Poetry & Prose
Two brown eggs
in the nest box.
Ah, breakfast!
***
Two eggs in the nest box!
Inspired by the theme at Haiku Heights 248. Well, it didn’t take much inspiration for that one. With three chickens, eggs are standard fair for Sunday breakfast, not to mention several other meals a week. Yesterday we spent most of the day on the Tour D’Coop and “Parade of Combs”—visiting chicken coops around Raleigh!
Grown-ups at tables,
dealing diamonds, bidding spades.
Shuffling on the stairs.
***
Inspired by the theme at Haiku Heights #247.
To TK
After the powwow I got lost.
I’d let go of my father’s hand
on the way to the car. I wore
my orange sweatshirt with the white
flocked Indian head on it and
hunted for my father the only way
I could—searching up. Dizzy,
disoriented, I tugged on a man’s pant leg,
but couldn’t see his face;
he was tall, and it was dark.
When I contemplated leaving Des Moines
(because grown-up children are supposed
to leave home), I had reservations.
Sitting in the Locust Mall food court
in a row of tables with attached seats that spun,
I cried over fried rice as you assured me
that migration was not desertion.
I didn’t go then, but then I was ready to go.
My father found me in the crowd,
lifted me to his shoulder, danced me to the car,
drummed into me that next time
I should stay close.
***
Today’s poem is a draft inspired by Adele Kenny’s prompt: letting go.
Hear tell no Lie and hear direct—
Defeat in Straightness stands
Too dark for our robust Despair
The Lie’s grotesque demands
As Darkness to the Elders teased
With obfuscation mean
The Lie must uncloud suddenly
So every beast be seen—
***
Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo: Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite. For example, you might turn “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” to “I won’t contrast you with a winter’s night.”
I was pretty happy with how well this turned out. And of course, here’s the original from Emily Dickinson.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—
***
It’s been a pleasure, all. Thanks for prompting, playing, and reading along. Happy NaPoWriMo!!
***
And I’m linking up at dVerse for the first time. Have been lurking for a while and decided it’s time to participate. 
Go check it out for lots of great poetry.
it spoke to her, humming
the song of a wineglass
her fondness for glass stemmed, she thought,
from its vibration against her skin
she reflected sometimes, she wondered
if it was vanity, using glass, like the time
her mother frosted her hair—did she really think
safety was found in a bottle of tint?
when she felt leaden, heavy,
she sat, feet firm on the ground,
arm on the cool glaze of the sink
and rocked back and forth
she always cleared things up,
left the bathroom sparkling
after calming her temper,
balancing her humors
glass was so much better than a razor blade
it never stained, never rusted
it would shatter her parents, of course,
but they were the last ones who should throw stones
***
Well, there’s a creepy poem for you! (She shivers.) I blame Robert Lee Brewer and his prompt: “take a line from one of your poems (preferably one of your April poems), make it the title of your poem today, and then, write the poem.”
“Angel thin glass” came from my Erasure poem on the 26th. (I swear I had no idea where it was going when I chose it.) I’ll try for something a little more cheery to wrap up NaPoWriMo tomorrow!
Do you remember when life was orange
and you studied monarchs and milkweed?
Do you remember the scent of marigolds?
When was the last time you used your favorite crayon?
Do you remember laughing at tongues
orange from cheese curls and Kool-Aid?
Do you recall the time you got real Popsicles instead of the store
brand that you had to break in half and share?
Do you recall shooting hoops for fun? Dribbling between your legs to look cool?
Do you remember carving triangle eyes and noses?
Teeth were not your specialty, but you liked the glow of the candle
and the smell of charred pumpkin, so you let your father help.
Can you summon up the day you won a goldfish
in a little plastic bag? It lasted nearly a month.
Do you remember you always wanted small oranges—
tangerines that peeled easily or mandarin segments
in syrup that you could drink for a treat?
When was the last time you visited Tigger and Pooh?
Do you still eat a bedtime snack? You liked rainbow sherbet,
but always saved the orange for last.
Do you remember the tiger lilies next to the back door
against the blank white house, and the orange-black powder
that got on your fingers when you helped your mother
pull off the anthers to make them last?
***
Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo was to write a “color” poem.
Back to Haiku Heights today. The prompt is “Xerox.” Two attempts…
***
black & white copies
duplexed, stapled, neatly stacked
my collated life
***
paper jam, blinking
lights, toner low, toner spill
my Monday morning
***
And the countdown continues…3 days to go with NaPoWriMo…hang in there, everyone!
NaPoWriMo’s prompt for the day was to write an erasure poem. In a nutshell, take a long poem and white out (or black out) the words you don’t want, leaving the remaining words in their relative space. I’ve done similar prompts before, so was game for a new attempt, however my first problem was getting distracted while looking for a long enough poem. I finally said Enough! Just choose! and ended up with Marge Piercy’s My mother’s body. I used the first two (of four) sections. (The link takes you to the entire poem.)
Note: I’m attempting to post this in the correct form by copying the poem, then changing to white font for the “erasures.” We’ll see if it works…
***1.
The dark socket of the year
the pit, the cave where the sun lies down
and threatens never to rise,
when despair descends softly as the snow
covering all paths and choking roads:
then hawkfaced pain seized you
threw you so you fell with a sharp
cry, a knife tearing a bolt of silk.
My father heard the crash but paid
no mind, napping after lunch
yet fifteen hundred miles north
I heard and dropped a dish.
Your pain sunk talons in my skull
and crouched there cawing, heavy
as a great vessel filled with water,
oil or blood, till suddenly next day
the weight lifted and I knew your mind
had guttered out like the Chanukah
candles that burn so fast, weeping
veils of wax down the chanukiya.
Those candles were laid out,
friends invited, ingredients bought
for latkes and apple pancakes,
that holiday for liberation
and the winter solstice
when tops turn like little planets.
Shall you have all or nothing
take half or pass by untouched?
Nothing you got, Nun said the dreydl
as the room stopped spinning.
The angel folded you up like laundry
your body thin as an empty dress.
Your clothes were curtains
hanging on the window of what had
been your flesh and now was glass.
Outside in Florida shopping plazas
loudspeakers blared Christmas carols
and palm trees were decked with blinking
lights. Except by the tourist
hotels, the beaches were empty.
Pelicans with pregnant pouches
flapped overhead like pterodactyls.
In my mind I felt you die.
First the pain lifted and then
you flickered and went out.
2.
I walk through the rooms of memory.
Sometimes everything is shrouded in dropcloths,
every chair ghostly and muted.
Other times memory lights up from within
bustling scenes acted just the other side
of a scrim through which surely I could reach
my fingers tearing at the flimsy curtain
of time which is and isn’t and will be
the stuff of which we’re made and unmade.
In sleep the other night I met you, seventeen
your first nasty marriage just annulled,
thin from your abortion, clutching a book
against your cheek and trying to look
older, trying to look middle class,
trying for a job at Wanamaker’s,
dressing for parties in cast off
stage costumes of your sisters. Your eyes
were hazy with dreams. You did not
notice me waving as you wandered
past and I saw your slip was showing.
You stood still while I fixed your clothes,
as if I were your mother. Remember me
combing your springy black hair, ringlets
that seemed metallic, glittering;
remember me dressing you, my seventy year
old mother who was my last dollbaby,
giving you too late what your youth had wanted.
***
Russell asked in the Comments what this poem might look in lines. Here are a couple of options I played with.
The dark
silk mind
dropped skull
suddenly
veils down
solstice
all or nothing
angel thin glass
empty pouches
flimsy stuff of sleep
a book
a job
parties
your eyes
notice me
remember me
***
The dark
silk mind
dropped skull
suddenly
veils down
solstice
all or nothing
angel thin glass
empty pouches
flimsy stuff of sleep
a book
a job
parties
your eyes
notice me
remember me
As we near the end of NaPoWriMo, I’m looking for new sources of inspiration. Thus a visit to my friends at Haiku Heights, who have been writing a haiku a day for April A2Z Heights. (Hi, everyone!) Today’s prompt was “volcano.”
***
obsidian glints
slivers of midnight
a broken bottle
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