Novice Kidnappers
I fear they were incompetent for asking such a ransom
for a victim so loquacious and something short of handsome.
He was opinionated, scrawny and rather long of tooth,
smelly and most bothersome. In fact, he was uncouth.
If they had been more prudent, they might have had the skill
to choose a better target whose wife hadn’t had her fill,
but as it was, she wouldn’t pay, and so they changed their tack.
They demanded a much larger fee–or else they’d send him back!
Prompts today are incompetent, prudent, ransom, loquacious and tooth.
This hibiscus flower image was not taken in my own garden, but at Quinta San Carlos, the wonderful resort where we had our writing retreat. More photos to follow.
Cancelled Flight
No architect of reason can save them from their plight.
No proffered catnip ransom restore their former flight.
When lethal paws unsheath their daggers, hummingbird and finch—
Their wings, stilled from their flight, lie scattered on the bench.
whirred
Prompt words today are architect, can, ransom, plight and paws.
Broken
All of my injuries told with such relish—
all so severe that I need not embellish.
I broke my tibia, tore my meniscus.
My feet pads are swollen. My eyes are non viscous.
My doctor has told me that there is no doubt
that I’m suffering rickets, edema and gout.
My bottom parts swelling, my top drying out.
I guess that the truth is I’m just wearing out.
(Hyperbole and humor, folks. I’m fine.)
New Birth
The phone rings four times in the very early morning.
I reach between the bars of the hospital bed
I have been sharing with you for the past hour
and grab the handset of the phone,
hear the long beep of the fax connecting
to announce Art Fest 2001
for the fourth time in the past two days.
Three times I’ve asked to be taken from their list.
Yet still, in this early morning
more intimate than our honeymoon,
the phone rings and rings,
as though even as you decide
to be rid of the world, the world is not quite rid of you.
At the end of your life, we pull ourselves into this house, then into this room.
“Roll the pain up in a ball,” I say, “and toss it away,”
And so, just as we had decided to venture once more out into the world,
the world rolls up into a ball of pain suspended in the air above your bed.
The morphine works only as a distraction.
You moan and make broad gestures, trying to pick the wildflowers
you see growing from the ceiling.
You say they are blue. “Not my style,” you say,
as though any flowers are your style.
You grow imperious,
calling out for chipped ice, not cubed, in the bottle, not the glass.
Knit socks become too uncomfortable, their threads pushing against your skin,
so you ask for those more finely woven.
I ease them over your swollen feet–like trying to squeeze gut over fat sausages.
You bark commands like a general, crabby no matter what the outcome.
Finding fault seems to be your new virility.
It is not the tender moments that fuel the long long days.
Your ill humor and harsh demands
raise a spirit in me where before I wavered.
I need not answer back to feel my strength growing day by day.
I can do anything–deal with any bodily fluid, most abuse.
I can take the blanket off and put it back again
a dozen times in as many minutes.
I take NoDoz for the first time since college,
trying to stay awake to drive you to the doctor’s office.
After so many nights with little sleep,
I pound my hand against the wheel to hurt myself awake.
Trying to make you comfortable
has become an impossibility,
and although it breaks my heart,
it does not break my soul.
You are constantly mad at me,
I always on the way to being a little mad at you.
That’s the way we get through this.
When you fall in the shower,
you lie as though crucified,
your body slight now–
Christlike in your suffering
as the water rains down on you.
When I turn it off and reach out to help you,
”Leave it on!” you snarl,
like a dog protecting his bones.
Ten minutes later, you are too weak
from the hot water
to stand on your own.
I put your arms over my shoulders
to carry you on my back,
like a penitent.
What pain feeds your anger these long weeks?
Is it the cancer or the slow hard truth
as your wife becomes your mother
and you, a child–
petulant, demanding,
are borne once more,
this time away from her.
The dVerse Poets prompt is to write a poem on the subject of birth.
6:54—Six Minutes to Spare
These prompt words wag their tales at me and scamper here and there.
Each sits upon its haunches, issuing a dare.
The distance that’s between them grows vaster with each stroke
of my fingers on the keyboard. I decide to go for broke.
Nearby the clock hands tick and tock. Time edges toward the wire.
The time left for this challenge is starting to expire.
Comminatory judgment awaits me if I fail it.
I cannot face that verdict. I simply have to nail it!
I must rely on humor to help me tame this mob.
Herding words, as you must know, is such a thankless job.
But now they throng about me, tongues extended for the licking.
I’ve met the challenge, time to spare. My alarm is still ticking!
I’m still at my writing retreat, but I got up early to try to fulfill the blog prompts before our first meeting of the day. Prompt words today are vast, rely, wag, comminatory and wire.
