Night Chorus
Village dogs out in the dark—
first they howl, and then they bark.
A filling moon spills from a cloud.
That’s when the dogs become so loud.
Each of my dogs is in his bed,
though they’d rather be outside instead.
My dogs and I silent and still
as outside voices speak their will.
The little burro brays consent.
Wind in the palms nodding assent.
I have my qualms about leaving Morrie and Diego out all night to converse with the neighbors. I spoil all their fun!!!
Remember when the Saturday Evening Post had a feature entitled “The Perfect Squelch” that featured a different perfect comeback every issue? Well, then, you must be as old as I am.
Spare Tire
My blind date worked out most sublimely.
First of all, it was most timely,
for my ex had told me he
would be there with another she.
I waltzed in regally well-armed
with date both handsome, rich and charmed.
His tux immaculate, his dental
work just out-shined by his mental
acumen. He quoted Proust!
So when my ex came up to roost
on a chair next to the mirror where
I was perusing my form and hair
and said we made a lovely pair;
I answered, “Him? He’s just a spare.”
He poked my middle, then tweaked my nose.
“Well then, when your spare tire blows,
they’ll come in handy, all those guys.
Or, you could simply exercise.”
“Timely” is the prompt word today.
Work WeekMonday
The day’s become unravelled. The night’s begun to fall,
yet I’ve not accomplished anything. I’ve done nothing at all
except cooking a curry and writing several drafts
of poems still uncompleted–they’re bobbing here like rafts
afloat upon my consciousness but have nowhere to go.
The words all came so quickly, but their gelling has come slow.
They want to group together in concrete communities,
but instead they’re fluttering like moths and landing where they please.
Tuesday
I’m a syllable collector, a hoarder of each word
without a purpose for them. It’s come to be absurd.
Verbs are piled up on shelves, adjectives under foot.
The gerunds hang like spiderwebs. I have no place to put
The adverbs and the articles. They leak out of my head.
When I nudge them into lumpy piles, they hide beneath the bed.
I’m going to have a housecleaning of consonants and vowels.
Collect them up in buckets and wipe them up with towels.
Wednesday
I’ll sort out all the lovely words. The ones I like, I’ll hoard,
then pile the others in tidy stacks and tie them up in cord.
I’ll keep the good ones by my desk to sort through when they’re needed.
Bad words go in the basement, unsorted and unheeded.
Then I’ll have a yard sale of unused words like “pickle”
and sell them in unsorted lots—a handful for a nickel.
Then perhaps I can make room for words more orderly
that come to me in sentences that make more sense to me.
Thursday
My muse is hyperactive, I need to tame her down.
Instead of resting close to me, she runs all over town
collecting words at random— funky words like “phat”—
so when I really need her, I don’t know where she’s at.
Then when I am sleeping, she unloads word after word
until there’s no room left for them. It has become absurd.
They’re piling up around me. They’ve reached my nose and ear.
I cannot swim my way through them. I’m smothering, I fear.
Friday
That’s why I’m calling poets, every novelist or bard
to have a drive-by of my house and stop here at my yard.
Bring a bucket and a rake. Take all the words you please,
for now they’re raining down like leaves falling from my trees.
Just gather them in armloads. I won’t find it queer.
Better bring a wheelbarrow if you cannot park near.
You do not need to pay for them. Today they’re yours for free.
If you don’t help I fear that words will be the end of me!
Saturday
YARD SALE
Take what you wish. Please do not disturb occupant.
P.S. If you’d like to take any words or phrases or lines from this poem to prompt your own poem, please do. But please, please send your poem as a comment here–or send a link.
The prompt today was unravel. The link to NaPoWriMo Day 11 is HERE.
jdbphoto2015
Open Hand
Wings held lightly without crushing
survive to join the world’s wild rushing,
while love held by a tight-clenched fist
quells half our reason to exist.
Some laud passions most rapacious—
grasping, volatile, tenacious;
but this is not the love I feel.
I do not seek to swoon or reel.
The tenacity of a skin tight glove
might stay my soaring to heights above.
I need your love like an open hand.
Not for me the wedding band.
The bond I seek from you, my dear,
is not the gauntlet that I fear
but rather, fingers whose sensations
are left free to life’s elations.
Butterflies kept in a jar
lose that beauty seen from afar.
That grace of movement caught on air
is what makes their beauty rare.
I love it when your arms enfold,
but if you love me, loose your hold.
The measure of my tenacity
is that I’ll come back to thee.
jdbphoto
The prompt word today was tenacious.
Empty Morning
Since the fish refuse to come and play,
the fishermen have gone away.
And since there are no fish to score,
the birds have found another shore
to swoop over and sit upon.
The beach is empty when fish are gone.
Yesterday a busy throng
milled on the beach the whole day long.
But today they’ve gone to job
or school or kitchen—the whole mob.
My world is quiet. The ocean swell
once more has a tale to tell
purely itself. No interlopers.
No beer-swiggers or docile dopers.
No kids squealing as they wade
with parents watching from the shade
of palapas strung along the shore
close enough to ocean’s roar
to grab a toddler grown too brave
from the grasp of an ambitious wave.
Once more, the beach is just itself.
The sand has formed an unmarred shelf
just outside my beachside door.
No beach shovels to scoop and gore,
no sandcastles along the shore.
No footsteps strung along the beach
extending far above wave’s reach.
No butts or bottles, abandoned sandals.
No beach graffiti by vandals
innocently written in the sand
with a stick held in the hand.
“Chuy loves Luz” erased by wave,
impossible, perhaps to save
in either beachside sand or heart,
their teenage love doomed from the start.
All these stories tucked away
by one of few who chose to stay
after the throng has returned home,
leaving only ocean foam
that overnight swept them away.
Every morning, a clean new day.
The prompt word today was minimal. I used the theme for the poem, but not the word itself. If you are a prompt-purist and feel the word must be seen, read on:
You won’t find the word “minimal.”
Its presence is subliminal!
Good Fortune
How lucky I’ve been in the bad luck I’ve had,
for no matter how dangerous, life-threatening, bad,
I’ve always come out both alive and still kicking
whenever my life chose to give me a licking.
The prompt word today is luck.
Back Seat Driver
You are a lovely woman, Kate—
enough to cause my breath to bate,
enough to stun and addlepate—
but if we stop to ruminate
each time we reach another gate,
it is my fear that we’ll be late.
Why not let me cogitate
when forward progress to abate?
If necessary, I vow to wait
as we wage a long debate
on whether to go left or straight
as we approach the interstate,
but each time you excoriate,
criticise or agitate
for route changes, I rue my fate
the day I set up this blind date!!!
From: Your very competent driver, Nate
The prompt today was ruminate.
Mapped-out Life
If you’re unhappy with your route—
dissatisfied and full of doubt—
then you might be second-guessing,
looking for your parents’ blessing,
wanting to please everyone,
putting duty before fun,
overlooking the main one
and therefore satisfying none.
You are the one to satisfy,
to be led by and to gratify.
The principles by which you’ll bide
must be the ones you find inside.
So if you make a faulty choice,
at least it’s due to your own voice
and easier to rectify
than if you’ve chosen to rely
on rules laid down by another:
boss or lover, dad or mother.
So when you step out on that road
that takes you to your life’s abode,
be sure that that first step you take
is one you’ve chosen you should make,
led perhaps by older, wiser
family member or advisor,
but nonetheless, just right for you—
what you cannot help but do.
For when you’re older, you’ll figure out
that’s what life is all about.
The prompt today was “doubt.”
Dispelling Dilemma
No matter how sad or distressing or gory,
for a writer, dilemmas become a new story.
You should forgive us, for the truth of it is
that the pathos of life provides part of the fizz.
We simply don’t know why there’s all of this fuss,
until the dilemmas happen to us.
The prompt word today was “Dilemma.”
Carrying On
Were they carrying? That’s the buzz.
Was she carrying? Likely was.
In nine months we’ll know for sure,
but we’ll never know if the brothers were.
He carried the play. His voice carried well.
The truth of it they’re sure to tell
as the paper carrier carries the news––
the comics, headlines, play reviews.
Three into ten and carry one.
In long division, that’s half the fun.
Carry on and carry through,
for no one else will carry you.
Those cutter ants you love to hate
can carry 100 times their weight.
We pack 30 pounds in carry-on cases,
carry-out burgers from carry-out places.
Half our lives we carry on.
Then when we are dead and gone,
removed from all this carrying fuss,
what friends are left will carry us.
It is probably obvious that the prompt word today was “Carry.”
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 