Day 5

For today’s prompt, write a broken poem. The poem can be specifically about something breaking or just include something (or someone for that matter) that’s broken. Get as creative as you want about interpreting what’s broken: cars, hearts, toys, spirits, codes, etc. Heck, I guess–unless we’re writing prose poems–we’ll automatically be breaking lines.


Broken Poem


It is wrong to assume
nothing else can be broken.
But dust cannot break,
nor mold, nor ash.


The art broke
The dishes one at a time
The spoken words broke
and the trust underneath them.
The floors, the stairs, the sidewalks
broke. Tables.  Toddler's tables.
Pool tables. Inside tables. Out.


The ease broke
The dreams
The evenings, the lights
out, broke
The stars falling, broken.
Bottles, of course, broke.
The night's peace, broke
The morning's peace, broken
The afternoons vanished into
into a darkness unbroken.


The pride broke
The will broke and broke
The will broke and it broke
The will broken
The money gone,
broke and broken 
even the stretching beach
cut right to its edge
the waves breaking
without a spread to peace
That peace, broken.


It is wrong to assume

nothing else can be broken

even when nearly nothing

is left to break.

Day 4

For today’s prompt, write a poem about finding something unexpected. Maybe it’s a note from a friend or a bag filled with money (or guns). Maybe it’s finding a lover with someone who’s not you. Or finding a secluded place to sit in the middle of the forest and think.


Before Canada


I'm surprised how quickly it happens:
There is a black bear now
big in his world but small in mine
alone, of course working his way
over my down comforter
that is white like a too-early snowfall
and is cold between his relaxed
black claws, the cold
telling him to hurry


He stops for a moment to test time
the end time of seasons
and the tilting wind
where the blankets fold down 
slope
into the valley of broad, open sheets


It will take him an hour or so to reach the pillows, 
piled high - fantastic mountains
but there, somewhere in there,
he will enter the dark crevasse
find the cave
that is near where I will lay my head
where my head
(through tunnels of darkness) later,
past him there curled, will widen
just enough
on the other side into a glow
we share


dreams


animal dreams


Already there is a bear afoot in my world
I will stay up for a bit
and give him time
to find a place that is right
for his long slumbering winter.

Day 3 dumb

For today’s prompt, I want you to take the phrase “Sort of (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles could be: “Sort of cool,” “Sort of strange,” “Sort of not into getting out of bed in the morning,” or whatever! It should be sort of fun to read all the poems today!


Sort of late.  geez.. four days in, two days behind.  Well.  a lot on my mind.  Happier though.


Okay. Let's crank one...






Sort of
a side
tossed off
bit of
a piece of
a little
later bit of 
a day of
peace.


. 


There you go. Cut print.  Next.  (It was a stupid prompt anyway).

We interrupt this poetry challenge for the real thing

Cannot believe I'm actually going!

Nice title too: Banff Artist-in-Residence.

well god damn!  gonna sing that Alberta, Alberta song again.  - and gonna work my ass off up there!

Me, Winsor Newton, the Canadian Rockies and Lord knows what else?   

-- Fuckin' A!  - Good job Me!!!

2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 2

For today’s prompt, use an epigraph to kickstart your poem. That is, use a quotation. You can use a favorite of your own, or if you’re having trouble thinking of one, I’ve provided a few below. To format an epigraph poem, a poet places the quotation between the title and the body of the poem, while also giving credit to the source of the quotation.

Wedded


My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket. My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane.  ― Tom Waits

My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket

like lips need other lips like

the creek needs its burbling and how that sound has nothing

and everything to do with the moon and the cold, first cold

My reality needs imagination 

like a pan needs hunger

a lookout, heartache

a table, the soft rain of convesation

a wall, its own impermanence

demolition or slow folding, impending

My reality needs imagination

like a body needs a context to float in

- sweet, clear - 

suspended between what worlds

in whatever time is

My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane

like the ranting desperate needs the morning songbird

and the sound of cars going by

and how that sound has nothing to do with liquored insight (connections and symbols too big yet wound too tight - constricting as the thought of a black hole, hungering) but exists because under it is a road that joins

another, always.  
There are stop signs and that is good.

The sun shines on these roads, not as a simile, but as a golden ribbon

of how we get from here to there.

There is a here.

And a there.

My imagination needs that.

Without it it is a blotch and a smear

a frantic or quiet shimmering that needs

the crystal corner of a cup to land on and shine out

in a diamond shaped thrill of light so I can say,

"I see," and know that I mean much more

by that

than that.

2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 1

It’s time for another challenge! Arrrreeeee yyyyyoooouuuu reeeeeaaaddddyyyyyy to pooooooeeeeemmmm?

I know I am! And today just happens to be a Tuesday, which means two prompts! For those new to the PAD challenge, you can pick one of the two prompts or do both–if that’s how you roll. So here are today’s prompts:

• Write a procrastination poem, or as I like to call it a “I’ll get to it tomorrow” poem. Or…
• Write a proactive poem, or the old “I’ll get to it today” poem.

Today

Today
I won't mortify my flesh
Won't take a brick to my head
Won't look in the mirror disappointed to not see there
someone, anyone else.

Today

The numbers are auspicious, auspicious enough

Already I see books back in their shelves

and tasks sorted like seeds by size and their likelihood

of growing.

Quercus lobata, smooth in my hand.

And perfectly ready.

What greater mystery than potential

And - given the right conditions - 

the likelihood for the roots to search and tap

the seed to tree

the artist to see

Today 

The doves outside I see

are out of seeds

The little seed house above them empty

bobbing in the first November wind

I will fill it

And provide

And spill seeds generously

For them and see the seeds fall

like golden tears

of a maiden

in a tale 

that turns now - today - 

today now,

- as I will it -

towards light

and her unexpected sweet luck.

Halloween Again - Finally going sexy this time???

Slutty Stewardess??

Nope.  Well, there's always next year...