Day 2 - She said

not sure why I only post here when this poetry challenge thing is a going but that seems to be how it is.

the prompt: For today’s prompt, write a what he said and/or what she said poem. Maybe he or she said a rumor; maybe he or she gave directions; or maybe he or she said something that made absolutely no sense at all. I don’t know what they said; rather, each poet is tasked with revealing that knowledge.



Morning News

She said Uncle Spink had a missile silo
buried in his dairy farm and he received
small checks every month for his whole life for the inconvenience.

He said he lived in this French village -
that this, right here, was the beam he would
knock his head on accidentally - when he was AWOL.  This very beam.

She said the top floor was where the officers stayed
and that the dirt on their boots made her life
a misery.  Sometimes she still thinks they are there, bumping around.

He didn't say much, but muttered, "Goddamn.  Goddamn."
whenever Nixon would speak, the spots on his own hands and the tremble
more visible every day.  His fishing boots were folded away, his wife - different.  Still sweet.

She said, "There has been terrorist activity downtown."
I looked out the window and saw a bright blue sky
and a robin hopping in the scrub.  I met the eye of my neighbor who has since died.

He said, "There is no doubt civilians have been killed."
She said, "I can't just leave the county."
He said, "Hang onto my neck."
I said, "Where are we going?"

Day 1 - Fool

You'd think I'd get tired of starting these and not finishing.  My motivation is ... fairly ... good for trying to possibly follow through.

For today’s prompt, write a foolish poem. It’s April Fool’s Day, after all. Let’s loosen up today with a poem in which we’re fools, others are fools, or there’s some kind of prank or tomfoolery happening. Fool around with it a while.

If it's possible to fuck it up

I'll do that.  I volunteer.

It begins with water for the coffee maker - a bit on the floor

socks. wet. and then all down hill from there.

wet grinds missing the basket

jacket worn without a button - burst in front of the chest, of course

the red light, no wreck but, well, not stopped for the makeup spilt in the purse the laughter

from eighteen years ago peeling over the forest lost

the traffic, heavy, reckless, the heart empty am I fucking it up? i don't

 know

what I don't know but I know it is vast, so vast that I, even in moments of bright self esteem,

am only an infinitesimal flint bit of all this flake waste piff of alas a fool

for loving, yes, him I will never hold, for failing to send in the envelope, 

for missing the train, all the trains, and staying in and paying triple for waiting until now a tired

try for youth

and hope

direction

while the whole world shouts, stabs and edges towards the head

of the line

the socks dry bit by bit on the radiator 

and by the time I get home, tired and wordless, they are burned

yellow suns at the heal

ready to burst into flame

without meaning