Category: writing

Finding Corners in Fitted Sheets

Intensity drops in,
early, before I have a chance
to set the day in order –
puts me on the defensive.

She clings, encourages me
to hold on, her sick creativity
awake with impulsivity –
I am ailing, loyal, compelled

to launder the linens,
desperately trying to find corners
in the circular fitted sheet –
dependent on daily chores.

She wants to talk about feelings –
but I am still numbed from sleep,
from this never-ending illness,
from this perfectionist drive for optimism.

She wants to embrace, hug me
into submission, lecture me on the benefits
of organics and loose-leaf teas, and I am
too busy avoiding her to be grateful.

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(My chosen prompt for today’s challenge is “circles can’t have corners”)

Narcissus and Echo

A tragic flaw
does not always a hero make.

She thought it did –
despite her beauty,
despite the Zeus’ who pursued her;
she set her sights on the unattainable.

Was it self-degradation or the sting
of a jilted spouse that tarnished her –
either way she lost her voice,
her autonomy shattered.

He tolerated her –
to a point – let her fawn
perversely intrigued,
no doubt flattered,
by her willingness to cloy.

Love was not in his DNA –
he lacked the missing component
so wrapt in his own drama;
he had no empathy –
no capacity for compassion.

Was it Nemesis, or
did they just reap what they’d sewn –
for theirs was a tragedy of Greek proportions –

the more distant he grew
the more she desired him
like a flower, too delicate to grasp

the less she demanded for herself
the less visible she was to him –
meaningless words lost on deaf ears

Sadly, theirs is a common tale –
though mythical in its telling, the patterns
repeat – love continues to elude.

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(Pretty sure you can guess today’s prompt.  Hope you enjoyed.)

 

 

Rebellion Incited

Listen up!
My words, like children,
need tending to, codling

I can’t just go all willy nilly and let them run amuck

although

they are liking the idea

and what’s that knocking at my door
strange ideas….

oh, this will never do –
I keep a tight ship here –
order and perfection
those are my mottos

the children are getting out of hand
best banish them to the basement
until they calm down, but wait…

there’s sawdust
and garbage down here
(how could I have been so reckless)

Really, I wasn’t expecting all this commotion

and there’s the door again –
Oh dear!  Just as I feared –
the church ladies are here
and any moment they’ll
start sermonizing
and I’ll feel guilty
for having
let the children
loose
for
having
entertained
imperfect thoughts
for…

What the hell!

I’m an artist not a babysitter!  Why am I worrying about judgment from a bunch of prudish old ideas about how poetry should be executed?  I’m in charge here, right?

Children, gather round
I’ve got some tidbits –
snack-sized morsels of ideas
for us to nibble on –

we need to start a rebellion.

 

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(Today’s challenge is to rebel.)

6 Wheels

He drives; I sit
armrests down
blanket secured
seatback reclined.

We are trucker-high
panoramic witnesses
living a transformer life –
retractable walls, 6 wheels

bus-like we navigate
destination discovery
former stagnation distant –
we are nomads, defying roots.

He drives, and I sleep
two old people undertaking
a journey of impermanence
thriving in each given moment.

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(Today’s challenge is to write a paragraph describing some aspect of life and then by erasing words to create a poem.)

Blurring Blogging Lines

“Morrell Nature Sanctuary” is a poem I wrote for the Story Circle Network’s poetry writing group.  It is also my post today for my other blog (non-poetry, mostly non-fiction), One Woman’s Quest II.

If interested, check it out.

Just curious:  Did you even know I had a second blog?

Have a good day!

Written Here

I need a sponge
all purpose
barely poetic
or a conduit to make sense of tunes
liberating articulation
familiar
contrived
warmed by night
untouched by honey

Locked images
accomplished phrases
written here

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(Not sure this makes any sense but today’s challenge is to take a poem and respond to each line (separately and backwards) to create a new poem.  This poem arises from the work of David Stones, “Upon This Page”, found in his book of poems:  Infinite Sequels.

The Infamous Ice Storm

April, in Ontario, is as unpredictable
as my father’s temperament –
sometimes warm and encouraging,
sometimes icily treacherous

like that morning, in 1973, when
coaxed by the early appearance of buds
and the mildness of a morning breeze,
we donned confidence instead of coats.

By noon the winds has shifted direction –
rain rapidly turned to sleet then freezing,
and we children escaped school early,
sliding our way across yards, marvelling

at the force that had turned trees into
glass sculptures, imagined ourselves
arctic explorers returning home to
hot chocolate and mother’s worried brow.

Father had not been heard from in hours,
and the absence of traffic attested to
the impossibility of the roads, and we
felt the weight of helplessness descend

fearful for our father’s life,
fearful for his state of mind –
his storms no less frightening
than the one that raged outdoors.

A scratching on the front door
set us all on high alert, and in
stumbled father, a ringer for
the abominable snowman

his hair and brows dripping
icicles, his pallor wan despite
the blueness of lips, the reddish
chafing of cheeks and nose –

one hand clenched in an icy fist
the other clamped onto a box
hoisted upon his shoulder – and
before anyone could utter a word

the ludicrousness of the situation
hit me, and unfiltered, I cried:
“You could have died out there,
but you saved your case of beer?”

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Our challenge to day is to write about a family anecdote.

Forgive Her Wickedness

I know my sister’s wicked,
have been witness to her acts,
but believe me when I say
the fault is not her own –

You see she had a tenuous start,
was fragile at her birth, and
well, the coddling that ensued
instilled her beastly ways –

tantrums, she found, effective,
threats quite useful too, in fact
I can’t ever remember a time
when ‘no’ meant no for her.

So now that she’s a real Queen
ruling with treachery and wrath,
well whose to blame but those
who set her on this path, and

this is not the full confession,
I’m ashamed to say, you see
the mirror to which she turns
for advice, well it’s another

one of our contrivances –
no magic actually involved –
holograph and distorted voice –
a sibling’s nasty parlour trick

So I hope you’ll understand
that when Snow White entered
our midst – all purity of heart
and youth’s radiant beauty

we saw the perfect opportunity
to make our sister writhe, plotted
to avenge the years condemned
to her shadow – the evil all ours.

(Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to demonstrate the human side of a classic villain.)

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Rowboat Dreams

A rowboat is a useful thing,
to get from a to b, but should
you dream you are stranded
with only one oar,
in a cesspool of sharks,
then I’d say you are hardly
equipped to handle the situation,
but don’t bail –
all you can do is hang on
and wait for the cavalry
(or better yet, Coast Guard).

Remember, save the rowboat
for romantic sunset cruise –
along the shore is best –
or an afternoon of fishing;
better to travel in deeper waters
with a more fitting vessel.

(There, I think I am done.  The NaPoWriMo challenge today is to write a dream interpretation for one or more objects listed, which wades into my interest zone.  I’ll leave the audience alone now.)