Click on the graphic for Sammi’s page and more 85-word wonders before you absquatulate.
May I Stay?
After the poetry reading
everyone prepared
for their independent absquatulation,
with coffee in their bellies
and books of poems
in their hands.
Handshakes, hugs, and
complimentary laudations
were passed around
like drinks at last call for alcohol.
Those ambivalent moments
when the emotion of wanting to stay
gets trumped by the needs of the day
tell of our human dichotomy.
Back we go into the world
of confusion, confrontation,
and hate. The place we love
too much and too little.
Reading some Reading
might help.
Look both ways but write your poems and read them to the world.
Mind the gaps wherein common sense has flat collapsed.
Note: Peter Reading (27 July 1946 – 17 November 2011) was a strong-willed English poet. His verse is described as “anti-romantic, disenchanted, and usually satirical.” Glad I’m only labeled cantankerous.
My book of poems, “Any Way the Wind Blows” was launched yesterday.
For this weekend, it is available almost world-wide on Amazon at reduced prices.
These books make great gifts, but F-word and S-word warnings.
Click on graphic for Sammi’s page and more writings.
The soldier whispered
into the radio,
we’re surrounded.
need help, now.
target on my coords.
She heard the shell
coming,
but not the explosion.
Look both ways in combat. Mind the gaps, but war is war.
Take many of them with you when you go.
Capt. Nargis Kabiri, commander of Alpha Battery, 1st Battalion, 9th Field Artillery Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division Artillery. She is the first female field artillery commander for the 3rd Infantry Division (US Army).
While I have not officially “launched” my book, Any Way the Wind Blows, it is available on Amazon in paperback or as an e-book. It’s even on Kindle Unlimited.
Click the cover for the Amazon e-book page.
So, my excuse for not blogging or playing is pretty much gone for now.
As for this post,
Click graphic for Sammi’s post page and other ideal poems and/or prose.
Instead of saying perfect
when I tell you my phone number
or I say that I’ve not eaten
anything
since before midnight,
You could say, ideal!
Ya see?
It’s a mental image thingy.
Ideally, true perfection is illusive
while ideal could be any seven numbers
following my area code.
Look both ways and mind the gaps when you choose your words.
Today, I was to cook up a poem in two parts. The recipe was supposed to focus on food or a meal. Part of the poem was to season the food as a person, and I was to give it some spoken dialogue.
Boiled versus Fried
First this:
Newlyweds were we,
having moved to above her garage
from over on Waverly Way.
She fixed supper for us,
and I first met up with boiled fucking
okra, AKA, slimy green snot.
It was nineteen hundred and sixty-six;
we were 19; something, like this, well folks,
you just never forget, or forgive.
I’m certain I heard the grassy flavored
seed pods of gumbo thickener sing eat me raw, you city slicker. We be worldwide.
I wanted to puke. I could’ve just died.
Embarrassed, I mannered-up and sighed.
And I swallowed the snotty lady’s fingers.
Little evil green monsters, till one day…
Then this happened…
A crunchy cousin, nicely coated,
in some restaurant, called theirselves fried okra
provided texture to my tale and it was, step back, Jack, we gunna treat ya well.
Old John Henry called it all “Okree,”
like old aunty of the Mallow family
with a funny first name
and John seemed to fuss over the food
in a good way, but I passed on boiled,
stewed, raw, or wrinkled. Fried
is the only okra for this damn Yankee.
Look both ways and learn to try, but texture counts.
Mind the gaps, but India grows most okra and now has the most people (not China),
and they must eat a lot of okra over there.
It is Yolonda’s birthday. To celebrate with NaPo, I am to write an index poem (me neither). I could use language from any index or invent one. It is kind of an index to parts of her life.
Yo’s Index (chronological)
Arrival in Cisco, 47; Commencement into the World, 64; Abilene Discovery 65; Blissfulness, 66; PA pronouns after laughing in the Chapel, 66; Travels of Ankara, Turkey, 67; War Hymns, Chig-gar-roo-gar-rems, Hullabaloos, Caneck! Caneck! and au revoir Air Force, 68; Hello Number One, 71; Woodville bounce-back, 72; O-1 with you (she’s back), 72; here/there/everywhere, 73; Hello Cowtown, 74; Welcome two to the gene pool, 74; Redneck Mothers, 75; Happy alert Thursday, 76; How much more of this?, 77; She was number three to stroke back Mother’s Day, 78; Goodbye Stranger, 79; Island fever, 80-82; Missed the bus, 83; Rabbit fever, 84; Rancho Swimming, 83-95; Goodbye friends, 86; Ride the Fiesta, 86-92; Shadows of darkness; 90-97; All Hell breaks loose, 96; Heaven sent, 99-01; Hell sent, 02-07; Emerald water/white sand, 12; The three mountains and it’s 50 as we, 15-17; Near Austin City Limits, 18-23.
Look both ways.
It all boils down to a book of life, which requires an index.
Mind the gaps and always remember names and places.
“Okay, but is it a poem?”
Today I was prompted to write a poem titled “The (blank) of (blank).” The first blank was to be a kind of plant or animal, the second blank an abstract noun.
The poem was to have at least one simile that plays on double meanings or otherwise doesn’t make “sense,” and describe things or beings from very different times or places as co-existing in the same space.
The Dove of Independence,
The Dove of Resistance
Are you Texan, Mexican, Mourning
or just a dove? Like a pigeon, a bird,
or an easy mark?
A Vlad target in late fall, even some of
the white wing clan; are you game
on those special occasions?
Does the cooing help you or me
make peace from your innocuous innocence
or your purity? Do you pacify or fight on?
Maybe a little less like white wing
and more like Blackhawk to win the war.
Can we deal with that winning pair?
Love conquers all, but right now
they need some hard ass, bald eagle, boom-boom.
May art like Palance be their winning war dance.
Or can VZ in the UKry find a winning way,
and stand up with humor to the wounded bear.
There’s no independence without resistance.
Look both ways at peace through conflict.
Mind the gaps but win the damn war.
Click on the meme for the NaPo page and more poetry.
Maybe I was a bit heavy with this prompt, but here is the story of Blackhawk and the white winged dove.
Today I was prompted to compose a love poem with three required aspects. It must name at least one flower (the Texas state flower is the bluebonnet, and they love them), contain one parenthetical statement, and have some
unusual line (like this)
breaks.
This Love
This love of ours
like bluebonnets flower
in Spring flashing brilliance
of blue, purple, white, red,
and like it knew,
maroon (if you look close)
in April then waning to green
by May. Yet,
This love of ours
thrives with
life—stronger after hard
wet Winter passes. The
flower gone
the plant lives like
our love. Fruitful.
Reliable. Dependable. This love of ours, like no
other’s (spreading, seen, felt)
cannot be trampled or destroyed (though some have tried).
Look both ways, forgive but do not forget,
let love be seen with eyes of envy.
Mind the gaps,
but don’t let them be more than
a seam on a garment, a patch in a road, or a lone weed in a glorious garden.
Photo by me.
Click this button for the NaPo page and more free poems.
One week to go. Then poetry month and the NaPo challenge conclude.
Today we are to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. Define normal. Define review. I did a little rabbit hole hunting for things that should not be, but are reviewed. One guy reviewed life, and I thought it was great. I wrote a humorous epistolary poem.
Dear God,
I’ve tested this free soul
every day of my long life (thank you).
I understand this review
will be kept confidential.
First, my old soul has not aged well.
Mold and fungus are all over it.
What is it supposed to do again?
It seems to be useless like my appendix,
wisdom teeth, and nipples.
It’s just easier to remove.
How can I write a QA review
if no one knows what it is
supposed to do? One lady said that you
use it to keep score. Another said,
“you’ll find out soon enough.”
I felt threatened but don’t know why.
When I took it out, I noticed
feeling lighter with less guilt.
Is that normal for a soulless man?
I don’t see this part lasting
for the full length of eternity.
I’ve lost the receipt, the warranty,
maintenance records, and instructions.
Satan low balled me then refused to buy it.
The local body shop won’t touch it.
To be honest, this OEM soul
seems mighty worn out considering
it will not move and does absolutely nothing.
And what about soul music
and soul food? Is there more than
one kind, or is it a lot number thing?
Basically, my overall review and feedback
is that if this thing has a purpose,
please advise, and I will test accordingly.
Otherwise, I’m sure your QA department
can provide further information.
Sincerely,
Bill
Look both ways when reading reviews.
At the extremes, they’re often emotional nonsense.
Mind the gaps when someone tries to explain useless parts.
Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).
On the fourth Sunday of April 2023, we’ve been granted the opportunity to write a poem composed of numbered sections. Each section was to be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view.
Additionally, the setting was to be specific, ideally a place where we once spent much time, but no longer do.
I used parts of The Age of Anxiety: A baroque Eclogue by W. H. Auden for methodological examples and guidance. Auden used several techniques in his book-length poem. One was identity tags (“Emble was thinking, Now Rosetta says, Malin says” … or sings, or Auden simply names the character) for who was speaking or thinking. He also explained places or set moods in prose. However, he did not use numbered sections. I must (mine is not to reason why). I have spared us both the book’s advantage of a 49-page introduction.
The Masque of Nave (“’oh, heaven help me’ she prayed, to be decorative and to do right.” R. Firbank, The Flower beneath the Foot)
He recalled to me…
I sat, stood, and kneeled in the back-most pew
of the bright, modern, incensed church nave.
Why was I there? What did I want?
Jack later said…
I don’t believe all this makes sense, celibacy
without a cause, trans faces reality, real versus
what you think this place can do for you.
Elle complained…
Not a wretch am I, and exactly from what
do any of us need savin’? They will come
if you feed them, and the music isn’t too bad.
Adam looked and talked…
I could live like this, with some of you.
Hungry for your touch. I can show you
the way to find heaven on earth, in church.
Then Ted said…
I will let you, if you allow me. We need
secrets to keep. This place smells, but
however it is, let me be part of it.
Maddie told us…
Ted and Adam can play their sick game
without us in hell to help them; they are
blind and will never see time go so slow.
I recalled…
This is not the place for us above it all.
No one will find a way or feel the fall.
What matters most is how we lived.
And Jack repeated…
What you sense is not the house of God,
but the way to be seen as safe or good,
none here will go farther than the end.
And I said to Jack and Judy…
Ted and Adam are alone and now dead;
you’ll both soon go to join them there;
the end patiently waits. But it always comes.
Look both ways into the good and the evil.
Even the snake only wants to be left alone.
Mind the gaps in all relationships.
People worships for reasons unknown,
often even to them.
Just click on the damn button.
Note: I did not use Roman numerals. WP did that on its own when I indented the poem. But they work okay, right?
For this Earth Day, also a Saturday, I was to select an Emily Dickinson poem and change it by removing dashes and line breaks. I was then to add my own breaks as well as to add, remove, or change words. Basically, I was to make a Dickinson poem mine.
As I read various versions of her many poems, I learned that others over the years have taken license to make changes to the point that I cannot determine original forms or words. In the case of one book I have, an entire stanza of a poem was either added by one or deleted by the other.
Because today is Earth Day, I chose a Dickinson poem that relates to nature: “The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants” – (1350); or XXV, page 97, in my copy of The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson (intro and notes by Rachel Wetzsteon). Generally, Dickinson did not title her poems, thus the numbers.
Bill’s Magic Trifle
The Liberty Mushroom is
the elf of plants at evening,
but not at morning, in its truffled magic hut
it stopped upon a spot as if it always hesitated.
Yet, its whole life is shorter
than a snake’s delay
and faster than the strike.
It’s its vegetation’s juggler,
the ever-changing nature is like a bubble
on the ground or floating to the trees.
I feel as if the grass was pleased as I
to have it grow in and among her blades of
scion of Summer’s circumspect.
If Nature had a more supple face
or she could pick a favorite fairy;
if Nature had an apostate fungus
the lowly liberty cap mushroom would be him!
And a favorite ‘shroom among us.
Look both ways because then is not now.
Mind the gaps left by migration and imagination.
Happy Earth Day.
Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).
Our Literary Journey 