Poetics: blue balls & wrist watches

found graffiti

Live for greatness, the ad for Rolex
on the back of Travel & Leisure

          whispers

soft fingers along my ear & her
fierce eyes thumb through my book
scent marking each page, dress cut
below glossy breasts, just a hint

and what? what?
        she wants to sell me

           a time piece, no

because who needs a mortgage
just to tell time, never be late but
its moments---she pedals,

a bike down a dirt lane, tires on pebbles
grind and skritch, green grass lined, the sun
beams bubble, her short floral dress, wisp
of wind & her legs tan as fried chicken
with promises of secret ingredients, sticky
finger lickin', running them slow along
the length with her tongue

        greatness

she teases, taps the crystal face as hands count
d
  o
    w
       n until she's gone,
                      a slow dancing vapor, gasping
flower unfurled damp & heady,
            entwined round
                      a pole, upside down and sliding,
           of what
could have been if---

only i wore a watch, but my wrist is empty
of such constraints, acidic coffee krinkles
the corner of my eyes as i take the last sip,
savoring its bite, then rise from the bench,
cross the tile floor, trash the cup & head
for the door

           leaving greatness

by where i sat, to shine
                        for someone
                                           else.


Over at dVerse Poets today, Sheila has brought in Karin from ManicDaily to stir the 'currents under' our poetry prompt for poetics today. Hehe. Should be a fun go. Doors open at 3 pm EST.


I will be away today, in DC with a special friend I have worked with for a while, visiting the Holocaust Museum. I will return this evening and return visits then. I hope you have an amazing Saturday.

55 - Monkeys & Space don't mix (by Logan) & Fit for Human Consumption (my response)

Albert was the first that tried
    he suffocated and he died
Albert2 made it to space
    but crash landed
    making a crater with his face
Able & Mrs. Baker's success caused hysteria
    but he died in surgery, under anesthesia
Gordo's ship had parachute failure
    Monkeys are glad
    they don't get shot
    into space any longer.

The above 55 word poem was written by my son Logan (9) for a science poetry contest. All the names are the monkey astronauts that paved the wave for our invasion of space. Smiles. Write a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

And over at dVerse Poets, Gay is challenging us with French Ballade's, which is kinda like being beaten with a rubber hose while counting syllables and rhyming. Really is is probably fun for some that are not as addicted to free form writing like me. But I gave it a try below, in response to my son's poem.

Fit for Human Consumption

Too risky? Let's send a monkey
into space, to do man's business,
close enough, not revolutionary
when they come back home lifeless
and we can still call it success
as we breach the final frontier
keeping our sunday best bloodless,
who's really the animal here?

It's consistent with who we be
when no one's there bearing witness
intelligence's comedy
turning tragically witless,
just smiling in front of the press,
no tears, dominion's volunteers
for our own salubriousness,
who's really the animal here?

Hold on, as long as it's not me
what's all the fuss, no need to stress
not like they have feelings really
but where do we turn our head next
in this morality morass
a slippery slope without care
even our own, broke'n hopeless
who's really the animal here?

What we sacrifice for progress
(or who) from our mirrors leer
three monkeys, deaf, blind & mute, yes
Really who's the animal here?

maintaining positive balances

You are in the kitchen,
or watching one of those
home make-over shows on TV
that make you cry
when i slip into
the bathroom
to do my business

fifteen or twenty minutes
go by
before i emerge to continue
on about the evening

we play games
or whatever until bed,
your body to my back
with nothing but heartbeats
between us

& when you rise in
the morning,
a soft click as the light comes on
in the bathroom, door
closing, i wait in the warm
spot of your leaving

listening for the shower,
that never thunders through the wall
and i smile
knowing you found it

sorry about wearing your eye liner
down & i'll clean the mirror
when you want
but when that feeling hits
in the pit of your being
some love notes
just won't wait.

Theme Thursday ~ Imperfect Prose

As of yet, she has not asked me to clean off the note I left for her on the mirror. Go figure.

OpenLinkNight: Upside down stamps

Why is it we expect honor among predators
     whose core intention is their own coronation
     this is not Camelot, nor some fictional play
     enacted out by two bit actors in the public theatres

Guinevere's waded into Manhattan from the harbor,
     laid down her tablet, bent over & taken up jousting,
     not surprising when under tarnish her torch is just sputtering
     it's all over the nightly news at six,
     but king Arthur's cronies are obviously oblivious,

The round table is taking bets, ante in is 300 Clevelands,
     pocket change to hustlers sporting private jets
     fueled by corporate sponsorships,
     ok lets be PC and call them endorsements
     just don't get caught up in the fine print
     of, in return, what they expect
     & in our silence what we accept,
     great divide growing between us & our political connects

(Record scaAAtCccH) Is this thing on? Let me clear my throat
    
And remind you we have the right to vote
     (for whoever they put in front of us),
     our rubber stamp to make it due process, 
     indoctrinated from birth by the school & the steeple,
     that silent devotion is what makes you humble,
     cause that's how it works in the land of and for
     and by the invisible people,

But before you rattle your swords & get to fist pumping
     or jump just because someone says jump in,
     ask yourself this, how far are you willing to go
     when the revolution gets uncomfortable---
     realizing we are responsible cut bets on political saviors
     wielding excalibre & start acting like 'We the People'

Want something other than a messy divorce, founded in ignorance
     like a spouse on the couch, behind whose back we bad mouth
     for our own impotence, raising children bearing scars
     of a broken nation cause we were too busy pointing fingers
     to take action---a more perfect union, it don't just happen

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - where poets from all over the world come to sling verse. It opens today at 3 pm EST. Be there.

Wrote this after a trip to Washington this weekend, walking around our nation's history, seeing Occupy and those gathering for the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, talking with a few of them. And of course seeing what we have been presented as far as choices in the upcoming presidential election. And no Mr. candidate it is not because I am jealous of what you have. Smiles.

Magpie Tales: A marriage of Sushi

Why a woman chooses to bind herself to rice, I do not understand.

Labor intensive to cultivate and in need of ample water, yet still she lays upon this seed, exposed herself, to what it might bring. Named together, they are 'sour tasting', but that is history. History upon which artistry is built in the hands of a master. Married with wasabi, a splash of salty soy sauce---a delicacy to be savored.

Some conundrums are not meant for understanding, only to be appreciated.

And that I do, most vigorously.

written for Magpie Tales.

Poetics: Somewhere along the Border

I am not the guard at the border,
     but the one they bring the body
        not for the autopsy

but whats left to sew up after
     attempting to put back together
        some semblance of a life

& there are nights my fingers bleed
     where the needles nicked,
        my skin not thick enough
        not always

i order chicken salad on wheat, comfort
by choice, with potato chips and a pickle
spear, root beer---not noticing my friend's

selection, focus being what he is saying,
concerned with decisions his daughter is making,
wondering how to handle while
allowing her to feel trusted & empowered ,
not see him as "one of those parents"

"what if i am over reacting?
        what if i push her away?
                what if..."

"she comes home pregnant," i interrupt, "how cool
will you be then?"

Still stuck in the tension between being her friend
and giving parental direction, as if she needs one more
person unwilling to listen to what she is really saying,
and I refuse to give permission to shirk the responsibility,
providing a place to lay the guilt when it happens

Will opinion polls & popularity ratings
keep you warm on those nights?

"Isn't it worth a conversation?"

A reuben. He ordered a reuben, which the waitress
delivers, sits untouched beside chips, but no pickle---

it crunches with each bite i take, sour on the back
of my tongue, as i watch his eyes for more than
a night of American Idol & ice cream

absently rubbing old callouses 
     on the tips of my fingers,
        just to feel their texture.

Today @ dVerse Poets, Claudia has us crossing more than our Ts for Poetics. So get ready to make a run for the 'border' come 3 pm EST when the poetry goes live and in living color.

55 - I think I left my deity around here somewhere, can you help me find it?

OMG they text
     chasing HEr
          down side streets
along worn wood pew backs,
                           little dips where bowed heads rest

prayer rugs east,
                        tongued communion cups,
furious grunts, during bathroom visits,

             counted beads, conjugal picnics &
forest floor tree knots, not finding
     HEr anywhere, cause sHE

looks nothing like
                     who they see
in the mirror.
    
                  OMg

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Over at dVerse Poets, we are looking at Imagist poetry, which I understand on some level and on others I have no clue. Victoria leads us on this merry chase, there are several online articles and examples. I did not use any metaphor that I can see, so I got at least one thing right. The worst that can happen is you fail and write again tomorrow. Ha. Do check it out.

The owl picture is a random picture I found online, having nothing to do with the poem...or does it. Hmmm. Haha.