What Was That I Heard?

2011-04-19T22:50:00.000-07:00

Today’s challenge is to write a poem inspired by something you’ve overheard.

It was her perception
But I can tell you it was a lie
This is what I think you thought you heard
She perceived one thing and you the other
And in the middle lies the truth
Lies the truth, you say?
Indeed, her truth lies.
Perhaps you didn’t hear what you thought I said.
But I did hear quite well…
You said what you perceived she thought
Or was it what she thought you perceived you said?

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BLUE

2011-04-18T21:59:00.001-07:00

The bright Ferris wheel glinting
Against the blue, blue sky
And you caught my eye
Coming at us in your blue bibby overalls
And though I’m happy for your company
It always makes me a little blue
I s’pose it does the same to you

The prompt was to write an incantatory color poem. I worked with this one in my head all day but what I really did was go see Joyce Carol Oates this evening so my day was a little shorter than usual. What a thrill to listen to her talk.

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Everett Ruess

2011-04-17T22:35:00.000-07:00

The prompt for today is to write a portrait poem. I’ve posted Everett Ruess for the third year. The Ruess family accepted the DNA results proving the remains thought to be Everett were in fact another body but for some time it was exciting to think Everett had been found. The search continues.

Everett Ruess

Everett Ruess was found last year;
Seventy-five years after he went
Missing.
It has been concluded that
Everett found death
(Not at all what he was looking for)
At the hands of youthful Utes,
Whose luck would be to find
A white man and two mules
In the high desert, traveling with no other company but
Lofty ideals.
Everett was
Seeking gentleness,
Detaching himself from
An absolutely perfect life
(Or so some might think).
Everett wanted simply to be immersed in beauty
(Or so he said).
Everett Ruess lay dead,
At the age of twenty,
Buried by a stranger.
His saddle settled on a ledge
Above his head
For seventy-five years;
Killed for
Having gone too far alone.

Ruess was raised in Los Angeles and moved to San Francisco during the Depression. He tried to make a living with his art — cutting wood block prints and writing poetry. But even as artists like Ansel Adams and Maynard Dixon reached out to him, Ruess turned his back on city life. It drained him and left him uninspired causing him to ride off alone into the Utah wilderness, never to return.
"The beauty of this country is becoming a part of me," he once wrote in a letter, while on a trek. "I feel more detached from life and somehow gentler. I have good friends here, but no one understands why I am here and what I do. I've gone too far alone."

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Recombination

2011-04-16T08:21:00.000-07:00

The prompt is to "do an erasure or, if you like, recombination. In this case using a paragraph from Annie Dillard’s book, The Writing Life."

Recombination

“I pulled down the curtains. When I leaned over the typewriter, sparks burnt round holes in my shirt, and fire singed a sleeve. I dragged the rug away from the sparks. In the kitchen I filled a bucket with water and returned to the erupting typewriter. The typewriter did not seem to be flying apart, only erupting. On my face and hands I felt the heat from the caldera. The yellow fire made a fast, roaring noise. The typewriter itself made rumbling, grinding noise; the table pitched. Nothing seemed to require my bucket of water. The table surface was ruined, of course, but not aflame. After twenty minutes or so, the eruption subsided.”

I took the concept and changed fire for ice, developing further the idea from yesterday’s prompt.

“I pulled down the curtains. When I leaned over the typewriter, icicles emerged from my armpits, cascading down my sleeves, my fingers dripping onto the keys. I dragged the cat away from the flood. In the bathroom I found gauze and to wrap around my blisters and fend off the frostbite. I returned to the frozen typewriter. The typewriter did not seem to be flying apart, only erupting in splinters and shards of ice. On my face and hands I felt the chill from the iceberg, so intense, as if to burn. It made a fast, roaring noise. The typewriter itself made rumbling, grinding noises; the table pitched. Nothing seemed to require the gauze; no blisters appeared, my skin remained the color of normal flesh. The table surface was ruined, of course, but the water on the floor subsided and completely disappeared. The cat slept. After twenty minutes or so, the eruption subsided.”

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Summer

2011-04-15T15:12:00.000-07:00

The prompt, to summarize: write a poem in the form of a complaint about something that is good

Summer

Not a season but a pastime.
Your father thinks it is a verb;
And for me, someone who
Personally defines wait
In a separate classification,
The time will be perceived
In a different way
And end on a different day...

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A Sonnet for Cristina

2011-04-14T11:17:00.001-07:00

The prompt for today is "write a sonnet" and I have used this photo with permission from my friend, Cristina, who is currently living in Rio de Janeiro. The richness of this image could have inspired a lot of different emotions but Romeo got stuck in my damn head and wouldn't go away. This is where we ended up. I hope you like it, Cristina.

A Sonnet for Cristina

Where are you, Romeo? Answer your damn phone!
My amigas told me to not take a chance,
Warned me I’d find myself dressed up and all alone
Waiting for some handsome body to take me to the dance.

Still, I made a plan to wear this dress, all pink and peach,
Scent behind my ears, shine on my fingers and toes,
Sparkles all over and new blush on my cheeks,
My hair tied up in rows and rows of satin bows.

I’m a beautiful woman and you’re just another guy
Lucky to have the likes of me decorate your arm.
I won’t even bother when I see you to ask why;
Won’t fall for your lies and irresistible charm.

I’m hanging up forever on you, boring Romeo…
Where’s that other boy’s number? I’m calling Alfonso!

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Hale Bopp

2011-04-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

Write a Five Minute Poem. Use a timer.
Of the suggestions, I used “comet.”
(This was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I want to go back and edit but can't do that until May!) lol

Hale Bopp

Remember the night
We sat on the long ragged terrace
Stared out at the darkening sky
Your wife
My husband
There we were waiting for Hale Bopp
What happens when comets appear?

As it emerged in the blackness
We spoke of awesome things

And counted stars…

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Class Photo

2011-04-12T07:49:00.000-07:00

Spend a few moments examining an old photograph—a found image, a photo from childhood, an iconic shot from history—and give it a title. Then put the photo aside and write a poem using this title.

Class Photo

How I came to be in the middle of the front row I’m not sure
Of Second Grade on a sunny day,
Which must have been a Tuesday
Because there,
see all those Brownies?
Carl Johannsen isn’t in the picture because he spent
that year
in a wheelchair, with polio.
Carl turned up years later in the same Mexican town
I lived in
But I never saw him there and only heard about his troubles with the law.
Two little Indian boys were just like me, my daddy told me;
They came from different tribes and
my skin was lighter
because of my Danish mama.
Miss Eaton was a homely old maid, who was mean and unhappy and
Like others of her ilk, lived a lonely and misled life.
The year after that was when Bobby Morgan would
poke me in the arm with a ballpoint,
leaving a tattoo that remains to this day. In this photo
he smirks at the camera, as if he was planning that deed.
David Thorsett killed himself when he was fifteen…
He couldn’t live with the shame of liking boys better than girls.
When we were in the Second Grade we
didn’t know it was odd when we both wanted to dress in
my mama’s old dresses,
paint lipstick
and
wear lacy hats.
David got me into trouble for saying the
ef word
when we were nine, but we had no idea what it meant
or that it was bad.
Susan was the tallest girl. She lived her life
fully, played a game
I didn’t understand
called Tennis and was able to get by without committing suicide.
The other Sue was the Teacher’s Pet. I hope she’s happy now.
I wonder where some of these little children are
now
but mostly, I don’t really care. I’m glad
the nerds in that class grew up
to make a lot of money and get impressive degrees.

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We Didn't Listen

2011-04-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

Prompt for today was to write a one sentence poem of at least 40 lines. Not my favorite kind of prompt but this is a story I've had in my head for awhile and it's a start for getting it written down.

Our daddy told us we didn’t listen
well and I suppose he
was right because he
said to
stay away from
that hen house
but
Johnny Lynn
had a plan
and
we were sure convinced he would not
lead us astray and get
us into any kind
of trouble,
especially
when we had Little
Lissy with us,
who was just a baby compared
to us
older ones, and when we
jumped from
rooftop
to
rooftop
and old Mrs.
Baum called
the cops to tell them what she could see from her kitchen window,
we never realized
what was coming until daddy
stood there
with the officers of
the law,
red lights flashing
through the
trees and a
siren that went
whoop,
whoop
just before they let us go and told us we were too young for a life of crime
and that was the worst case of hiccups
I had ever had,
not to mention
the burn on my memory
that left me
with little
taste for eggs
for ever more.

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Not Just Another Sunday

2011-04-10T23:10:00.000-07:00

On this day I would have called my mom and talked about her mother being gone 45 years. My grandmother died on Easter Sunday, April 10, 1966; a day etched in my memory. My mom’s not departed even a year yet. Sometimes it’s like she’s been gone so long but then there’s moments I feel she’s only a phone call away. What a rude awakening in that snap of an instant to realize I’m dreaming. Again. These are times we all go through, who have lost loved ones.
There are birds nesting outside my living room window. Their young ones have arrived and no one would have delighted in this more than my parents, whose property on the island had birdhouses staked and hung, along with hummingbird feeders dripping sugar water. Dad would refill these every morning and when Mom moved to the mainland years after his death, she brought as many of these bird abodes and feeders as she had room for.
Springtime was my mother’s time. She was born in May, as were her sister and a brother and up until last year, Mom delivered flower baskets on May Day. How she ever found time to get everything done will always amaze me. Both Mom and Grandma were brave, beautiful women, took pride in their appearance, brilliant cooks, sharp dressers, willing adventuresses, green thumbs, pioneers, adept seamstresses, clever wordsmiths and lovers of music. I’m so pleased to be their descendent and have wonderful, loving memories.

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Tonight I Can Not Write

2011-04-10T08:11:00.001-07:00

This is a repeat of a poem I wrote April 16, 2009. "Find or think of a poem you admire, and write a poem that is a “mirror-image” of it." Although I am not a fan of plagiarizing, this is a fun exercise and if gives me a chance to pay homage to Neruda, one of my favorite poets.

Tonight I Can Not Write

Tonight I can not write what I need to say to you. The words won’t come.

I can not tell you how the sound of the wind clattering in the palms shivers my heart. I can not recall being with you in the sand, under the moon, by the sea.

Tonight and tomorrow I can not write nor can I sing the love songs we sang together secretly – so only we could hear.

Tonight I can not write how your hands wrapped around my soul and your fingers tapped the code of my heart. It is dark now. My heart is dark.

I do not miss you, nor do I yearn for you. I never think of you. My mind is clear. Open.

Tonight I can not write and plead with you in my quiet way to forget me. Forget me. As I have forgotten you.

The music drifts down my street and the notes are the same that never rouse my memory of things that no longer matter.

Tonight I can not write that your face to me is a clear and empty sphere. I do not see you. Nor do I dream of you.

I have forgotten you. Your eyes. Your voice, your touch. I no longer remember you.

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Backwards, Indeed

2011-04-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

Today's prompt is to write a poem backwards and use an adage at the beginning (end.) I can't think of a better time to see things backwards.

I hear the cheering in the coliseum
Slavery, by a different name, makes a comeback.
Sesquicentennial of Civil War?
But a wide breach as in a roiling ocean
Soon there will be little middle ground
Nor who even knows how to analyze the message
I can’t figure out who cares anymore
And spinning out of control
With no word from the people
Two houses both alike in lack of dignity
Since when does drama get a deadline?
So get along little dogies
A rolling stone gathers no moss

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MARY BLUEPOCKET

2011-04-08T21:18:00.001-07:00

This is by far the hardest poem I've written in awhile. The prompt was to write a nursery rhyme.

Mary Bluepocket went to town
In her mother’s wedding gown
She wore her shoes and a rosebud frown
Poor Mary Bluepocket

Mary was wed on Saturday
Stewart Snail gave her away
She honeymooned on Friday Bay
Poor Mary Bluepocket

Lester Lizard, Mary’s mister
Died of joy when he kissed her
She’s gone to live with her sister
Poor Mary Bluepocket

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CHRISTINA

2011-04-07T20:32:00.000-07:00

This, my friends, is a prompt:

Today’s prompt is a bit of a smorgasbord, and reflects the fact that we are at day seven. It asks you to write a poem with seven different phrases, ideas, or just plain old “things” in it. These are:
1)an example of synasthetic metaphor — one that describes one sensory perception using adjectives more naturally suited to a different sense (e.g., “a red noise,” or a “a bitter touch”)
2) a fruit
3) the name (first or last) of someone you knew in school
4) a rhetorical question
5) a direct address to the poem’s audience — “Reader” or “mom” or “Michelle,” or maybe just “You”)
6) a word in a foreign language
7) a reference to a game of chance (darts or pool or the lottery or etc).

My attempt:

CHRISTINA

You wanted to take back your black words
I could tell by how you spun your bike around
And let the others go ahead.
“Are you stupid?”
Your anger was almost lost amongst the apple crates that lined our dusty path.
You took a risk confronting me;
The one they called Monica, the Mountain.
The volume of your voice wasn’t meant for me, but them.
I realized this and
I was stunned.
“Don’t listen to their chisme,” you growled,
Your tongue thick with a mixture of fear and audacity.
I loved you then.

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ANYWAY

2011-04-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

Today’s prompt is one of musical ekphrasis. Ekphrastic poetry comments upon or is inspired by another work of art in a different medium. Most people think of it as a poem inspired by a painting or a sculpture. But it could also be music! To that end, I offer you three possible songs to inspire a poem: Ann Peebles’ I Can’t Stand the Rain, Joe Cocker’s cover of The Letter, and Lady Gaga’s countrified version of Born This Way.

THE EMBED IS NOT AVAILABLE BUT YOU CAN WATCH THE VIDEO BY COPYING AND PASTING THIS...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RnjWLVyMps

ANYWAY

It turned out the train was faster than we thought
We had the notion that we would live forever
When in reality, our time was equal to those we rebelled against
And those we embraced, emulated, and often eulogize.
Some disappeared into the labyrinth of life
While others shone like stars
And we wrestle yet
With how to summon peace.

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