For today’s prompt, write a “what won’t wait” poem. Only you know what won’t wait. Maybe it’s falling in love or work–or death (one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems is about this topic). Something else that won’t wait is today’s prompt.
What Won't Wait
I don't know if it is just the circuitry of veins
I know I feel I am, minute by minute,
more made of rivers, rivulets, joining
I feel my hands pool
their surfaces widen some
a little, into lakes
small still
but still
mountain lakes
and an animal moves,
breaking a fallen twig
as it goes wherever it goes.
My hands are lakes.
And my legs now: I don't know.
My mind surrounds with bark, maybe
Or moss or just numb
something thickening and
glowing just some
like a dark path
in a dark wood
that leads to what is here now
just almost
the sleep that won't wait
that turns me into a
joins me at
water here and
i am the lake
I am adrift on
sleep
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Day 8
It’s time for our second Tuesday of the month, which happens to be Election Day here in the States. Hope everyone has fun casting ballots today.
Here are the options for today’s “Two for Tuesday” prompt:
- Write a paranormal poem. In case you’re unsure, click here for a thorough definition of the term “paranormal.”
- Write a normal poem. I’m not sure what a normal poem is, but if you do (and you want to write one), go for it!
Still Night. Still, Night
There were the usual things: the sudden
drops of temperature,
the hangers
swinging on their own
in the closet in the Green Room.
Always on a windless day.
Everyone had a story.
We were all outside. All of us. All there.
He looked up from his paper
as someone passed the window
-inside.
Deep in the night, of course,
in the Green Room, of course,
I was alone, of course,
and the grasp sliding up my leg
woke me - it turned and pulled!
I screamed and ran and jumped
into my sister's bed, we laughed
but .. they just were there.
Even if we didn't believe in them.
A cousin said: whispering.
Even in the afternoon.
Another, later, after our loss, lost in grief,
felt a possession and, thrown back
on the bed as if pushed, let out a cry that was not his.
It was multiple, he said
More than his own.
How could he explain it?
No one liked the hallway.
Even those who didn't acknowledge the activity.
Especially, no one
liked the Green Room.
But on that night, alone with the oldest, newly motherless child.
there were three thumps - the exact sound: body dropping to the floor -
What was that?
Don't move!
Later. How much later. I had lost her in the house.
Thump! (two) Where are you?
Where are you?
There in the parlor in the dark, just sitting.
- upstairs, now!
We slept in the girl's room. Refuge sought in the last
echo of childhood innocence
- the tiny bed, covered in stuffed animals.
The bed outgrown, too small, too small for two and innocence:
- no.
My sister's room was actually less haunted.
It was safe in there somehow. At least from them.
But she had just died at it was too much.
The girls room was next to that, their parent's room, a door
between them, the bed we were in now next to the door.
We huddled together there.
She had no idea how frightened I was.
All I could do to be strong was not
scream, not cry, not let on. Then, soon, I was alone,
the girl fluttering to dreams,
All I could do to be strong was not
scream, not cry, not let on. Then, soon, I was alone,
the girl fluttering to dreams,
needing no one
flutterflutterflutterflutter
flutterflutterflutterflutter
flutterflutterflutterflutter
flutterflutterflutterflutter
The door didn't flutter it banged against the bed
in dark on dark i could see it knocking
wood against wood
shuttering hard
moving and knocking
most actually
moving and knocking
most actually
look outside then: bright moonlight. bright.
leaves. not not a breath of wind
outside there look
not a breath of wind
breath oh, or breath for the ghosts whose house
this has always had been
what did they want from me?
if they knew me they would know I would know
this house has always been theirs
since the john dropped dead in the Green Room
right inside one of the girls
in the Green Room
at the end of the hall
and, who then?,
carried him to his carriage
dressed again like a good man, but dead
forever now
and slapped his horse's ass
and the clop echoes down the way
maybe there had been more
deaths. surely there had been.
the attic ached with history
and knew, and muttered to us,
how brief we ourselves
how brief we ourselves
would be
the door banged against the bed
againandagainandagain
and the stuffed animal
unwound
made its noises and lit up
singing
and a third body - thump
it was not my sister's ghost
nor my sister's body
no.
they were there
that night wild as the wind I wished was outside
not one leaf turned
did they want me afraid?
whose bodies were there then dropping?
no one was there.
it was just me and the girl
and the still dark night
and the still dark pool at the end of the lawn
and empty beds in every, many room
never again to fill.
did they know?
what could they want me to awaken to?
what could they want me to do?
to realize I could not protect
this child? or myself even?
No. It was about them.
the last time they would
have a home
a place to observe
- one guesses -
the living
and the dying
those who have bodies
that can scream
and can cry
who will hear until they themselves die
the untranslatable need
in
flutterflutterflutterflutter
flutterflutterflutterflutter
a need that will be
denied.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Day 6
For today’s prompt, write an addict poem. There are lots of possible addictions out there–some of them serious and some of them not so much. For instance, there are times when I think I’m addicted to work and pop (“pop” is what we call soda or cola in Ohio, where I was raised). Anyway, I realize today’s prompt might stir up some skeletons for some folks. For instance, I doubt I would’ve ever written my poem today without this prompt to prompt me.
[geez. i try to be positive (as I'm certainly feeling positive!) but these prompts. . . 'S'okay. Still anyway wanting to finish the Lifeguard book although the skeletons need to keep dancing some for that to happen].
Black Thing
It was so obvious to us.
It was so simple.
Just don't - don't do it
and all the petals will stay on their flowers.
This thing you do, how your elbow bends.
Don't do that and we can stay and laugh
and never grow old.
And that, how your mouth opens that way.
If only you would just not do that,
we will not begin to die like this.
Nor you. More important: nor you.
Please. It's simple.
Isn't it so simple?
Just don't don't do it.
That. Just don't do that.
How your mouth opens
and your head tilts back
and you close your eyes
in ecstasy of oblivion
while we tug at your hem
and say, "We're here.
We're still here. Please!
Just don't do that thing."
And in the bloodstream
the spirit stirs awake. We tug
at your hem, say, "Please.
It's so simple. Just don't."
And when you open your eyes
they are black:
the whites are dimmed, the iris: black,
the pupils widened, widened, widened and black.
The eyes look down on us.
And the twisting mouth opens, differently.
And the Black Thing snarls. It says,
And the Black Thing snarls. It says,
"I hate being a mother."
And - that fast -
there is no trace of you in you.
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