If I Could Have Any Wish

There would be no blazing colors,

     no deafening fireworks,

no boisterous milling crowds

     of pleasure-seekers.

Only you and me

     in a darkened room.

Only the electric touch

     of your body and mine.

------------------------------------------

Congrats to Abhra Pal on the occassion of his first dVerse hosting! Abhra, using the joyous Hindu festival of Holi as inspiration, invites us to consider the combination of color and love. Contrarian that I am, I went colorless. Kind of. 

Sindoor Sun

(Painting by Sunita Khedekar)

Veiled from the setting sindoor sun

by a charcoal roof

and shaded downcast eyes,

I still feel your tears on my face—

what are these thoughts I think

in the gray of a fading day?

Just to know, for my own sake,

I look from the window

as we used to do, to see

if the fishermen’s boats

still glistened in the

setting sindoor sun.

__________________________________

For dVerse. Grace has us writing with color in mind, using artwork by Sunita Khedekar for inspiration. It's been such a long while since I've posted anything, but Sunita's work is so powerful I just had to give this a go. Click here for info. on sindoor. Please visit dVerse and write something you can share with us; at the very least, you owe it to yourself to check out Sunita's art. Incredible work!

Poppy's Brush Pile

Poppy’s Brush Pile

Poppy liked to tell the story

about the time he did a little

yard cleaning and had a grand old pile

of brush and leaves, probably

about ten feet high more than likely,

and reckoned he couldn’t  

bag it all, that Ketchem’s

didn’t have enough bags to sell

even if he’d a-wanted to, so he

figured on it awhile and settled on

a big burning as the best way—

shortly the pile would be gone,

and while it was a-going he could

set on the porch and just watch.

So he took a dry bunch of leaves

up under the pile and dropped

his half-smoked Marlboro.

One tiny spark and a smidgen

of smoke and nothing else.

Well, this ain’t working

worth shooting, he said.

Then he went to the porch

and got a-hold of the morning paper,

crinkled it all up, stuffed it

in the pile and lit a match.

The paper burnt quick

and awful hot but petered out

before doing its business—

‘bout like my pecker, Poppy said—

so he went back to figuring.

Then he remembered that five-gallon can

of regular gasoline he had sitting

in the shed, and he wasn’t about

to let a damned brush pile

make a fool of him. He took the can

and scrabbled to the top, standing

like the precious good Lord

come again on Mount Olive,

and dumped the gas all over the pile.

‘Course it took awhile to pour

five gallons, so in the meantime

the fumes worked their way

all into the little pockets

of air. As you might guess

but Poppy didn’t, not quite yet,

when the match was dropped

the blast blowed him

clear into the flower bed,

heels heavenward. He said he smelt

singed ass-hairs for two weeks after.

He liked to tell this story and say,

See there, honey, even if you reckon

you got the best idea, you still

might want to figure awhile.

------------------------------

For dVerse Meeting the Bar. I have been absent from the bar for a few months, and sincerely missed everyone. Peak season at work, tons of overtime. I still was able to do a fair amount of reading, but very little writing. Just couldn't find the motivation, the inspiration, the whatever it is that makes me put pen to paper and try to make sense of my world. 

Anyway, our host Tony Maude has us hearkening back to previous prompts, and since I missed so many I felt a lot of freedom. This poem is meant for the prompt Victoria offered, in which she invited us to write close to home, personal, in the common speech of daily life. I actually had another poem ready that I wrote last night, but things happened and I didn't submit. Then as I was falling asleep I thought about this story, so I wrote it out this morning.

Apologia Pro Vita Sua

On the bill tonight at dVerse Form for All—Googlism poetry! Sam Peralta invites us to create a list poem by using the search results from this site. To create mine, I searched for “nico” and chose several results that were incomplete sentences or thoughts that I felt I could do something with. These make up the first line of each stanza, unmodified from the original. The second lines are just whatever first surfaced in my disturbed head. The title is Latin for "a defense of one's life."

Apologia Pro Vita Sua

nico is finding that his fumbling around with this pal is leading
       to unavoidable personal discomfort for both parties.

nico is based on the fick method,

       but is a bigger ficking method ficker than a real fick.

nico is also ex

       -plained very well by nothing known to humankind.

nico is a quadruped robot which is based upon principles of 4

        legs.

nico is designing

       a fool-proof means of escape.

nico is ready to stop while dani is clearly interested in

       continuing. It’s an age-old plot.

nico is without a doubt extremely smart
       -assed.

nico is really impacted by the beauty

       of a stiff bourbon.

nico is gay

       friendly.

nico is currently for sale for more information please contact us at

       the discount booth.

nico is one of the most flabbergasting electric bass virtuosi i've heard
       people say, but they were undoubtedly lying to me. Or I might have said that

nico is one of the most flabbergasting electric bass virtuosi i've heard
       and the word “flabbergasting” always makes me think of enormous butt cheeks vibrating 

       from the forcible expulsion of air from the rectum.

nico is a happy boy who is great with children of all ages and dogs too

       --it’s the big humans he has a problem with.

nico is as nico does

       so get over it.

-----------------------------

Lonely Night

Lonely Night

“My solitary watch I keep,”

Bill Monroe sings high lonesome.

“So fare-thee-well I’d rather make

My home upon some icy lake

Where the southern sun refused to shine

Than to trust a love so false as thine.”

**

a pile of yellow

toenail clippings

thought I threw

those things

out

with the nonchalance

of god

**

Yet, why be so theatrical

in your desolation.

In this way

the floor

speaks to me.

I think it means

.

and I think it is

the floor

**

            Castaneda asks, What is going to happen now, don Juan?

            Nothing. You won your soul back. It was a good battle.

            You learned many things last night.

**

(So perhaps that’s where it stands.)

------------------------------------------------ 

Anna Chamberlain has us going to the edge of meaning and sanity for tonight’s dVerse prompt. Well, anyway, that’s how it seemed to me, as we discovered a variety of experimental poetry techniques. Take the time to read the article—Anna did a great service in providing all the information, and there’s really no good way to summarize it here.

I tried to write spontaneously, piecing together many disparate, jarring sources and images in service of a single theme; however, I think there may be more flow, or at least more noticeable meaning, than one would expect to find in experimental poetry. I couldn’t help it. Hopefully there is enough here to make it fit the prompt. (The quotations are from Bill Monroe’s song “Midnight on the Stormy Deep” and Carlos Castaneda’s book The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge.)

On Our Last Day

On Our Last Day

On our last day, a backyard swing

Ka-reeked and squawked. You took the ring

   I’d given you, a promise made

   Before our love began to fade

Like some forgotten sun-struck thing,

And threw it. The last day of spring—

A fine time for abandoning

   This ever-sickening masquerade.

                        On our last day,

The kids outside began to sing

Some rhyming song. (“Bye Baby Bunting”

   I think it’s called.) And while they played

   I gripped your neck and pulled the shade,

Heard Daddy’s gone a-hunting,

                        on our last day.

-------------------------------------------

Tony Maude hosts tonight's dVerse Form For All with an invitation to write a rondeau. I hadn't written this form in years, but Tony's excellent article gives the pertinent information. With so many matching rhymes the form is a challenge: R(efrain)aabba-aabR-aabbaR. I stayed pretty traditional throughout; however, I did take some slight liberties with meter in the last stanza since it seemed to fit the unsettled, degenerating mindset of the narrator. 

Moloch

Moloch

    Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone!

                                             --Allen Ginsburg

Drilling   spilling   pumping

                                                blasting

                                                      

removing every mountaintop

to find the pearl

of great price

casting the star

named Wormwood

into every river

made bitter

unwilling to say—Enough!

until every son and every daughter

has passed through the fire . . .

I stand off

and see the smoke of burning,

and the circle-jerk

of those who wax rich

through the abundance

of her delicacies.

O God!                         We all

(yes, stupid fuckers one and all)

invoked this beast insatiable

conjured

him from the smoky pit in order

to have our way with him,

this pet that does not merely

bite the tit

that feeds it—

it devours all

sometimes slowly

                              over time

sometimes

                   in one huge gulp.

--------------------------------

Tonight is beat poetry at dVerse MeetingtheBar. Even if you aren't up to writing tonight, you owe it to yourself to head on over to read Gay's informative article. I took inspiration tonight from Ginsburg, John of the Apocalypse, Jeremiah the Old Testament prophet, and human greed and stupidity. Seemed like a good blend for a beat poem to me.

Running

Running

I return today to Shingle Creek,

walking in the fine fall afternoon

alone. Wading through the shallows

to the east bank, right where the creek

cuts close to the old Bronson place,

I feel like the last ancient Israelite

crossing the Red Sea, barely ahead

of Pharaoh’s chariots.

                                     Crouching low

under the barb-wire fence I swish

through the shin-high grass, the humming

dragonflies hunting insects, shining

their blues and greens

in the lowering sun.

                                 I hear

a tractor in the distance, the rumble

carrying far in the clear air,

and I think about that day

we ran, you and I, making paths

through the field, pretending we were

dirt bike champions, shifting gears

by the rising tone of our growls.

For hours we ran, stopping just to catch

a lazy red corn snake sunning

on a sweetgum stump.

                                     I know

that with these old knees

I couldn’t run like that now, not by

any luck or necessity; and you,

old friend, only in memory

will ever run here again.

--------------------------------------------

For dVerse MeetingTheBar. We are writing about friends, friendship, loss, in honor of Dave King. Dave was a regular contributor to the online poetry world (at least until his health limited his participation), and his kindness and craft will be missed.

Home: A Sorted-book Poem

Home

Paths to the heart,

the immense journey.

The way of a pilgrim,

given

the unforeseen wilderness;

the dispossessed garden;

the trail of tears

back to Cain.

The heart of man,

the hidden wound.

A world lost,

far from the madding crowd.

The way of the heart,

mountains and rivers without end.

Reaching out . . . .

Remembering:

you can’t go home again.

---------------------------------------------------

For dVerse FormForAll. Sam Peralta has given us a project to complete—sorted-book or spine poetry. The idea is pretty simple: take a number of books and arrange their titles in some kind of coherent order. It’s a whole lot of fun. I’m all for any project that ends up with books scattered all over the living room. I started out with about 50 interesting titles, finally whittled it down to this. I was delighted to be able to use the last title, since today is the birthday of Thomas Wolfe (earlier today I posted a little excerpt from Wolfe). Interesting how many books I have with the word heart in the title—you’d think I was a cardiologist or something. I also have a hell of a lot of Wendell Berry titles represented. I figured that would happen.

Relics

Relics

The mountains that in ages

past were level plateaus;

the shoreline that has

not kept its place;

the bones of extinction layered

like words in a holy book,

telling the story

of what once was;

the changing sky,

a glimpse of the universe

passing, rolled together

as a scroll.

Everything

everywhere

always

never

            the same,

yesterday’s relics,

like the boarded-up shops

in any small town.

---------------------------------------------

For dVerse OpenLinkNight. Claudia's post had me thinking about culture, history, place, and this is what came out. 

when my time comes

when my time comes

these days I rarely

have a prayer to say

but one in my

stumbling way

to whatever

listening gods

when my time comes

let me be as the trees

releasing browning leaves

letting them tumble

gently down

------------------------------------------

Goodness. It's been a while. Tonight for dVerse Meeting the Bar, Victoria Slotto has tempted us to write a spicy, erotic, or touchy-subject poem (death, religion, politics, hot-button issues) using metaphor and image to elaborate the point. Of course I chose to write about death, a touchy subject for some people, with a little religion thrown in for good measure.

The Skeptic

The Skeptic

this poem wanted

to be written

l   o   n   g   h   a   n   d

do you see what i did there

making my poem self-aware

as if things become

more believable

by little tricks

of consciousness

i don’t believe

my own tricks

no i’m not truly skeptical

since i have an inflexible

belief in doubt

--------------------------

dVerse MeetingtheBar night, hosted by poet Brian Miller. Brian has us paring down to essentials, crafting stories of 55 words, no more, no less. I suppose mine might be more anti-story than story, but it goes that way sometimes. Check out all the great poets posting tonight, and maybe write a poem of your own to share. Happy Birthday, Brian!

Visitation

Visitation

She wrote him scented sentences that curled from page to page,

like circling smoke from burning beds—like passion, fiery rage:

You know, my husband never guessed a thing until the end.

You know yourself I can’t be blamed; I don’t think that I sinned.

I left my heart behind with you and miss your searching gaze,

and why, my love, don’t you come by on Visitation Days?

-----------------------------

Tonight at dVerse FormForAll, host Gay Reiser Cannon is reminding us of the traditional structures of prosody, namely line and meter. I strongly recommend reading her post; it is informative, especially since most poets today favor free verse and  ignore traditional lines. Even if you aren't fond of formal poetry lines, you can use them for practice in the same way a musician practices scales--before you become a good improviser, it helps to have practiced your scales enough to have a developed ear for what works sonically. 

The above dark little piece--birthed from watching too many 48 Hours special reports, I suppose--uses an iambic heptameter line (that is, seven baBUMPS). I also used rhyming couplets. Both of these were stylistic choices, hopefully adding to the feeling I wanted to create. Below is the original draft of the free verse poem I started working with. 

She wrote him letters,

long scented sentences

curling off the page

and into the margins.

They said nothing,

they said everything:

how she left

her heart behind

with him, how she

missed his inquiring

touch, and how

her husband never

suspected a thing.

The Last Meal

as you sit

elegant

in the soft lampglow

i notice

careful shoulders

              sloped away

no telling word

hurdles the pearls

pulled tight

on dimpled neck

-------------------------------------

I know, this is very late. I've been slack about writing new poetry. Laziness plays a big role. Not felt well the last few weeks, some kind of tummy virus, which did give me poopertunity to make some new doo-doo jokes but otherwise left me uninspired. Anyway, last night Sam Peralta hosted the dVerse FormForAll, prompting us to try our hand at writing Twitter poetry--that is, poetry that fits within the character limits imposed by Twitter. I thought, Surely I can write a poem of 140 characters despite illness and laziness and lack of inspiration and all the other enemies of creativity. So here it is, exactly 140 characters (using creative spacing for a few characters). I also tried to channel my inner Wallace Stevens, in memory of the anniversary of his death today. The title is not actually part of the 140 character limit. If that troubles you, just pretend it's not there.

Senryu and Haiku

Senryu

this delicate skin

housing organ blood bone soul

a wilderness tent

Haiku

the snow falls in piles

floating on the frozen ground

like little white ghosts

Tuesday night means dVerse OpenLinkNight. It's actually Wed. morning, but there's still some time to write a poem, send it in, and join in the friendship of fellow poets. 

A Dead Deer Reminds Me of William Blake

A Dead Deer Reminds Me of William Blake

She hit it before she had time

to swerve or stomp on the brakes—

the deer wide-eyed in the windshield,

then stretched out on the roadside

as if placed there on purpose.

A tan and white mound of once-life

now dying, the round red intestines

exposed on the grass still

digesting the last meal of clover.

While the deer stubbornly died

she trembled at the curb

in helpless sorrow and cried,

and I couldn't help but think that her tears

were proof that sometimes we can

even comprehend Blake:

Every thing that lives is Holy.

But what about the dead? Blake again:

If thou art the food of worms,

how great thy blessing!

A day later the buzzards gathered,

nodding bald heads in agreement.

_______________________

Last October I wrote my first poem for dVerse, a marvelous online poetic community. It happened to be a Meeting the Bar prompt. So imagine my happiness to find that for tonight's Meeting the Bar Tony Maude has invited us to choose a prompt from the previous year to use as inspiration for a poem. I blended a few prompts together for this one--obviously, Victoria's Literary Allusion prompt. And Anna's prompt, The Unfathomable, which I didn't have opportunity to write for the first time around. One might also judge this poem as an example of Anna's High/Low Art prompt. At any rate, while it's been a fun year, I wish I could have been more consistent. A poet's family cannot live by words alone!

Ephemeral

Sam Peralta is hosting dVerse FormForAll tonight. He has set us on the task of writing sedoka, a Japanese poetry form with two stanzas, each stanza having a 5-7-7 syllable count. Sam gives a good explanation of the other features of the form--y'all are invited to craft your own and link up! 

Ephemeral

The slow water of

Tumble Creek reflects white clouds

and the hungry green heron.

Nothing stays the same.

It may be no human eye

Has ever seen what I see.

Balloons

Balloons

They gave balloons to all the kids,

in hopes (my guess) of keeping

them occupied as parents shopped.

Helium-filled, squeaky red spheres

of shimmering joy, tied on each slender

wrist, and the scheme did work,

for a while at least, until we

tried to take it off to strap him

in his seat and he screamed

holy hell; and we fingered

the string to feed him supper,

and he fought us off; and it was

time for bath and there was No Way

he was going to wear it in the tub,

but he gave our ears such a

buffeting that we gave in, washing

around the knotted white twine.

Then time for bed, and now

for sure he would obey or else,

and the hollering resumed; finally

I had enough, took the balloon

in my furious hands and wrenched—

Pop! My sudden act of benevolence.

And later, sleepless, I wondered if God

felt guilty for ending our fun

over one shiny red obsession.

---------------------------------

--Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. Come join in!

And Now, Before Kneeling

Rondelet. A cute, wistful little poetic form, introduced by Tony Maude for dVerse FormForAll. The repetition made me think of the monotony of life, which made me think of growing older, which led me to write this cute, wistful, somewhat religious, strangely humorous piece about getting old. The knees go first! Took some slight liberties with the form--didn't worry much about syllable count, and used slant rhymes. And left out a word in the last refrain. Tony said I could! 

And Now, Before Kneeling

And now, before kneeling

I think about the strain.

And now, before kneeling

I get that old-time feeling;

I’m not as young as I have been.

What will it take to rise again,

Now before kneeling?

Who Should Inherit the Estate

Strange happenings over at dVerse FormForAll tonight. Our host, Charles Miller, prompts us to try our hand at Dada, avant-garde, chip-choppy poetry. There are many ways to do this--perhaps the simplest way is to cut up a text into words, phrases, sentences, put them in a bowl, randomly pick them out and arrange them into whatever meaning you can perceive. I'll explain my own procedure at the end, in kindness to those who couldn't care less how this poem came about.

Who Should Inherit the Estate

Can I suppose

            it is sometimes

exceedingly good

            when Papa and Mama

told an Officer anything?

            Further, though it

had on hats, my

            family concept

is not very pretty,

            and it was--

is--after all,

            her take.

-----------------

Ok. So I went to Gutenberg to find a free, non-copyrighted text to print out and cut up into words for the random prize drawing. I noticed that Gutenberg hosts non-English texts, and had a strange idea. What if I take a portion of a non-English text, copy and paste some random foreign words and phrases into MS Word, take that document and put it through a translation tool, then re-arrange what's left as I thought suitable? Wouldn't that be fun? That's what happened here. I used a Danish text.

Here is the original, which you can gladly skip since  it probably just looks like monkey-typing (unless you know Danish or a closely related language).

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33632/33632-h/33632-h.htm

Jeg vilde saa gerne vide, om det er morsomt at være en Eventyrerske, for det er øjensynligt det, jeg nu maa blive. Jeg har læst alt muligt om det i en Bog; det er at se godt ud, og ikke at have noget at leve af, og dog have Fornøjelse af Livet — og det har jeg i Sinde! Jeg har ganske vist ingenting at leve af, for man kan ikke regne 300 Pund om Aaret for noget videre — jeg er overordentlig køn, og jeg véd det godt, og jeg forstaar at sætte mit Haar og tage mine Hatte paa og den Slags Ting, saa jeg er naturligvis Eventyrerske! Jeg var ikke bestemt til at spille den Rolle. — Fru Carruthers adopterede mig for at efterlade mig sin Formue, da hun den Gang var Uvenner med sin Arving, som skulde arve Godset. Saa var hun saa inkonsekvent, at hun ikke skrev et ordentligt Testamente — derfor er det, at det Menneske skal have alt, og jeg ingenting.

Jeg er tyve Aar, og lige indtil forrige Uge, da Fru Carruthers blev syg og døde paa én og samme Dag, havde jeg det sommetider meget behageligt, naar hun var i godt Humør.

Det kan ikke nytte at lade, som om man kan lide Folk, fordi de er døde, naar man vil skrive sine virkelige Tanker. For det meste hadede jeg Fru Carruthers. Det var ganske umuligt at gøre hende tilpas. Hun havde ikke Begreb om Retfærdighed, eller om noget andet end sin egen Bekvemmelighed, og om hvor meget andre Mennesker kunde bidrage til hendes Fornøjelse.

Grunden til, at hun i det hele taget kom til at gøre noget for mig, var den, at hun havde været forelsket i Papa, og da han giftede sig med stakkels Mama — som slet ingen Familie havde — og saa døde, tilbød hun at tage mig til sig og opdrage mig, bare for at ærgre Mama, fortalte hun mig ofte. Da jeg kun var fire Aar, havde jeg ikke noget at sige i den Sag, og hvis Mama havde Lyst til at give Afkald paa mig, blev det jo hendes Sag. Mamas Fader var Lord og hendes Moder jeg véd ikke hvem, og de havde ikke gjort sig den Ulejlighed at blive gifte, det var derfor, at stakkels Mama slet ingen Slægtninge havde. Da Papa var død, giftede hun sig med en Officer og rejste til Indien og døde, og jeg saá hende aldrig mere — og saadan gaar det til, at der ikke er en Sjæl i Verden, som kommer mig ved, eller som interesserer sig for mig, saa jeg kan ikke gøre for, at jeg er en Eventyrerske og kun tænker paa mig selv, kan jeg vel?

Then I randomly chose these phrases.

som skulde arve Godset

Da Papa og Mama

noget videre

mine Hatte

i godt Humør.

en Officer fortalte

og tage paa

havde Familie

er overordentlig køn,

om det ikke Begreb

det sommetider meget

blev det jo hendes

kan jeg vel?

Putting it into MS Translator gave me this, which had some interesting lines--but too little sense (I make a piss-poor Dadaist, I suppose).

Who Should Inherit the Estate

When Papa and Mama

anything further

My Hats

in a good mood.

an Officer told

and take on

had Family

is exceedingly pretty,

though it is not Concept

It is sometimes very

It was, after all, her

can I suppose?

To end up with my final creation I kept all the words, changing only word order, punctuation, and capitalization. Notice I kept the title as is! Ta da! or should I say, Dada!