Poetry

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 17, At Seventeen

Today I am to write a poem inspired by a song, and to share its title. I confess to being influenced by song lyrics, especially the well-told stories in ballads.

Earlier this year I read “At Seventeen” by Janis Ian (1975) as a poem at an open mic event. I’ve always loved the song and somehow relate to it, as do many people around the world. Janis explains how that affects her and sings her song in the video below.

At Seventeen
When she called
I couldn’t hardly talk at all,
and when she sings
I remember high school things.

The words, the tone,
together talking on the phone,
her memories, at seventeen,
were mine at home alone.

“It was long ago and far away,”
do I wish it was today?
What has changed in how we are,
in pickup trucks or borrowed cars?

At seventeen when boys like me,
Sad Sacks outside for all to see.
“Come dance with me”— because
that couple we will always be.

She said,
I pity boys like you who serve,
you only get what you deserve.
My broken heart sang obscenities,
to the one I loved but never pleased.

At seventeen I was that man,
a boy holding a gun over there,
I stay alive as best I can, but
of angry me I must beware.

At seventeen a boy like me—
at seventeen, too young to see.
And ugly boys like us do care.
At seventeen, when I was there.

Memory is a strange, unreliable thing; so, look both ways and don’t assume.
Mind the gaps in song and poem, you’ve been only human all along.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 16, My Bufferina

Today’s prompt is a revenant from 2016. I was to describe an object or place in a poem that ends with an abstract line.

My Bufferina

In the lower-deck belly
of the B-fifty-two-dee bomber,
two downward shooting ejection seats,
held two-thousand hours
of my youthful ass.

Whatever was bad outside—was worse inside,
oven hot in summers;
meat-locker,
freezing-cold in winters.
All jets, or airplanes, had the same putrid odor:
burned wire insulation, fried electronics, old dry puke,
and piss. Add oil and JP-4 jet fuel.
No shit!

Navigation and bombing, our job, done there.
Twelve-to-twenty-four-hour missions
(mixed with moments of stark terror);
we worked, wrote, drew, set-and-checked,
and double-checked;
we ate our meals sitting there,
sometimes
one napped during deadhead times,
a home where liquid oxygen was life,
and the noise—
literally deafening.

Service ceiling nine miles up,
nuclear
low-level missions
dodging hills, towers, cows,
and Nebraska farmers’ turkeys;
sweat and stink;
then, after debriefing,
it was beer-thirty time.

Happy Days was a great TV show.

Look both ways because perspective is everything.
Mind the gaps on the maps from when GPS was a dream
called, “what do you need me for, now?”

 

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 15, How Things Change

For halfway day, for the fifty-yard line of National Poetry Month (US and Canada), for the late bunt that moved me to second base, for Day 15; I was to be inspired by the wide, wonderful, and sometimes wacky world of postage stamps. I assumed my poem was in the offing.

Technically, I’ve been, or was, a collector of stamps since around age 11. Over the years that hobby dwindled and failed to hold my interest, although I am still interested in stamps, especially the lovely old ones, from the US and other countries. I have acquired entire collections simply because some collector had lost interest. Click here for wiki on plate blocks.

How Things Change

When I was quite young,
too young,
my aunt gave me her
well organized, large collection
of used postage stamps.

My sister’s boyfriend at the time
(she was 13 years older than I)
collected new plate blocks.
He gave me some and encouraged me
to abandon used stamps for new
with printer plate numbers.

I did. He helped. I traded
my aunt’s collection to enhance
the upgrade. Eventually,
I put my collection away,
although I have acquired
other collections over the years.

I’m different now. Sister’s BF
has gone to the big Post Office
in the sky. I am not a collector
of anything. I’m an accumulator
(books, rubber ducks, some
stuffed animals and dolls).

But for many years I have
regretted my decision to part
with my aunt’s collection. Those
old used stamps would mean
more to me now than all the
many collections I have
stored and ignored.

Look both ways and appreciate the past,
but if wisdom comes with age,
accept it without regret, if you can.
Mind the gaps because memory is a strangely alterable thing.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 14, When You Know

The NaPoWriMo, Day 14 task is to write a poem of at least ten lines in which each line begins with the same word: an anaphora.

When You Know

You know when you’ve had enough
When hopes and dreams are done and gone,
When your dog might outlive you,
When you can’t pass a bathroom,
When your hair is a memory,
When all your friends seem new,
When you wonder if you still can,
When someone says you’re harmless and they’re right,
When pain, not darkness, is your old friend,
When all your plans have come and gone,
When regrets and memories are the same
— if you have either at all,
When walking is workout,
When a game of pool is high impact for you,
When your favorite song is sung and gone,
When cooking and cleaning
— are aerobic exercises,
When grumpy, old, or sweet apply
— like names to all the people you meet,
When “I don’t care” answers every question.

Some of us have more past than future, but we look both ways.
Mind the gaps, ignore the aches.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 13, Ten Sound Epistle Poems

On this day, I was prompted to play with rhymes. Play with still means “to handle, change, or deal with (something) in a careless way,” as it did on day twelve.

I was to begin by creating a list of ten mono-, or bi-syllable words. They were to include five that correspond to each of our five basic senses, three concrete nouns, and two verbs.

Then, I was instructed to come up with rhymes for each of the ten words and to use them all as “seeds” for a poem that uses as much sound play as possible.

My list with rhymes and near rhymes:

Five Senses:

(Smell) breath: death, meth, Seth, health, length, wealth, depth.

(Taste) picante: duende, Dante, comandante, on day, one day, Pandey, in May, entre, Duarte, X gay.

(Hear) music: too sick, you sick, Moosic, therapeutic, cubic, tunic, Rubik, you prick, too thick.

(See) sky: I, aye, buy/by/bye, chai, dye, eye, fly, fry, guy, high, nigh, pie, ply, pry, spy, thigh, tie, why, wry, thy, sty, sigh, sly, shy.

(Touch) stroke: bloke, broke, choke, cloak, coke, croak, folk, joke, oak, poke, smoke, soak, woke, yoke, yolk.

Three Nouns:

Airplane: abstain, again, arcane, attain, bloodstain, champagne, cocaine, domain, fast lane, insane, inane, humane, maintain, mundane, Sinn Fein, Ukraine, urbane.

Boutique: antique, bespeak, critique, midweek, mystique, oblique, technique, unique.

Bench: clench, drench, French, quench, stench, trench, wench, wrench.

Two Verbs:

Talk: balk, block, chalk, chock, gawk, crock, doc, frock, hawk, jock, knock, lock, mock, Mach, pock, rock, shock, squawk, stalk, sock, walk, ad hoc.

Taste: aced, based, baste, braced, cased, chased, faced, graced, haste, laced, paced, paste, placed, raced, traced, waist, waste.

***

Ten Sound Epistle Poems

Dear Seth,

Good lord, man, your breath
could cause serial death,
in depth, are you on meth?

Health Department

***

Dearest Doctor Dante Duarte,

Picante came with my entre
one day in May at a party
for Comandante Pandey.
Do I need an x-ray?

Both Ends Burning

***

Dear Maestro Rubik Moosic,

Your music is so therapeutic,
like art, often cubic and too sick.
Take off that fake tunic,
you too-thick prick.

Deaf to You

***

Dear Bird in the Sky,

I am just a guy—hate to pry,
but why do you fly? And
so damned high. Do ya
wanna die? Sigh!
And why
did you put this pie, nigh
in my tie-dyed eye?

Piper Cherokee

***

Dear Doctor Joe Joke,

You poor bloke, I nearly had a stroke sitting under this old oak trying to stay woke, despite being broke and wanting to have a smoke. Sorry our folk delivered a defective cloak which caused you to croak. May your wife find a new bloke, one less a joke, who’ll buy her a coke for a bit of a poke.

Dark Alley

***

Dear Airplane,

Please refrain from doing it again.
If you don’t abstain from using cocaine
in the urbane domain of Ukraine,
there will be no champagne,
no more in the fast lane,
just a big bloodstain
and that, Airplane, is insane.

King Cartel

***

TO: Darling Monique.

I visited your boutique last midweek and decided you need a critique. Without one antique to bespeak, nothing there is unique. I suggest a new technique, something less oblique with more mystique.

Bertha Betterthanyou

***

Dear My Bench,

Pardon my French, but sitting on you brought up a stench from the nearby trench. It could be that in a clench and due to the recent drench, there has drowned some drunken wench.

Old Man Butts

***

Dear Clancy Ad Hoc,

I hear you want to talk. Perhaps we could walk around the block? Your neighbors may gawk, and some will mock or throw a rock. That’s a crock at which we both balk, but we shouldn’t squawk. We can run like a jock and at them we’ll mock, but it is not a shock.

Flock the Hawk

***

Darling Waste Taste,

You’ve been graced
as on my test you’ve aced
based on how you placed
in the marathon you raced,
and the challenges you faced.
Our hearts you’ve graced,
and your shoes you’ve laced,
as I braced with how you paced.

Finish Line Lace

Look both ways at words and wisdom.
Time rhymes with little force of course.
Mind the gaps that humor provides until it hurts your sides.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 12, Metaphor for Murder

The prompt for day 12, a Friday, gives me the option to write a poem that plays with the idea of a tall tale. This could have been a mythical character, one I made up, or I could add to a real person’s biography.

My dictionary says play with means “to handle, change, or deal with (something) in a careless way.” It is a serious topic: crime, specifically murder. While I used mythical American comic book superheroes in place of real-life investigators/detectives during the reign of terror of serial killer Gary Ridgway, and the 20-year chase by said law enforcement, I hope my poem is not so careless as to upset or offend anyone.

Metaphor for Murder

Superman came, leaping, flying,
x-ray visioning. Batman came kung foo fighting,
as Wonder Woman and journalists
(Clark Kent?) did their thing.

The Green Lantern watched
at the green river shores as Aquaman,
and the whole damned Justice
Society (or League) of America
formed up
as the Green River Task Force.

Add J-Edgar’s FBI gang, and all
the cops—superheroes were
chasing a serial killer: one death,
then twenty-one, then forty-something
raped and strangled: all women
and girls. Forty-eight, then 49,
some say 71, maybe as many
as 90. No one knows.
Not even the magical
Justice Society of America
or any such task force.

Nineteen years later before some
non-superhero, a Danny DeVito-like
lab-rat scientist used DNA
to convict Ridgway (alive today)!

The limelight shined on, and
the superheroes garnered cred,
and confessions from
the second-most prolific
serial killer in United States history
(standing accorded by “confirmed” murders).

Look both ways at the merging of fact and fiction, reality and fantasy, truth and lies.
Mind the gaps for what magic science has yet to discover and journalism to uncover.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 11, Utterly Foolish

Howdy, Y’all.

A one-line poem is called a monostich. It’s a new form to me. For the 11th day of National Poetry Month, NaPoWriMo.net challenged me to write one (or more).

Utterly Foolish

Insanity: not exclusive to the mentally ill.

Look both ways because real saints cannot canonize themselves.
Mind the gaps for folly and error and always beware.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 10, Black Swan

To celebrate the achievement of ten poems to prompt, I am to write a poem based on a headline, cartoon, or other journalistic tidbit featured at Yesterday’s Print.

I selected one from The Bridgeport Telegram, Connecticut, October 22, 1954: “Pent up prejudices.”

Black Swan

To say
“I’m only human” is descriptive,
yet
it’s neither explanatory nor extenuatory.

But confirmation bias,
is as humanly normal
as old dogs scratching fleas.

I know I like it; I mean,
hooray for my side!
I like being right. But …

What if I’m wrong?
How do I control
for
them telling me lies?
Am I just
hearing what I want to hear?

Look and listen both ways.
Knowing we are imperfect leans toward self-awareness.
Mind the gaps in the political speeches
where back scratching helpfulness willingly hides.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 9, Ode to Shoes

As if I was Dear old Pablo, Keats, Shelly, or Sharon Olds, I’m to write an ode celebrating some everyday object. We have arrived at Day Nine of the annual challenge of writing 30 poems in 30 days (in April). I try to compose to the tune of Maureen Thorson’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) prompts.

I looked it up. An ode is a lyric poem usually marked by exaltation of feeling and style, varying length of line, and complexity of stanza forms. Generally, odes show respect for or celebrate the worth of something. I picked shoes for this poem and have likewise paid homage to my shoes (click to read it) in the past.

Ode to Shoes

I don’t recall them all,
My shoes and theirs,
the big and the small.
I poemed about one
old faithful pair,
but every day
my shoes are there.
In childhood,
ones for church
and everyday ones.
I have 12 pairs now,
that’s few
compared to some
like the dictator’s wife,
famous for so many
(and little else).

Special ones:
combat or flight boots, hiking, walking,
running; and those god damn shiny Corfam oxfords,
or polished patent leather (or high-gloss plastic for my laziness);
house shoes, golf, football (cleats),
leather, and motorcycle boots,
protective shoes
and fashion footwear, too.

Sandals, flipflops, mules, and
post pedicure odd—one-time use flipflop-ish-es with toe spreaders,
sexy stilettoes
and smelly LGBTQ+ or not
Birkenstocks,
fetish shoes bring pleasure,
while golden shoes
promise treasure.
Wingtips for boomers,
granny shoes for nuns,
shoeless folks: singers,
runners (marathoners),
dancers, poets, cave men and women,
shoeless Joe Jackson,
and shoes that made the rich richer.
Glass shoes with fairy tales,
magic shoes, and you will run faster, promised shoes.

Corrective shoes and recovery
or protective boots and shoes,
so many!—too many kinds
and types and styles and purposes,
but all shoes for us to use.

I’m wearing shoes, slippers to some,
and I am wondering if we the people
have more shoes than any other
article of clothing (I don’t),
but why the hell not?

The wonderful, useful, purposeful,
functional, beautiful, sexy, ugly, everything—
there may not be such a thing
as the ordinary everyday shoe anymore.

Look both ways and wear good shoes
(whatever they are, appropriate mukluks, perhaps).
Mind the gaps because even cliff climbers have their own
(bicyclists do too) special kind of shoe.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 8, What Just Happened?

And the beat goes on into day eight. The Napo dimension prompted me to write a poem concerned with an encounter or relationship that should not have happened; this due to time, space, age, nature, or any other reason.

I went sci-fi into a dream state of self-meeting-self. It happens because two materially different universes overlap during a time warp and interpersonal worlds mesh.

What Just Happened?

Time itself is not the same
from one universe to another.
Though parallel in thought—
they rarely overlap;
the two adjoining realities.
Yet we met.

Two mirrored persons
of numbered beings
sensing each other.

He was me and I he,
and for that brief period
of twisted time we could see.
I to the right and he to the left.

When you meet your true alternate self,
like a scratch on a record,
it is what it is and simultaneously isn’t.

As the overlapping of universes,
one sensory, real, and hard;
the other holographic waves of
semi-sensations are reflections of—
like near death experiences.

Communication is possible
as awareness is a reality
sensed telepathically.

Yet clearly
as self meets self,
if only
for a brief interlude,
as otherworld sparse realities
entangle, and no one knows why.

Look both ways and stare into the eyes of life.
Mind the gaps between dream state realities because
a thing can be true and simultaneously untrue,
where fact and fiction are confusingly entangled.