Family

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 12)

Today I opened the napowrimo.net prompt page and read about poetry online journals (something Maureen is doing this year), the two poems from yesterday’s prompt she selected to highlight, and the day twelve prompt, which said to write a poem about something small.

I Wear the Ring

Aunt Lorry (we called Delores, Mom’s sister, that) loved me
more than I realized. When I was very young,
she’d send envelopes addressed to me,
from Washington D.C. with Dennis the Menace
cartoons cut from her newspaper.

I didn’t see the connection then. But I do now. It was the only mail
I received from an adult when not my birthday or Christmas.

When I graduated from Texas A&M University Lorry insisted
on paying for my class ring. Aggie rings are a big deal
to alumni (called former students). I still wear the ring—
more than fifty years later. I remember Lorry every time.

She never married, was old fashioned, traditional, and a staunch
Catholic. She wasn’t difficult (usually) but criticized
what she thought was wrongdoing.
Yet she was hopeful to the edge of naiveite.

Had she been any different, I suppose I’d still have my ring,
but I would not have had a famous cartoon character
as my childhood alter ego.

Lorry died about ten years after I graduated and whenever
I wear the ring I’m reminded of her.
I will be until the day I die. Such a small thing but a big
reminder of my old maid aunt, my childhood, love, and
how ironic it is when things turn out differently than expected.

Look both ways and remember familial days.
Mind gaps that may bring surprising results.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 3)

Since it’s Sunday, (I’ve no idea why that matters to Maureen Thorson [Napo creator and prompt director], but I acknowledge that most folks who work do so on approximately five of the other six days) so today’s NaPo prompt is (she said “a bit”) complex. I’m to write a poem in a Spanish form called glosa (or glose). Glosa explains or responds to another poem or part of one. Until today, I was unfamiliar with this form, but now I am intrigued by it.

THE GLOSA OR GLOSE requires:

  1. a) A cabeza (or motto) – the quatrain borrowed from another poet, whose authorship must be acknowledged.
  2. b) Four 10-line stanzas, each ending with one of the lines in sequence from the cabeza.
  3. c) A rhyme-scheme requirement that lines 6 and 9 rhyme with the final word of line 10.

It seems challenging, but “The point of any formal (poem) constraint is primarily to put you under pressure to write a little differently from your default style, and in the case of the glosa, you’re forced to participate quite explicitly in the work of another poet, many new possibilities for writing differently can be magically released.

“There’s great scope for playing with this form, by varying the constraints. You could choose a different stanza length, write in free verse, in a metre of your choice, or in syllabics; dispense with rhyme or increase the amount of rhyme; use a different length of cabeza, or introduce the lines of the cabeza in different positions in your stanza.” ~ John Wheway, “How to write a Glosa.” (https://www.johnwheway.com/?p=4)

I did the prompt and followed the form as closely as I could, except for one rhyme. Who cares, right?

The most difficult part of this was browsing through my favorite poets to find the perfect quatrain, then to cull that dozen down to one.

I could feel the day offering itself to me
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment—but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

From the book, The Trouble with Poetry (and other poems): “In the Moment,” by Billy Collins.

Life’s Moments

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
they’d ask, “Do you have a girl friend?
I needed answers. Also, “How was school today?”
I grew up without ever knowing
what it was I wanted to be.
I married young and that stopped
all questions about any girlfriend,
and then one day I woke on up.
The value of school I started to see
I could feel the day offering itself to me.

One day at a time, moment by moment
I lived my life, and I slowly learned
what I wanted to do, he who I wanted to be
even though, before, I didn’t know or want
to be the he who was evolving into me.
Each day of my life I opened another door.
The important people in my life called me
Bill or Dad or Opa, not sir or major.
I finally had my feet on the floor
and I wanted nothing more.

Forty million moments later I knew
the answers to so many of their questions
but I can’t tell them now, not that they
ever really cared, like everyone does
after they’ve grown up (if they do),
they’re all gone now to find others to torment.
So little I remember, the work I did,
the people I loved (and those I did not)
I think about my future, I want nothing more
than to be in the moment—but which moment?

I wish I could tell them now
what I didn’t know then, what I’ve become,
and how I made my way, and what
I have to say. I never liked school,
a necessary evil at best,
but that’s all long over and done.
I’ve paid my dues. Didn’t always give my best
even when life was some questioning test.
I try moments and memories I could’ve become,
Not that one, or that one, or that one, …

Look both ways to the future and the past
but live every moment like it might be your last.
Mind the gaps and the questions, but live long into the answers.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 1)

Today is day one of the 30-day National Poetry Writing Month challenge to write a poem each day of the month. I plan to write to the prompts which are posted early every day. There are few rules to this and the prompts are optional.

Today I am to write a prose poem that is a story about the body. My poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image (could be more, could be other senses).

Her Superpower

Big at inception, his cesarean birth was through her swollen uterus and abdomen. Long tearful battles with Narcissus followed. Ripped apart for years, she eventually won her prince who grew into a tall, bulky, powerful, erupting, ever-growing, mountain of a lad. A strapping, kind chap, but like her, blemished by wee fits of fury over wounded honor.

Together they camped where broken was typical. Where hurt hurled tearless acrimony and demons encircled souls. At home but not a home of their own, west of the living and the dead, where spirits danced quietly like running shadows.

“Powerful in body, be strong, kind of heart and mind, my son.” He looked at her and spoke, “I think I can, but I cannot see my way. What mystery is my future? Will you always be with me?” She replied, “I cannot carry your cross, but you can see it there. By your mastery alone shall you lift and bear all burdens. Your will shall overcome.”

Her voice sang in his ears as he stepped onto the platform of his agony. His powerful hands tightly clutched his cross, his face burned red, he lifted as his hands and legs shook, his eyes bulged as he cried out. Every cell of his being bellowed in triumphant pain, he stood holding it still until white lights allowed his release. “I’ll be back.” He smiled, turned in triumph, then he proudly stomped and crowed toward her.

Look both ways.
Make the party yours.
Carry your own cross but mind the gaps for fearful traps.

 

Thursday’s Rune: 3 3 22

Ode to Sexy GCS

Saying it’s iconic is a trite, ubiquitous
marketing cliché to honor nouns.

Yet, certain foods deserve menu pride of place
for meaningful simplicity,

for memories, taste, and community pleasure;
for ingredient brevity, seldom seeking savory mystery.

I salivate composing a poem
to the American grilled cheese sandwich.

GCSs have been around more ‘n a hundred years,
frequent fare served at fun food venues,

including my house, where casual is key
and kiss is a simple, honorable principle.

Why many recipes? Bread, cheese, butter,
and heat. It’s American. Add more and

it’s a melt. If that’s what you want, well fine!
Let Brits have their toasties, jaffles for Aussies,

panini is Italian and bless the French
for le croque monsieur. Nice. But none of that is GCS.

Done right, fried golden crisp with a shell’s
shades of black to yellow-brown, either square or round.

Cut squares diagonally, two isosceles right triangles
for proper holding, touching, and eating (warm to hot).

And kissing if you want. See the colors and shape,
the moist but firm surface.

Pick up with clean dry fingers, opposite the
triangle’s hypotenuse, gently between two legs.

At the right-angle corner, hold it between your
index and middle fingers, and thumb, gently lift

its moist crisp oiliness to your face. Allow it
to touch, to be felt on your skin and lips.

Holding near your nose and mouth, invite
sensual fragrance to enter your nose, slide

it gently between your lips, barely touching,
before being taken into the mouth.

Gently bite it. Feel your teeth crunch through the crust
into the warm melted cheese. Chew slowly, thoroughly.

Swallow the bite while planning the next. No rush.
Eye the stack and plan your next attack.

Look both ways.
Food and sex are both pleasures.
Enjoy.
Mind the gaps, the dips, and company.
Bond with the world.

Sammi’s Weekender #250 (mannequin)

Click the WWP prompt graphic to open Sammi’s blog and read more writings of poetry or prose.

No, no, no.

She didn’t know,
she couldn’t see my loss,
drained of outward expression,
emotionally spent, I sat — still,
a heartless, brainless mannequin,
my skin ripped by her words.
I was not, as she accused,
an automaton. I loved her.

My brain and heart were not sapped,
but hope seemed impossible.
Suicide seemed the only answer,
an escape from daily pain, the way home,
to bring order to irreversible chaos.

My mind: bleak, grim, sullen:
I walked to window,
I cried, broken, never again to be me.

Look both ways.
Reality isn’t always as it seems.
Mind the gaps, nothing is perfect.
Into every life, some sadness, some love, some hope, some loss.

Friday Fictioneers for February 18th, 2022

Yet again, two of our favorite jolies femmes have teamed up to conspire with a cat, to inspire me to find fewer than 101 words of micro-fiction for Friday Fictioneers. Dale delights us with her cute and clever bookshelf cat photo. Rochelle, Madame cat herder extraordinaire, challenges us and guides our stories. I thank them both.

Click on Dale’s cat-that-reads photo to prance on over to Rochelle’s page for all the latest ‘nip.

Genre: Feline Fiction
Title: The Prints of Paws
Word Count: 100

I’m telling you, Francesco, we’re the greatest predators, evah. We can kill them. Everything becomes ours. Look around. Cameras, computers, food, catnip galore. All ours.

Gabriella, stop. If she finds out you’ve been peeing on her books, she’ll blame me. What if she tosses us outside? I know how you love the cold. And that’s not ‘nip. It’s pot. Let’s hold off until Spring.

I can pee wherever, my chicken-feline-friend. How many cat books do you see? None. Let’s get into her account and order cat books.

Here she comes. Look cute. She’s got her camera. Stardom beckons.

Look both ways if you love animals, especially cats.
No shelf is too high, no corner too dark.

Inspired by I could Pee on This: And Other Poems by Cats by Francesco Marciuliano (and other cat books soon to be showing up on Dale’s account and TBRs).

Click on the sweet le félin to read more stories inspired by the cat on a shelf.

Friday Fictioneers for February 11, 2022

Lover of all things purple (except maybe prose); historian and keeper of dark truths; maven of watercolor and drawings of life; sultry mistress with dominion over her tribe of scribes and Friday littérateurs of fantastic fiction; Madam Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has honored her humble servant by promotion to the elite order of photo contributors.

To wit, I must now contrive some presentable intrigue in fewer than 101 words, discounting this introduction, the preface (title, wordcount, and genre), and my additional postscript.

Click on “old blue” (or green) for a smooth ride on over to Rochelle’s place to glean other rules of literary engagement.

Photo by Bill Reynolds. Click on the truck for a ride on over to Rochelle’s place.

Genre: Texas Gothic
Title: Organic Disposal
Word Count: 100

***

I met her on the front porch. “Hi Furie, where’s Fenix?”

“She’s inside reading. I’m going to sit on that old rusty truck and write some Texas Gothic. It inspires me.”

“I noticed they moved it and put in a hog pen.”

I could see her wheels turning. “Right, Opa. You know, pigs and hogs are a great way to get rid of physical crime evidence. They’ll eat anything organic, including flesh and bone. And they can be trained to make life difficult for the Sheriff or some dingbat country cop.”

She smiled and waved as the Sheriff pulled up.

Look both ways for fact or fiction.
Mind the gaps and plot twists of creative teenage minds.

***

Click on “the girls” to discover more Friday Fictioneer stories.

Sammi’s Weekender #246 (saunter)

Give a little click on ‘saunter’ to fly on over to Sammi’s blog and read more words of wonder.

Now Dance

I can almost see in my memory
when mother was proud of me
for those first sobering steps,
my cheerful run. Later,
I saw and heard mine;
Billy, then Steven, finally
Julie taking first frantic steps of life,
another charge without
casual saunter. We learn
to run, then we slow down.

Look both ways as we walk, run, or saunter through life.
Mind the gaps, do the best you can, and have fun.
It’s a one-way ticket.

***

And now, a 1980s fun rock as Dire Straits teaches us about the “Walk Of Life.” (Hilarious)

Friday Fictioneers: January 28, 2022

Rockin’ Rochelle tempted me with another of her personal pics to inspire this Friday Fictioneer micro-fantasy. In keeping with my bad boy image, I decided to make it a deal.

Click on her foodie (prompt) photo to buzz on over to her place for the good stuff.

Click the PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for a trip to Rochelle’s blog.

Genre: Micro-Fiction
Title: Family Business
Word Count: 100

I’d had a good day at the restaurant. I met some sweet ice and tips were awesome. I decided to visit Cowboy on the way home.

When he opened the door, “Hey Cowboy. How’z it hangin’, Kemosabe?”

He looked both ways. “Don’t call me that. It means idiot. Get in here. Cash only until this virus shit is done. You got green?”

I smiled, waving two bills. “My green for yours, amigo. What you got fer me?”

Someone banged on the door. “Open up. Police.”

I said, “Well, fuck!”

Cowboy said, “Nah. It’s my cousin. The man don’t never knock.”

Look both ways and learn the ropes, cliché or not.
Mind the gaps and lock the door.

***

Click on Matthew McConaughey in “White Boy Rick” for transport to all the fantastic fiction you’ll ever want to read, in a flash.

Thursday’s Rune: My Friendly Reminder

I used to ponder the meaning
when an attractive young lady
(she could be 50 or 60 nowadays)
would cast a trusting smile
my way and say,
‘you remind me of my father.’

Was she calling me old (true ‘nuf),
a difficult, somewhat deaf defender
(also true), or childhood disciplinarian?
A boomer, for Christ’s sake.

Perhaps it’s my ego,
maybe just plain self-guilt,
conceivably a DSM diagnoses.
I don’t know. Anyways.

I’ve finally realized
she could pay me
no greater compliment,
no higher honor, than to say,

in whatever loving way,
(or not)
she thought of him. When
she looked into my eyes,

she saw him. The first man
she ever loved.

Look both ways to understand.
Try to see yourself as another sees you.
Mind the gaps for confusion and clear understanding.

***

Gloss: DSM refers to The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the taxonomic and diagnostic tool published by the American Psychiatric Association.