Another day, another challenge. This time I’ve used the WordPress prompt from
“The Daily Post” which was: “In 300 years, if you were to be named the patron saint
of X, what would you like X to be?”
June 2 sunset in Missouri.
Dim Sum are little love poems shaped like a heart. I challenge every reader
to write one and send it to me! For the fun of it, I made mine into a chain of hearts.
Morning Metaphor
When you rise hours early
to stand in front of the window
and watch for the UPS truck,
I shift my dreaming over
to your warm pillow.
If you are a child,
I am a
cat.
The Computer
has become the new hearth
and heart of our home, now
glowing out in the darkness
long after we have moved
to the room next door
to try to sleep
in vain.
A Clock
on the wall of every room
speaks its midnight language
and intrudes into my dreams,
each one telling me I am
another hour closer
to leaving
you.
In the Motel Breakfast Room
That little boy
is screaming and mad.
At eight in the morning,
he’s already bad!
He tasted his waffle
and doesn’t want more.
He just dumped his Fruit Loops
all over the floor.
His mom didn’t see
from her side of the room.
The attendant was swift
with her dustpan and broom.
She removed all the cereal
dumped at my feet
by the brattiest child
I ever did meet.
I came to this place
for some coffee and quiet.
I didn’t expect
to encounter a riot.
He’s having a tantrum.
He will not sit down.
His voice at screech level,
his mouth set on frown.
Does he want to go back
to the room? asks his mother
as she struggles to feed
both his sister and brother.
At this breakfast bar set up
for all of the guests,
regrettably, no sign says,
“We don’t serve pests.”
Last night when my friend
went to get us some ice,
“Excuse me, Excuse me,”
the desk clerk said twice
as he ran down the hall
in a manner uncool
heading straight for the door
that leads into the pool.
Now I can imagine this
terrible kid
pushing some button.
(I bet that he did!)
that signaled “Emergency
Call 911!”
watching the panic
and calling it fun.
The manager thinking
“perhaps a cracked head!”
but encountering only
this bad boy instead.
Now this morning my coffee
was ruined by his cries.
This early-day tantrum
a rite I despise.
I started to gather
my coffee and fruit,
then grabbed a few
creamers and sweeteners to boot.
When from my eye’s corner
before I could stand,
at the edge of my table
I saw a small hand.
I looked up to encounter
a smile ear-to-ear.
That horrible child
looked ever so dear!
He flashed me the smile,
for a moment stood near,
then departed the room
nevermore to appear.
When I looked at the table,
an astonishing sight.
He’d left me one Fruit Loop
right there in plain sight.
That child’s behavior
now leaves me in doubt
whether I should remember
the smile or pout.
Was my disapproval
so plain to see
that this tiny child
could see right through me?
And had he the wisdom
to do what he did
simply to remind me
a kid is a kid?
Note: The event described in this poem actually happened on May 24 at a motel in Des Moines, IA, where I was attending my nephew’s h.s. graduation party. And yes, this is “the” Fruit Loop, which I still have. The subject was prescribed by Duckie, who, when I told him what had just happened, said, “You gotta write about this.” Poetry by Prescription. You suggest the topic. I will write about it.
In the Open
The day is balmy
with segmented clouds.
The African tulip tree
spreads its boughs wide
over the seated ones
as well as the one who stands in front of us,
leading us to ground our feet,
relax our arms with hands palms up
and to go inside ourselves
to watch our breath
and be in the now,
in the state that she calls openness.
To be in the future is not openness, she says,
and to be in the past is not openness.
Only the now is really living.
And it occurs to me
that when I think I want a cup of coffee
and leave my studio to go in search of it,
then, in the kitchen,
can’t remember what I’m there for,
(and the reason why so many
friends my age are doing the same)
is because we are in this state of openness
more frequently
as we get older.
Wanting a cup of coffee is in the future,
and remembering we wanted a cup of coffee
a few minutes ago
is having to remember the past.
Standing here in the kitchen
listening to the baby birds’
loud cheeps
from their nest in the kitchen overhang
is being in the now.
And so it is that all of us, as we age,
are in the deepest stages of meditation
most of the time
and should not worry so much
about Alzheimer’s or dementia,
because we are where Tibetan monks
and ladies leading meditation
would have us be.
Open. Living the now
with increasingly
less memory
for what was
or was to be.
Alone
Alone is not lonely
And single’s no sin.
Solo is only
a state I am in
because I need time
to do what I do.
To scan and to rhyme,
to create and to stew
both poems and soups
without watching the clock
or jumping through hoops
or having to talk.
I really like cooking
dishes for one.
I’m simply not looking
for “coupley” fun.
I like doing art
far into the night.
This freedom is part
of traveling light.
Going solo is groovy.
Single-handed is fun,
and it might behoove you
to try being “one”
instead of a brace
or a duet or pair.
You’ll have all this space.
You’ll have all this air.
Your closet’s your own
to fill up with shoes.
No sharing a phone
and no bathroom queues.
You won’t have to fiddle
with left or with right.
You’ll sleep in the middle
every night!
You’ll eat what you want to
and dine when you wish.
You’ll get to eat tofu
and never eat fish.
You can stay up till dawn
to finish your quilt.
You’re nobody’s pawn,
so you’ll never feel guilt.
Leave coffee cups sitting
all over the house?
It’s behavior most fitting
when bereft of a spouse.
Pop bonbons and read
all day in your bed.
You can meet every need
when you’re no longer wed.
On the other hand though,
you must walk your own dog
and when water comes slow,
must unclog your own clog.
When you blow out a fuse
and your lawn goes unmown,
there are no “honey do’s”
when you’re all on your own!
Today’s “prescription” came from my friend Betty Petersen, a wonderful artist, who asked me to write a poem about the single life. If you have a topic you’d like me to write about, please post it on my blog or send it via Facebook or email.
Old friend, new friend.
Goodbye Old Paint
What have you eaten that we have forgotten?
What lost earring resides
in the deepest recesses of your front seat?
What coins shaken and pushed into your crevasses?
And do you remember the song made up on the spot
and sung just once, then left forgotten in Nevada?
Do you still carry the dust of Tonopah
or that yearning to actually see something extraterrestrial
on the Extraterrestrial Highway?
Do you carry shards of his boredom while driving
mile after mile of Utah beauty?
Do you still carry my expectations of sharing
the giant faces of Rushmore
and echoes of the fact that he expected more?
What of molecules of the Mississippi crossing
or dreams of the memories of Hannibal?
What sweat from those Mississippi hours
waiting outside the B.B. King Museum?
Salt grains and chocolate crumbs
and DNA of those few souls who rode along in you—
all parked in a parking lot waiting to be bought
by someone who will never know the hidden you.
Just like the rest of the world,
frequented by interlopers.
Only we, leaving you, will murmur “Goodbye Old Paint”
and know that although you neither hear nor answer,
somehow our past is locked up inside of you
and there a part of us will stay
while we depart without it.
The prompt today was by Forgottenman, who wanted me to memorialize his faithful automobile companion, Old Paint (pictured here to his right). To his left is his new love, Soul Red. To see his prompt, go to his blog here.
Today’s prompt was suggested by Ann Garcia, another “reformed” English teacher. Her prompt: Write a poem about grading homework.
A Single English Teacher’s Lament
Two periods of composition
have put me in a bad position.
With class size swelled to 38,
no longer have I time to date,
for teaching all to write a thesis
means my workload never ceases.
Each weekend I take home a pile
to check and grade and reconcile.
To try to sort them out is hard—
each sentence shuffled card by card.
Each comment must be made with tact,
their logic looked at fact by fact.
Each student had to write just one.
Now handed in, their toils are done.
While I have 76 to grade,
and now regret assignments made.
How many more? I have to ask,
imprisoned by this grading task.
I have created my own repentance.
I gave myself the thesis sentence!
Thesis: noun: thesis; plural noun: theses
NOTE TO READERS: I HAVE RUN OUT OF PROMPTS! IF YOU WANT TO SUGGEST A PROMPT FOR TOMORROW’S POEM, PLEASE SEND IT AS A COMMENT.
Yesterday I promised to write a poem about the best topic presented to me by “readers.” Four were proposed, but I can’t remember the fourth, so if you proposed one and I’ve neglected you, please submit it again. I can’t promise to always write about all topics submitted, but this time I did—well, with the exception of one.
“Sisterly Squabbles”
A little weep, a little sigh,
a little teardrop in each eye.
Grandma Jane and her sister Sue,
one wanted one hole, the other, two
punched into their can of milk.
(All their squabbles were of this ilk.)
The rest, of course, is family fable.
They sat, chins trembling, at the table.
When my dad entered, we’ve all been told,
their milk-less coffee had grown cold.
*(Prompt by Patti Arnieri)
“Take a Walk and Tell about It”
Straight out my bedroom door would be a doozie.
I’d end up right in my Jacuzzi !!!
* (Prompt by Tamara Mitchell)
“Friends”
If not my friend
to the end,
you might a’ been a me
lifelong enemy.
*(Prompt by Patty Martin)
Searching for a topic!!!!
(picture taken at La Manzanilla beach this March)
Well, April (National Poetry Writing Month) is over and so there goes the start to my day. Must say I became addicted to waking up each morning with a fresh topic for poetry presented to me, as weird as some of them may have been. If anyone is still reading this blog, perhaps you would like to suggest a topic for me and I’ll continue to do the poems. I’ll choose from topics submitted each day and continue to do the “act.” If no one suggests a topic, I will slowly fade into the horizon until next April.
Ciao, Adios, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu
To NaPoWriMo we must say
a fond “Goodbye” on this last day.
I‘m able to, for I have found
the strength to say it the whole world round.
When I was young, I traveled far
from Germany to Zanzibar.
Australia, Bali, France and Spain,
to Africa and back again.
And though I mostly loved them all,
from Venice to the Taj Mahal,
as my departure time grew nigh
I had to voice a sad goodbye.
To Ethiopia I strayed.
For eighteen months I stayed and stayed;
and when I had to leave too soon,
I had to say “dehena hun.”
In college days, when I was young,
German was my foreign tongue;
but when to Frankfurt wir mussten gehen
I just remembered, “Auf Wiedersehen.”
The French were rude and cold and snotty.
They mocked my accent and were haughty,
so while I had to bid “adieu,”
I’d have preferred to say, “pee-ew.”
Florence thrilled me from the start.
Their lasagna is a work of art.
When I left, they all said, “Ciao.”
Their kitties, though, all said, “Miao.”
I never went to Israel
but nonetheless, I’m proud to tell,
the rabbi books? Read every tome.
So I know how to say “Shalom.”
Though “Arigato” is bound to do
when you want to say thank you,
“Sayonara” is the way to go
to bid farewell in Tokyo.
Bali’s full of dance and art
that treat your eyes and fill your heart.
I must admit, I had a ball
before I said “Selamat tinggal.”
Mexico was saved for last
And now I fear my lot is cast
Since “Adios” I cannot say,
I’ve decided I will stay!
(for the sake of pronunciation, I have taken the liberty of adding an extra “e” to “dehna hun.”)
You might have already guessed that on this last day of the NaPoWriMo challenge, the prompt was to write a farewell poem.
