Tag Archives: Poetry by prescription

Money Optional

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The Prompt: Work? Optional!—If money were out of the equation, would you still work? If yes, why, and how much? If not, what would you do with your free time?

Since I am already retired and spend most of my day making art and writing, I guess my answer is yes. I do it because I feel it is my reason for living and without that work, life seems to lose its importance. I do it because it forces me to look closer and to think more deeply. I do it pretty much every minute I’m not sleeping. Really, I always did what I wanted to do without taking into consideration what would sell and that still seems to be the case since I’m not getting wealthy on what I do, but I swore when I retired that I would stop doing all those parts of making art that I hated: the applying for shows, the promotion, the pictures, the resumes, the mailing lists. Now I just enjoy the creation and if I am sending them out to an unaccepting universe, nonetheless, I’m having the experience of creating, which any serious writer or artist will tell you is  the most important part and why we really do what we do.

Today is my 221st post, and since it is a short one, please scroll back and read an earlier post you haven’t read before and if you have the time, please comment. 

For instance, if you’d like to know why I ended up in Mexico, read this: Foreign Tongues or, if you want a love story with a happy ending, read this: The Ballad of Poor Molly.

Thank you for reading my blog.  Although yes, I do it for myself, I can’t help but feel gratified when others find what I write to be of consequence or enjoyable.  Judy

Let There Be Light

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Let There Be Light


My mind is a growling dog.
While I stew and fuss,
fulfilling lists,
she jumps the screendoor,
beckoning.
Rude me, to turn my back
on the only playmate
who wants to play
the same games I do
every day, every hour,
because I fear that initial
plodding through silt
page after page
in search of the stream
of words.

Sometimes boredom
yawns so wide
that I have to enter it,
to wander its inner closet
where for decades
only cobwebs
have stirred.
In some dark corner
where I spank the dog
or search the bedside table drawers
of a lover called out at midnight,
I find the river’s source,
but then
the phone
rings and I’m off
gathering crumbs from a forest path,
leaving lost children
stranded in their own story.

Stray puppies—I collect every one,
wild orange funnel flowers
and guava
washed in an afternoon kitchen
just before the invasion
of five o’clock sunlight.
All of them I carry back
to hidden places
to rub against each other
and ignite
into the language of this place
where life goes in,
plays dress-up,
but emerges
nude,
like poetry.

 

The Prompt: Is there a cause — social, political, cultural, or other — you passionately believe in? Tell us how you got involved . The cause I most believe in is getting in touch with your authentic and true inner voice.  This is what I do when I write. Would that more people involved in making decisions that will alter our world would do so. This poem is really about the creative process where, when done right, there is only truth. It is also about all the things that get in the way of this process.

Woodstock Redux Redux : The Watchers

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To understand the below poem, which was written to a prompt from okcfogottenman (who wanted me to address the subject of the broken tree limb) you need first to read my Woodstock Poem

Woodstock Redux Redux : The Watchers

Jimi and Janice sitting in a tree.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Janice got so carried away
that the limb began to sway.
And though spirits don’t weigh much,
not so the limb that they both they clutch.
So as they vanished into vapors,
I felt the aftermath of their capers.
When the branch came crashing down,
It barely missed my fragile crown.
Lucky these greats of rock and roll
Didn’t have me as their goal.
If I’d been better at voice or guit,
that tree limb might have scored a hit,
and I’d be playing at the pearly gate
with other greats who’ve met their fate.
With tie-die halos above our hair,
We’d stage a heavenly Woodstock there!

Wood Stalked (at the 45th Anniversary of Woodstock Celebration) August 16, 2014, Ajijic, Mexico

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The Prompt: Take a look at your bookcase. If you had enough free time, which book would be the first one you’d like to reread? Why?  My answer:  I would read Woodstock: Three Days that Rocked the World, and also dust off my Mastering the Tarot and I Ching books. For the reason why, please read below!

Wood Stalked
(at the “45th Anniversary of Woodstock” Celebration)
August 16, 2014, Ajijic, Mexico

45 years after Woodstock, all the hippies came back out to play
as the old folks all pulled out their tie-dye and folded their spandex away.
When we entered they gave us a name tag. Is this how they did it back then?
Did Janis consent to a name tag with her name neatly written in pen?
We sat in the shade at a table most far from the music by choice.
Regretting its decibel level and regretting its lack of a voice.
No Arlo, no Jimi, no Creedence. No Richie or Ravi Shankar.
Somehow I fear that the music was certainly quite under par.
I brought out the I Ching and Tarot. I thought it fit in with the age.
It had been a long time since such pastimes were considered to be all the rage.
Though I read off the Tarot to one friend and threw the I Ching with one more,
the party we got here at three for still hadn’t started by four.
Most had made a great effort with Afros or falls of long hair,
yet nobody ended up naked. Nobody ended up bare.
Most people sported a peace sign and many had felt tip tattoos;
and though no one lined up for the dance floor, everyone lined up for booze.
By five, thanks to fruit margaritas of mango or kiwi or cherry
the band began sounding much better and the vocalist sounded like Jerry!
Most folks flooded onto the dance floor to gyrate in front of the band
while I still remained at our table, arranging a new Tarot hand.
I dealt out the ten cards correctly after asking the question I wished—
willing to read my life’s menu of whatever providence dished.
My cards did not read as I wished them. They did not turn out to my taste.
Yet the final card said I’d be lucky, though I fear that I viewed it in haste.
As a crack split the air up above us and I heard a great crash on the ground,
Everyone looked up from tables to see what had made such a sound.
Then people began to rush over and I, too, looked in back of me
to discover a huge branch had fallen from the very top part of our tree.
The branch that had fallen was heavy as a twenty foot branch may well be,
and this branch that had fallen just seconds ago had gone down only inches from me!
If I had been two inches nearer, I probably would now be dead,
for the branch that came down in such furor must have passed just that close to my head!!!
I folded the Tarot cards up then and tucked my I Ching coins away.
I’d had all the luck that I needed, for I had survived one more day.

(For an Addendum to this poem, go Here.)

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Lear’s Fool or Harlequin?

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The Prompt today is “A Bookish Choice”—A literary-minded witch gives you a choice: with a flick of the wand, you can become either an obscure novelist whose work will be admired and studied by a select few for decades, or a popular paperback author whose books give pleasure to millions. Which do you choose?

Lear’s Fool or Harlequin?

Obscure or popular? That witch
creates a choice that is a bitch.

For, if at fame I had a chance
only if I wrote romance,

I’d prefer to be unknown,
in my corner, all alone,

writing words they’ll find profound
if in fact they’re ever found.

But wait. Have we two choices only?
Trite and read/genius and lonely?

Where is it written I must depend
upon a witch to plan my end?

Since when has either witch or fairy
determined what is literary?

Once I took a little breather,
I decided I’d choose neither!

Rebellious thoughts swirl through my head.
I’ll simply write my blog instead!!!

Wrinkle

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Wrinkle

Once when I was younger, poundage was the thing—
as I obsessed about the growth calories might bring.
Every morning on the scale, I checked for extra girth.
Any extra poundage was how I gauged my worth.
But now that I am older, I check the mirror first
before I stop to weigh myself or slake my morning thirst.
First thing on my agenda, if I have the chance,
is to approach my mirror to have a daily glance.
Now every little wrinkle, every little line
viewed within my mirror brings a little whine.
But when I step upon the scale, there’s less there to regret.
If I’ve gained a pound or two, I vow just to forget.
For if I’ve found new wrinkles, all that I can say
is every extra pound I gain just stretches them away.

The Prompt: New Wrinkles—You wake up one day and realize you’re ten years older than you were the previous night. Beyond the initial shock, how does this development change your life plans?  Actually, I don’t worry much about wrinkles, but for the sake of rhyme and humor, let’s just pretend!

Smoke

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Smoke

She had met most of my stepchildren.
Was my husband similar? she asked.
Yes, he was talented and smart and funny.
But, he was very quiet, I said, and often sad.

He never believed he’d been the love of my life,
even though I’d told him so.
He’d raised a hand
to let it fall unused again, one time or more.
I hadn’t any children.
He always thought I’d leave.

For years I’d felt the cause of his unhappiness,
but his children told me he had always been this way.
Less angry with me than the others,
I had been, he told them, (but not me)
the love of his life.

He was a man who trusted few
and loved less.
He could not give what others demanded.
What better time to say I love you
than when asked for it, I pleaded–
his daughter, sobbing, on the phone.
But he couldn’t do it
for me, for her, for anyone.

What he wanted most he always had,
but he was blind to it,
wasting it all: the friends, the fame, the love.
Alone, he stared into the fire, into trees,
imagining tools and studios and sculpture
grander, in the end, than his energy to create it.

He had not been idle in his life.
Houses, children, art, tools, poetry—
he made them all, well and in great numbers.
Yet when he died, he said, “Imagine.
I had thought I’d be making art to the end.
Instead, I am so tired. I’m just glad to know
I have an excuse for feeling as tired as I do.”

They ate him up, his dreams.
We sent them up in smoke with him.

Daily post: Second Opinion—What are some (or one) of the things about which you usually don’t trust your own judgment, and need someone’s else’s confirmation?

(Instead of being about someone who needs someone else’s confirmation and advice, my poem is about someone who never could accept it.)

Compulsion to Rhyme (All the Time)

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Compulsion to Rhyme
(All the Time)

You may guess there are drawbacks to writing as I do,
for lately, I must find a rhyme for everything I view.
This matching up of words that rhyme has come to be compulsion.
A harmless one, but still one sometimes met with some revulsion.
When making jokes or making bread or making whoop-de-do,
I always think of words that rhyme and then I voice a few.
So when a lover bites my neck and with my hair is toying,
and the only word that I can find to rhyme is “cloying;”
it certainly gets in the way of my successful “boying!”

Or when a good friend feeds me and under-cooks the meat,
as I run through my retinue to find a rhyme that’s neat;
and she happens to hear me just as I curse the red,
wishing she had opted for a well-done steak instead,
my sincere protestations do not seem to be accepted.
If only that one choice of rhymes had not been intercepted,
perhaps she would still ask me to her luncheons and her dinners.
Instead, I’ve wound up on her list of culinary sinners!

As much as I like rhyming, sometimes it is a curse,
for what is my best habit may also be my  worse.
If only long ago I’d learned how not to rhyme each word,
the last one in this poem would not need to be “absurd.”

The Prompt: Not Lemonade-When life gives you lemons… make something else. Tell us about a time you used an object or resolved a tricky situation in an unorthodox way.

As a writer, almost any bad situation may be improved by writing about it! It doesn’t always solve the problem, but at least something positive may be gained out of something negative. This poem makes light of this tendency, but the truth is that I almost always feel better after writing about something, no matter how it has turned out in reality.

(This post is dedicated to Laura and Mamta, who prompted it by commenting on my proclivity to rhyme. And because I cannot waste even a mediocre product, to Duckie!)

 

 

 

“Flutter” : The Surrogate

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The Prompt: Sounds Right—This is clearly subjective, but some words really sound like the thing they describe (personal favorites: puffin; bulbous; fidgeting). Do you have an example of such a word (or, alternatively, of a word that sounds like the exact opposite of what it refers to)? What do you think creates this effect?

I’ve always loved the word “’Flutter” as it applies to a butterfly or moth.  What better word could be used to describe the motion of their wings?  The moth described in my poem, however, was noticeable because of its lack of flutter.  It landed upon my computer screen like a magnetized object to metal and remained there for over two hours.  The moth pictured in the poem is the actual moth.  Tiny and green, it became part of my writing experience. Since it had chosen to remain in one position, directly on my screen, I was forced (by choice) to write around it, which could not help but influence the poem that resulted.

 

 

Pining for the Prompt

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Pining for the Prompt

Checking e-mails, cooking curry.
Where’s the prompt? Please hurry, hurry!
Not a mother, not a wife,
But still, WordPress, I have a life!

I need to go to buy some rice,
and a shower would be nice.
I’d like to take a swim and then
comb OkCupid for some men.

Instead, I sit like some blog glutton,
staring at my “renew” button.
Is every minute too excessive?
Every hour too regressive?

I understand this sleeping in
on Sunday’s really not a sin.
For, however, those who wait,
it feels like you’ve stood up your date!

That we adore you goes unsaid,
(We know you probably aren’t paid.)
But if all Sunday you plan to snore,
could you please prompt the night before?

(Note:  The prompt was finally posted at 11:43 PM.  Now the question is, is this today’s late prompt or tomorrow’s early one?  Always a new thrill in the world of blogging!!!  Since I’ve already written four poems today, guess I will think of this prompt for tomorrow, or not at all.  Anyway, I think with a prompt this late it was fair to choose my own, don’t you? Happy blogging.)