April prompt #17
If you were not a 21st century American, what else or who else might you have been?
I might have been
an erratic stone,
purple and gray,
carried from the shield
in a belly of ice,
on a mountain,
on my skin.
APRIL PROMPT #8
David’s #5: mention at least one bodily organ
BEHOLD THE KING
Both hands, all ten fingers.
Both feet. Buttocks
bounce or slide along.
The swing to and away
uncricks the back,
the pull and reach
The highest pipes pip
like the smallest birds,
a twitch in the eardrum;
the lowest below sound,
a rumble in the gut.
Is there anything
they don’t have:
lips for flute,
cheeks for oboe,
the horn’s heart,
syrinx and larynx
The new formatting here is making it impossible for me to post poems–I have to redo all the line breaks. So from now on, I’ll be posting at Poems for Free, my old blog. Hope you’ll join me there.
One thousand pieces.
My mother works section by section:
the white cat’s paws
the green butterfly,
the day her youngest daughter was born.
My brother looks at each piece in turn.
He finds its twin in the picture on the box.
He places it exactly where it belongs.
And his twin sister,
She is here, now, still and squeezed dry,
close to completion.
She smiles from far away when someone speaks.
My middle sister works the borders:
Make the frame; the rest will fit in.
insists that someone
took the corners.
we need are
has a piece in
My father comes to the table with coffee.
He is in no section; no border can hold him.
He can only hold his daughter’s hand.
I sort the pieces into small piles.
Not enough room on this table,
nor room enough here at all
for this hardest of works,
for these infinite pieces of time.
Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save–
they just stand there shining.
The ferry from Digby to St. John
moved through fog so thick
that all the metaphors applied.
When we slid into the midnight harbor,
no sound but the deep horn and the bells,
nothing visible beyond the circle of our selves
but a blurred path of light.
Solitary, tall and white it stands.
All night, and every stormy day
it flashes one clear message:
Keep away, keep away, keep away.
Every spring she lifted
the carpet in the lounge
where the old boys
sat drinking their single-malts.
She turned the good brown soil
and planted seeds: radishes and lettuces,
and as the days grew warmer,
chard and onions, tomatoes and squash.
Still they sat, dozing,
while the warm room filled
with leaf and vine, the scents of ripening.
Every day she came and watered and hoed,
and every day they sat,
reading their papers,
talking of business, the progress
of their cold gray war.
She filled apple baskets in autumn
and left them on the roadsides
for squirrels and children and crows.
The old boys grew thinner,
more querulous. When they rose
to go to the bathroom or the bar
they were careful not to dirty their shoes.
They would not speak to her.
When winter came
she tacked the carpet back down,
swept up the last dry leaves
and followed the boys to the sea.
There, while they sat
in the sun on their private beach
building castles of golden sand,
she went to work with her tiny trowel.
A majorly failed poem turned out much better “translated.” The original names are in parentheses beside their translations.
My past Batorandorasseru (Bertrand Russell) stride through the night
Rational thought, intellectual property argument.
Right, the baby Uiriamubureiku (William Blake) story:
Welcome to heaven and hell, is married to another point of view.
Library shelves, wood, old dream is to expand the old order —
Stone table, whispered rumors about the birth of a child’s learning.
Mother did not.
Standing here, I learned to see the belt of the world.
This child needs his mother; the case, I have hope.
The next day, I went a fair way: I woke up.
Children protest over cow push dust;
women “in the beam of my intellectual life,
she Shatsusukotti, (Scotty) cotton candy, the accused,”
It is said that eating the product.
Paper cup, she was elected from a man sucked on a lemon.