25/ Another Poem for Children

                                      
                                      Under the Covers

I know it's past my bedtime

but I am not asleep.

My eyes are widely open,

my concentration deep.

Even in my cozy bed

with blankets piled up pink,

of things like dreams and slumber

I cannot even think.

I know these pages all by heart,

but I need one more look.

Although I've read it seven times

it's still my favorite book.

24/ A Poem for Children

Barking Birds

Canada geese wave playfully;
a squiggly "V" divides the sky.
Their conversation sounds to me
like 50 dogs have learned to fly.

23/ Little Poem - Crocus

Crocus

Somewhere underneath the white,
below the soil, where there's no light,
a race is run and April wins:
Winter ends and spring begins.

22/ Itsy-Bitsy Spiders

I wrote this on the fly today, typed directly into this post, inspired by . . . well, you'll see.


Itsy-Bitsy Spiders

My desk faces a rough-hewn hemlock wall;
matching beams stripe the ceiling.
The wood is dark, making it impossible
to see where the infinitesimal spiderlings
come from—the ones that appear
as the faintest grey dots on my monitors.

The dots move in that wonderfully unique
way spiders have, making them instantly
recognizable. They appear every summer,
trusting me not to cover them with the stacks
of papers that grow like stalagmites around
my keyboard. More likely they don't think
about me at all, but I think about them.

I think about their invisible nest on the ceiling,
how many siblings share the egg case(s),
what kind of spiders they might be, and where
their mother is hanging out. I try not to think
about the ones I don't see on my monitors—
the risk-taking ones that almost certainly land
every summer, weighing nothing, in my hair.

21/ Introducing the Clogyrnach

Perhaps you've heard of the Clogyrnach, but I hadn't. Until now. This poem can be as long as you like, but each stanza goes like this:

A rhyme - 8 syllables
A rhyme - 8 syllables
B rhyme - 5 syllables
B rhyme - 5 syllables
B rhyme - 3 syllables
A rhyme - 3 syllables


How Varied the Sounds of a Cat

How varied the sounds of a cat!
You'd think they'd be meows, but that's
not all by a mile.
One sounds like a smile—
sharper—while
one's just flat.

20/ All I Can Manage This Week

Pre-Ticks

Happy, excited,
we would drive to school
to free our kids
for lunch with us,
dining out to celebrate
the first day of spring.

19/ Writing as a Famous Person

It's interesting to do this, and I thought I'd do a lot more of them than I have so far.


                                      Eva Braun on Her Wedding Day

A man like you has made me a wife;

I can hardly wait for covetous eyes.

Doubt can’t mist their narrow minds;

you’ve chosen me before the world.

I’ll dangle my hand from a pretty car,

fingers callused from stubborn oars,

one golden now, like all the Fraus

who clucked at me through hoary stares.

You ask if I would die for you.

Silly man, you know I would.

Have I not sworn to follow you

even unto death, my Wulf?

I felt this promise from the first,

darkroom lit like planet Mars,

stirring rod moved back and forth,

my hand warm above the pans

of chemicals, and then I’d watch

your face emerge a hundred times.

Something about your eyes, I said,

but then we met.  But then we met.

Husband and wife.  Like anyone.

We need not embrace for them to know

you lift my hair and press my skin,

and let me touch you now and then.

18/ Epigram 3

To Those Sweaty People at the Gym

The basic difference between us is thus:
You do repetitions with lots of fuss,
then do them again till you can do none;
I do none, and then I'm done.

17/ Epigram 2

To a Vomiting Seven-Year-Old

Forgive us, pet, those silly names;
we thought it just a pleasant game.
Happy Hurler (I liked that best),
Prince of Puke, and all the rest,
we hoped would turn you from your tum
and make you think of things more fun.
We figured they would bring you cheer;
too bad you didn't like them, dear.

16/ Epigram 1

Ye gods . . . I'm nine days behind.

An epigram is a short, witty poem that is easy to remember and written to be remembered. They have no particular form except their brevity. I've been known to end a poetry reading with one of these. ("Leave 'em laughing.")


To the Sanity-Challenged Woman on Main Street

I sympathize, I really do,
but with your insulated shoes,
mackinaw, and wooly socks,
I'm sorry, but you make me hot.

15/ A Colorful Found Poem

A friend teaches English as a second language to adult immigrants. These were statements made by some of them. I think they were from Africa.

The Paintbox, a found poem

Orange, I feeling so happy with life.
Red make me think in the love.
Purple makes me think of wind.
Green makes me think of sunrise.
Red reminder to peoples left me
          they are in the sky.
Orange makes me sit down.

14/ Report on the Galapagos

I've been picking away at this for a week or so.

Report on the Galapagos

There’s the boat I never boarded

for the cruise I never took.

There’s the stateroom, there’s the table

set for meals I never shared.

See the islands never hopped,

the hiking trails I never followed.

See the iguanas, the Lightfoot Crabs,

Darwin’s finches, the giant tortoise.

Tame, they are, and so they wait

for my approach that never comes.

Fifty years ago we sat

sipping scotch. Or was it vodka?

I said I didn’t want to marry.

So many places I wanted to go.

He said, “I’ll show them all to you.”

I’m sure he meant it at the time.

I never flew to Ecuador,

never touched volcanic rock.

There’s a whale shark never spotted.

There’s the snorkel never tried.

My footprints never marred the sand.

There’s the sea, and here am I.

13/ Found Poem: Letters From the Vets

In 1995, the 50th anniversary of the end of WWII, I helped a large number of WWII veterans locate their military buddies. This poem is from some of their letters.

Letters From the Vets

It's been 50 years
Our reunion is coming up
Last known address was in 1942
Can't remember his middle initial
Please try
We were buddies
I'm praying that you might locate
I would greatly appreciate
He was my good friend

Haven't seen him for over 50 years

If you could find one, any, or all
Some of the finest men
I would be forever indebted to you
These men were my shipmates
We were mechanics on the island of Umnak
We were in Italy
In the Pacific
We all served on the USSSC 1027
Patrol Squadron 45 on Attu
We fought together
The name you found was his son
He died last year
He died in 1949, but I spoke with his brother
I talked to his wife for an hour
Thank you for your help
It's been 50 years

12/ A List Poem

After this was published I was contacted by a representative of a social services agency asking if he might make 600 copies of the poem to distribute to caregivers. It's hard to put into words how that made me feel. It was all good.

To-Do List for My 37th Wedding Anniversary

11/ Winslow Homer: The Gulf Stream

This was definitely written for the WritersBBS. The challenge: Choose a painting from several offered, and write a poem to go with it. I've since done this for real-life exhibits, and really enjoyed it.

                         Winslow Homer:  The Gulf Stream

Fear not for me, for battered bones

encased in splinters sodden, old;

skin baked to shell, eyes salted shut—

my sinew has not dried to dust.

Though sea beasts test the toothsome hull,

though whitecaps’ clamor mocks my thirst,

radiance floods this shielded soul;

our Father hears what none have heard.

My rescue sails before my eyes,

divided though it be in two:

Man will haul me to the shore,

or God will lift me to the skies.

I’ll bless the wind, the fervid sun,

the glitter of the ocean’s jewels,

creatures true to all they own,

when at last I reach my home.

10/ Kyrielle

I learned about the kyrielle this morning. It's French, and consists of at least two 4-line stanzas (quatrains) with eight syllables each line and a rhyme scheme. The last line of each stanza is a refrain. I must say I'm not crazy about the eight syllables. I'd rather do four beats per line, putting the stress where I want it and not worrying about the syllable count.


Gillian (a kyrielle)

She stands near flowers on the porch,
sunbeams exploding in her hair.
She lights up spaces like a torch.
I took the picture. I was there.

Horse and rider levitation:
beautiful girl, beautiful mare.
Thrilling hunt seat equitation.
I took the picture. I was there.

Seated in the flower garden,
rainbows of petals everywhere.
Begging all the insects’ pardon,
I took the picture. I was there.

He holds his just-born little girl,
the image of paternal care.
Mysterious, how life unfurls.
I took the picture. I was there.

9/ Bette Midler, Like Cream

Bette Midler, Like Cream

From all that noisy joy,
from the hair and hips,
the voluptuousness,
the legs, the heels
the thrusting arms,
the softest bosom,
the laugh, the grin,
two quiet images rise
to the top, like cream
to be tasted first and best:
Her rooms, washed the sunlight
yellow of Carl Larsson's
watercolors, and, with the last
note of her goodbye hanging
breathless in the air, tears
shimmering in Johnny Carson's eyes.

8/ Tango

(Obviously not a new poem. haha)


Tango

Thin women dance.
Arms circle them twice;
hipbones collide.
Spines like whips,
they dip to the floor,
stiletto shoes
stabbing the stares
of perspiring men.

We are too soft, you and I.
Adhesive in wide swaths,
attached skin to skin,
pulp to pulp, hands sliding
shoulder to neck, languorous.
Lips parting, legs parting,
we make lousy dancers.

7/ If Dogs Could Purr

If Dogs Could Purr

If dogs could purr,

my chest, the part that holds

my heart, would vibrate,

and my throat would hum

to tell you how I feel

with your hand

stroking my back

and your fingers

smoothing the fur

around my ears like this.

I know if I rise to thank you

with my tail and tongue

the spell will shatter

and you’ll return

to your work. So I lie

here motionless, silent,

unable to do

what would come so naturally

if dogs could purr.

6/ Haibun

I've been enjoying sharing poems written in years past, but I realize I really should write something new for the blog. This is not a comfortable thought, as I haven't written any poetry in quite some time. I'll start small.

To quote an internet source:  "The haibun is the combination of two poems: a prose poem and haiku. The form was popularized by the 17th century Japanese poet Matsuo Basho. Both the prose poem and haiku typically communicate with each other, though poets employ different strategies for this communication—some doing so subtly, while others are more direct."

The Blog, a haibun

Our small group writes every day—for ourselves and to each other. Every post, every comment, makes us think, makes us laugh, knits us more tightly together.

no one to talk to
some days used to be like that
but not anymore

5/ Body Language

A few years ago I thought it would make an interesting exhibit to pair poems with some of my father's vintage office party pictures. I didn't get very far with it. Here's the result.

Body Language

Marriages are suspended

the second Friday of December

when desks are cleared to make room

for cheese and crackers, and the vault

opens to scotch and gin.

She marvels that recent events in his life—

the new house, the new baby—didn’t even slow

the inevitable holiday slide into man

on the make. Just one drink, and he’s looking.

Does he want me to look, too? she wonders.

She notes his odd posture, his slightly spread

knees. Is he trying to show me what he’s got?

But her truth is that he has nothing

she wants. Except perhaps the little ranch

house in the suburbs. And the baby.

As I do the arithmetic, I realize it's sooo unlikely these two are still alive. And it also seems beyond the realm of possibility their descendants would see this and initiate a lawsuit. But indulge me in my paranoia, please, and imagine your own version of their faces. But if you'd rather see their real faces, send me an email. I'm on Gmail as Editoria.

4/ Bad Poem (Bad, Bad, Bad Poem)

This was beyond embarrassing. I read a notice of a bad-poetry contest that offered a cash prize to the worst poem they received. I entered the contest, using a poem I'd written for a similar BBS challenge years earlier. What the contest rules failed to mention was that selected entries would be published in a cheesy, "leather-bound" anthology without explaining that the poems were intentionally bad. Had I known that, I never would have put my real name on the poem. To make things worse, a sales pitch for the anthology was mailed to me in a window envelope that showed the whole effing poem. And my mail carriers are a curious bunch.

Sigh. Here's the poem.

3/ The rest of "Silage," a pantoum

A swing hangs from the highest beam

did they find the time to play?

trusting the rope to their own child

while their chores pulled them away

Did they find the time to play?

a quick wash, and then the grace

while their chores pulled them away

from the dinner quickly eaten

A quick wash, and then the grace

not a glance at what they’re given

from the dinner quickly eaten

fellowship in silent nods

Not a glance at what they’re given

the chisel digs into the wall

fellowship in silent nods

initials cut before they fall

2/ August - My First Pantoum (see post below)

Here's the first half of my first pantoum, c. 1970s.  Note that not every repetition is exact. You can adjust them to make them fit the context.

Silage

The barn has beams of solid trees
initials cut into the walls
a dungeon floor of hard-packed dust
and tiny holes where insects bored

Initials cut into the walls
for friendship or in early lust
and tiny holes where insects bored
to those who live a century later

For friendship or in early lust
a swing hangs from the highest beam
those who live a century later
trusting the rope to their own child

1/ August - Poetry & Form

The Pantoum

If you ever find yourself in the position of needing to write a poem (an unlikely scenario, I know), consider the pantoum. A pantoum consists of four-line stanzas that are repeated in a pattern: Lines 2 and 4 of each stanza are repeated as lines 1 and 3 of the next stanza. You can go on like that indefinitely, and have the last stanza follow the same pattern. Or (I prefer this) you can write the last stanza this way: The first and third lines are as usual the same as the second and fourth lines in the stanza above it, but lines 2 and 4 are the same as the third and first lines of the very first stanza—making the first line of the poem the same as the last.

Because writing a pantoum involves a lot of filling in blanks, it goes quickly and seems relatively easy. As with all structured forms, you may be surprised at what turns up on the page. It may be something you hadn't thought of at all.

Oh, crap. I forgot about the word limit.