We have a monster as a leader
a bigot,
a fascist,
a misogynist
We have a denier of truth
of kindness,
of right,
of love
We have a daily firefight,
a catastrophe,
a calamity,
a circus
But worst that than
we have more than half of the people,
our friends,
our neighbors,
our countrymen,
who think this is alright
Eclipse –
day becomes night
nature goes
silent
people
stand in
wonder
this
darkness
has the
power to stop us,
make us
consider forces beyond
We are
reminded
we are part
of something
greater
than our
society,
our technology
In the
dark we are one
Happy
Birthday Sandy,
my best
friend from little on…
We were
inseparable,
until
sometime in middle school.
We broke
apart.
But we
came back together again,
like one
of those broken bowls
with the
gold in the cracks
put back
together
stronger
than before.
But the
bowl of our friendship
was
hurled down again,
by
circumstance
more
than anger or will.
And as
we tried to glue us back together
you
flung sharp, hurtful arrows,
at
me. You had no
respect
for my life and choices.
Did you
know how that would hurt?
Did you
know I could never
trust
you or
be
comfortable with
you
again?
The
pottery of our friendship
has
broken in too many places;
it
cannot be fixed.
We will
be cordial,
we will
be civil,
we will
be pleasant,
but we
will never again be close
as we
once were. 146
Family -
pride and love and conflict,
a stew
of all these flavors
and so
many more
all
steeped in unspoken resentment
through
lifetimes and
generations
Babies born
too soon,
or
raised by grandparents,
that
uncle who was always
a little…funny
Some
joking, some drinking,
some
ethnic slurs
The
older generation a little racist
and the
younger one
a little insufferable
and in
the middle
pressure
from both sides
but what
can you do?
After
all,
it’s
family. 76
You
crawl before me,
yet,
when I turn my head
you run, you fly.
You’re
gone
and I
can never catch up,
never
get you back.
Eternity
spreads out before me,
yet my
path
narrows
a little
more
each
day
until
one day it comes down to a
point,
a period.
And we
all know
a period
signifies the
end
Nothing
much to say today
My thoughts
have dried and blown away.
No joyful
verse with a cherry ring
no lyrics
for anyone to sing
no
humor, no sorrow, no angry rants
about
liars with fires in their pants.
No
sentimental sop, no wishful dreaming,
no
outraged protests to be read screaming,
no
flights of fancy or bumble bees,
no
pleading to deities on my knees.
Nothing much
to say today,
the muse
has stolen my words away.
Today
someone was shot.
I live
in America.
In
America
someone
is shot every day.
At least
one person dies
every
day
in my
state.
Many people
are shot
in my
country every day
because I
live in America
land of
the brave.
And you’d
better be brave
because
tomorrow
you may
be the one
to get
shot.
Just Call Me Alice
I’m at a
loss.
This
world doesn’t make
sense to me.
Everyone
is in a rush,
worried over
being late,
and I
can never quite catch up.
People hide
behind false smiles,
bright
and frightening.
And soon
as I figure something out
it all
changes.
Little
things become big deals,
as easy
as pie (or cake).
Everything
I know
falls
around me like a house of cards.
How do I
wake from this nightmare?
You wax
I wane
your ecstasy
is my
pain
my loss
is your
gain
and your
ease
becomes
my strain
My
silence
your
phrase
you curse
while I
praise
Your
clarity
is my haze
your map
my maze
and my
ashes
ignite
your blaze
The writing prompt from dVerse is a quadrille. Today, your 44 word poem must contain the
word “blaze” or a derivative.
NaPoWriMo prompt for today:
Write a
sijo which is a traditional Korean verse form with three lines of 14-16
syllables. The first line introduces the
poem’s theme, the second discusses it, and the third line, which is divided
into two sentences or clauses, ends the poem – usually with some kind of twist
or surprise.
I walk
through streets of broken glass
lined with empty buildings
In this vacant
town even the ghosts
have moved away
Here I will
set up house
with all my memories of you
I have a
lalpful of cat this morning.
He’s
large and orange and purring and
does not
care one bit that I need to write today.
I
suppose this is the crazy cat lady version of,
“the dog
ate my homework”
Somewhere
a fire is burning,
dry
leaves and unleavened loaves
turning
to ash
with
unabashed women
stirring,
stirring,
until
the flames regain their whirling heights
hungrily
devouring all in their path
souring
our ideas of power
And the
dry ash flies up
on the
wind
independent
of even gravity,
dancing
and drifting with the depravity
of fiery
demons
And somewhere
winds are shrieking
blowing,
billowing, and peaking
above the
church’s spire
higher
and wilder
catching
up papers, leaves, rags, and sheaves.
Then lightning
strikes, it sparks
I can almost feel blood pulsing
through
the capillaries that carry it
down
to my
fingertips
as I
press the computer keys
to type
this drivel.
I have
nothing much to say
but I
need to say it for another five days,
because
April is the month of
30 poems
in 30 days,
and this
is only number 25.
So if
you stick with me, gentle reader,
you may
learn more of my
very,
very ordinary life
my cats,
my dog,
my weird
little hang-ups,
and
weirder little random thoughts
that
stroll through my head
mostly unbidden, and usually hidden
from you and you and you.
And there
are all sorts of middles –
dramatic
disappointing
painful
suspenseful
incredible
satisfying
fulfilling
harrowing
crushing
or just…
middling
With
endings we often don’t know
when they
are happening
a final goodbye
or a last kiss,
Endings
and beginnings can be tricky.
I listen
to the river
and
wonder,
can I
ever learn her language?
Or the
deep, quiet lake,
or the
restless, rushing waves of the ocean.
Can I
learn the language of the trees
as they
whisper to one another on the wind?
Or the
slow language of the rocks,
and the earth
and the sands?
I watch the
clouds
and
listen to the wind,
but
there is so much more
My
husband and I are moving house,
sort of. Maybe.
But maybe not.
For who
can move away
from 35
years of living?
What crate
do you pack all your memories in?
How many
boxes does it take
to hold
a life?
A marriage?
A
family?
This old
house is only a place,
but it’s
the place
where so
much
of your
life happened.
This new
place does not have the spot
where
your son took his first steps
or the
spot where your daughter
lost her
first tooth.
It doesn’t
have the place on the stairs
where your
children sat
when you
overheard
your
daughter asking your son to play Barbies
and your
son answering
that he
would,
for a
quarter.
This new
place does not have
the hallway you walked
all those nights
when the
babies wouldn’t sleep,
or the
spot where you stood
when you
learned of
the attack
on the World Trade Center,
or the door
your husband walked through
when he
brought home the stray dog
who
became a part of the family.
It does
not have the sunroom
where
you slept every night
while recovering
from knee surgery
and you
couldn’t walk
up the
stairs to the bedroom,
the sunroom
where you sit
every morning
writing and
reading
with
your dog and your cat and your coffee.
And now you are old,
and
there isn’t enough of you left,
of your
life left,
to make
all the new memories
that
will transform another house
into a
home,
into
your home.
Water, Earth,
Air, and Fire,
Building
blocks
and also,
demolition tools.
Both the
over-abundance
and the
withholding
of these
materials
can
destroy
anything,
everything.
So why
do we not take more care
of the
ways we use
them?
And, of
course,
they
often remind us
of the
many ways they are
beyond
our control.
“Humans,
you are
not
Masters
of the Universe or
Rulers
of the Planet or
Lords of
the Land,”
they seem
to me to say.
We have our
place,
along
with all the other creatures
amid beautiful,
terrible,
wonderous,
grand,
and humble mix of
Water,
Earth, Air, and Fire
Now, at
the start of spring
Winter sends
us one last blast
of cold. Like a dying
patient who
rallies
just
before he
finally
fails,
finally falls
into
whatever comes next
Though
no one seems to mind
when Winter
dies
Winter has
one of those,
“it’s a
blessing”
deaths,
though,
when people say it
about a
loved one
(theirs
or mine)
I want
to scream
or give
them a slap
or both,
no matter
the circumstances of the death
But the
death of
Winter is
another
matter.
After
all,
we know that
Winter
will
always
find her
way back.
Underneath
the surface
is where
we find the monsters,
and the treasure.
Under
the dirt, the rot, the slimy, wriggling things,
that’s where
the proper monsters lie.
The ones
we simply can’t face
because
they are facets
of our
own selves.
But just
beyond the monsters,
if we
kill them or
beat them
or
love
them
into
submission,
is the
priceless treasure
that
will transform our lives.
There is
so much
wrong
with my society:
institutionalized
corruption
institutionalized
injustice
institutionalized
sexism
institutionalized
racism
Sometimes
it seems the best thing
to do is
to set the world on fire
and just
start over.
But, of
course, I would
never do
anything like that.
Though,
I might cheer softly
if you
did.
Anyone
need a light?
Today
smells like spring
the rain
is warmer
the breeze
gentler
The
thick cloud cover
feels
insulating, protective,
not threatening
Leaves
are unfurling
still
tiny
still
the bright, new green
of young
foliage
Grasses
are greening,
springing
up fresh with the rain
Last
autumn’s dry bulbs
have
burst to life
covering
the hillsides
with blue
and white blooms
The
trees,
the
grasses,
the
wildflowers –
they
were dead and now they live.
How can
you say you don’t believe in miracles?
Humans
are the worst
and the
best,
sometimes.
But it
seems they are usually the worst
when they
get a bit more
power
and money
than
they really ought to have;
than
anyone really ought to have.
And when
are humans
the
best?
That’s a
bit harder to predict.
Sometimes
it’s when they are pushed,
sometimes
it’s when they are happy,
sometimes
it’s when they are broken,
sometimes
it’s when they are loved.
Most
times, though, it’s when they are understood.
a good
book
a cat, purring
on one’s lap
a brilliant
sunset fading to dusk
warm
socks in winter
And
sometimes joy
hides her
face
within
the folds of sorrow
patiently
waiting
her turn
