For today’s prompt, write an inanimate object poem. Obviously, you could write an objective poem about an inanimate object, or you can write from the perspective of the inanimate object. If you can think of a third option, have at it.

Black Spot

Still there

in three dimensions

Inanimate black spot

There, still, in the corner of my eye.

Just a bit lower than when I first saw you.

I guess I have to say I'm sorry.

It was an impulse.  It happened fast.

The truth is I am sorry.

You are a marvel and had travelled far.

Maybe from the east coast.

Maybe from the garage.

I think you lived in the philosophy section.

Near "The Critique of Practical Reason"

which now is on my desk and has a leg or two

just above the barcode.

And you

Black Spot

Seem to be waving for help

There, still, in the corner of my vision

with one of your remaining legs.

Help won't come.

Couldn't anyway.

There is no bringing you back.

All your efforts have come to this.

If it helps,

one day too

Something a thousand times bigger than me

Out of nowhere will just end it

And I will get hit hard with something, fast
that I'd have no way, anyway, of beginning to comprehend.

Day 7

Write a hardship poem.


Western Black Rhino

You don't even know what keratin is
Or that they could just chew their goddamned fingernails and
could get a magnificent hard on
if the science worked.

You are upside down
tied your wrinkled ankles
Flying upside down like a new creature
(because the world will need one)
high, high, calm

the sun setting below
the clouds below
dreamlike
the flamingos in a lake above
the route taken above
winding back
and back in time

if you weren't too dead to see it.

Last
Last of
Last


Last
The very last one.

Shavings from your horn worth more
per gram
than cocaine, poolside in Abu Dhabi.

Is this a hardship?
One day in the papers.
DNA lost to infinite time,
infinite space,
unravelling sequence of this
this brute beast
- sometimes agressive

Upside down now
To be raped in death
horned ground to a powder
for an exorcism or
to ease

a modern headache

at least one final headache
eased

at least one little man who feels tonight
like a man

like a big one

Day 6

For today’s prompt, write a poem from the perspective of a person who either works at and/or visits a place you like to visit (that’s not yourself). For instance, a fry chef at the Krusty Krab, a bouncer at a nightclub, waitress at a restaurant, etc.

Not feeling this one.  Maybe because it's not about memememememE!

Maybe because I don't go anywhere.

Hmm.

Perhaps a Haiku is in order - though I was settling in to write an epistle this morning.

He has his skis on

New Years Eve's full moon glows peach

cresting the blue peak

Day 5

1. Write a concealed poem. Could be about a concealed weapon, concealing emotions, concealing intentions, etc. Cover it up and write about it.
2. Write an unconcealed poem. Okay, take everything from the first prompt and uncover it. Reveal everything that’s hidden.

Matinée Idol


Everything I do, I obscure.
You will know how much I care
if I leave quickly, turn the corner.

If I vanish, I vanish
and close my eyes to keep
the quick, stunning sight of you,
projected, glowing, flickering,
against the far dark wall
of the chamber
of my quiet
velvet-seated heart.

PAD 4

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) Sheet,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then write the poem. Possible titles might include: “Rap Sheet,” “Blank Sheet,” “How to Fold a Sheet,” “I Look Like a Ghost Beneath This Holey Sheet,” etc. Feel free–as always–to bend and break the prompt to your will. The poeming is what matters.



Warm Sheets

For four nights now I have dreamt of loving
of being fully, truly loved.

In the first, he had made a new world for himself,
had moved and now occupied the full bend in the river.
His grounds were peopled with friends and it wasn't odd
that he had a temple there by the water
and was in a ritual of himself, of his living.
He was beautiful, golden in effect.
Alive and clear.
And he loved
me
and I had to believe it
because he came to me
and declared to me
love.
He was exactly him 
and he said, looking right at me
and meaning it,
"It's you."

On the next night
in a busy market or alley
or corridor of a kind.  A blousy woman
selling antiques
noticed my ring.
"Yes.  I am married," I announced. "To him."
I said his name.
And the him was different from the one in the first dream.
He was there.  He turned to see me, astonished at what I said.
As was I.
Though we both have always known.

The third night there was a woman - who?
I've lost it - only a scent of hair remains - but the warm sheets
held me close and gently
and it was sweet
And that she and this she and 
the sheets, warm, were indistinguishable
feminine, caring, kind and lucky,
together, together and near.

And now I try to recall
last nights' dream

I remember love, loving
a vagueness of loving

I was setting up a new studio.
I was building a new table.
The dream was populated with partiers
some orgy with a golden egg caught on film
- so many people I knew

and one who understood me
who was busy but near
who cleared the room for me
who built a table for me
who kissed me on the back of my neck
and shone a light on the blank wall before me
and on its canvas
and it was clear what he meant when he told me, 
"This is love, my love.  It always will be."

PAD 3

For today’s prompt, write a “the last time I was here” poem. Imagine you’re returning to a spot (physical, emotional, psychological, etc.): Is it a good thing? Bad thing? What did you leave behind (if anything)? What’s there to welcome you back (again, if anything)?

Morning


The last time I was here
it was yesterday

and I can't recall it.

Who was I then
- waking, standing up stiffly,
having some time to do some
things.

I did them, largely, by the time the sliver
thin moon dipped into the Pacific.

And today
I have some time.
There are things to do.
There is a sense of having

some time.
How much - perhaps -
was the question
yesterday
and today

and tomorrow I - perhaps -
will be here
and this hour

the light of the November morning
will glow the white curtains beige as if
from underneath

The day will feel familiar, but also brand new,

and I will glimpse but not grasp
the imperative
of either.