Anger Has No Turning

Anger grows hard between the devil
And death’s blossoms.
And spreads like an oak tree.
When a twig grows they are
The most unlikely birds.
It’s difficult to twist it as a stone
Into a wasp’s nest because
Every beginning is weak.
Silence will not fly into one’s mouth,
The palest ink, but, its fruit is sweet.
Gray hairs are slender anchorage-
The whisper of a pretty girl
Like a needle on a long road that
Has no turning.

Here are the proverbs I used for this poem:

Anger is as a stone cast into a wasp's nest.
Between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Evil eneters like a needle and spreads like an oak tree.
Gray hairs are death's blossom's.
Heaven lent you a soul earth will lend a grave.
It is a long road that has no turning.
Luck has a slender anchorage.
Patience is a bitter seed but its fruit is sweet.
Pigs might fly, but they are most unlikely birds.
Roasted pigeons will not fly into one's mouth.
Silence was never written down.
The palest ink is better than the best memory.
The whisper of a pretty girl can be heard further than the roar of a lion.
When a twig grows hard it is difficult to twist it. Every beginning is weak.

Lipton Sunset

Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Let me taste its Lipton Rivers
Upon my salivating tongue.

Bring me the sunset on a canvas,
Let my fingers seek playful caress
Through these cotton fields.

Bring me the sunset to my ears,
Let me listen to its concerto
Before I close my eyes.

Bring me the sunset in a cup is the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem.

Poefusion

Poefusion #18

Write a Perverb which mixes the first half of one proverb with the second half of another. The word perverb does the same thing: per(verted pro) verb. You can add your own words between each new perverb you come up with, if you like. Below you can find two examples.

"The Lord helps those who/ gather no moss"
"Still waters/ starve a fever"

Here's a link to some proverbs to get you started. Happy Writing~

Poefusion

Poefusion #16

Create a poem using Emily Dickinson's Bring me the sunset in a cup as a starting point. You can find more prompts like this one at Creative Writing Prompts.

Cento (untitled)

She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree
Of the tree that surrounds your feet.
It was not separation, for I was there
Like a pantomime hidden in forest quills.
A moan sped from asp demon- mad opens
Up and reached for Jupiter’s
Tattered bursts of laughter.
I squelched its freedom.
Ascend no dances on her hair
Her beautiful etchings were gone and this spiked hair?
Quintessential habitat.
My hands to tender skin fall and then flee.
Tonight, I made thin conversation
When we played as children- searching our compass point,
The hemisphere was tilted.
What Lies Beneath is Castaway From Hell
Leaving signs of Stigmata.
A puce slur skreys across glureon skies
Watching fireworks display their brilliance
Against freeze and flame currents.
Needling birds addle themselves beneath my silled door.
Temperatures rising, summer throttle.
Soaked in frigid waters, I’ll seek one last stop
On a good luck penny and faith.

I took one line from each of the poems I've written this month and reused them here for my Cento.

Giveaway Winner

Good Morning Poefusionists~

Thank you to everyone who signed up for the giveaway at the beginning of National Poetry Month. I'm sure everyone is anxious to know who won the prize. So, without further prolonging, I'm pleased to announce the giveaway winner as Tumblewords. Congratulations Tumblewords, I hope you enjoy your prizes. I will send them out as soon as possible.

National Poetry Month will be coming to an end Wednesday. I for one will be sad to see it go as I have enjoyed writing everyday and reading what each of you have written. But, before it ends, I would like to say thank you to everyone who participated in writing everyday. I hope it was a great experience for everyone.

Happy Writing~

Cento

The cento is a poem written entirely from lines of one or more authors. It's a patchwork of quotations; a literary collage, etc. A good way to write a cento is to keep a notebook in which you collect lines that strike you. After you've accumulated enough lines, see if you can arrange them in a new poem.

Here's an example

To A Waterfowl
by John ashbery

Where, like a pillow on a bed
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude
Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron
And one clear call for me
My genial spirits fail
The desire of the moth for the star
When first the College Rolls receive his name.

Too happy, happy tree
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan.
Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill
And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair
And she also to use newfangleness...
Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Unaffected by "the march of events",
Never until the mankind making
From harmony, from heavenly harmony
O death, O cover you over with roses and early lilies!
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you
Sunset and evening star
Where roses and white lilies grow.

Go, lovely rose,
This is no country for old men. The young
Midwinter spring is its own season
And a few lilies blow. They that have power to hur, and will do none.
Looking as if she were alive, I call.
the vapours weep their burthen to the ground.
Obscurest night involved the sky
When Loie Fuller, with her Chinese veils
And many a nymph who wreathes her brow with sedge...
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
In dear-nighted December
Ripe apples drop about my head
Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone
To throw that faint thin line upon the shore!
O well for the fisherman's boy!
Fra Pandolf's hand
Steady thy laden head across a brook...
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
Fills the shadows and windy places
Here in the long unlovely street.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The freezing stream below.
To know the change and feel it...

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips
Where the dead feet walked in.
She dwells with Beauty- Beauty that must die,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.

Death of a Mermaid

by kbware7
sand sculpture ATT10
from Photobucket
originally uploaded here

Ascend no dances on her hair-
She’s ensconced by her seabed chi,
A circular strand of sandcone
Like a stalagmite reaching
Through the sea coined roses, daisies.
Her hand beetles away like frightened
Seagulls on a rift of air.
She’s going to heal less as
A deaf mermaid amid earthed foam.
Spent waves sang one conversation
In this cenotaph sea where
Death was forever left away.
Clouds came in believing deaths
Content in dying her moon.

Fracture

movie Fracture
date 2007
poem Oh, The Places You'll Go
author Dr. Seuss

Oh, The Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss can be found in its entirety below. Lines from the movie are in bold. Please leave comments at the bottom of this post.

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!
You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.
You’ll look up and down streets. Look ‘em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.
And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.
It’s opener there
in the wide open air.
Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.
And when things start to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.
OH!
THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!
You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.
You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.
Except when you don’t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.
I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
and hang-ups
can happen to you.
You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.
You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.
And when you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.
You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…
…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
NO!
That’s not for you!
Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.
With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!
Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. There are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.
Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.
I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
’cause you’ll play against you.
All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.
And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.
But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.
You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.
And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)
KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!
So…
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

The Capture of the Green River Killer

movie The Capture of
the Green River Killer
date 2008
poem Invictus
author William Ernest Henley

Invictus (meaning unconquered) by William Ernest Henley can be found below in its entirety. Please leave comments at the bottom of the post.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever Gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of Circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of Chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Monday Mural

by kbware7
sand sculpture ATT10
from Photobucket
originally uploaded here

Monday Mural will feature a picture/ artwork for you to lend your words (poem or story) each Monday. I want you to ask yourself what images are provoked here? What words would you use to define this picture? If you choose to write for Monday Mural please leave your comments below. Hope to see you around.

ATT10 was originally uploaded by kbware7 to Photobucket.

Today is the last day to sign up for the giveaway. Tomorrow morning I will announce the winner. So, don't forget to get your name into the running. Good Luck to all of my Poefusionists.

A Chance Encounter

Between the cosmetics isle and passing
I felt Wal-Mart’s cold air purchase my back.
What’s Curel, I heard her ask-
I imagine a colder lotion touching my skin.

I felt Wal-Mart’s cold air purchase my back
While I meandered around the superstore.
I imagine a colder lotion touching my skin;
It’s in stark contrast to his warm hands.

While I meandered around the superstore
I fondled Rage, putting all points on edge,
It’s in stark contrast to his warm hands
Where only G batteries are needed

I fondled Rage, putting all points on edge
Between the cosmetics isle and passing,
Where only G batteries are needed-
What’s Curel, I heard her ask.

Pantoum

The Pantoum is a repeating form written in quatrains (four line stanzas) where the second and fourth lines of each stanza become the first and third of the next one. In the last stanza the second and fourth lines repeat the first stanzas first and third lines to bring the pantoum full circle.

Here's an example

Gusev
David Mason

Butterflies dip and flutter on their wings;
They fly to the sea, near a chain of rocks.
My heart has felt ill in my chest
From my earliest days to the present hour.

They fly to the sea, near a chain of rocks...
The vulture soars on the way to Bandam.
From my earliest days to the present hour
I have admired the young.

The vulture soars on the way to Bandam...
And glides down to Patani.
I have admired the young.
But none compares to the one I choose.

He glides down to Patani...
Look! Two young pigeons!
No young man compares to the one I choose,
Skilled as he is at touching the heart.

It Was Not Seperation

It was not separation, for I was there
All the touching, I willed away-
It was not caring, for all hours
Put out their toll, for me.

It was not Him, for on my mind
I felt cool passage
Over the threshold, an inner longing
No words could speak.

And yet, I felt His hands
Pass over this Mohave Desert
Where faces are folded in pain,
Tonguing stuttered sentences-

As if life were reigning.

Poefusion

Poefusion #17

The next writing exercise is by David Rivard from the book The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki. Excerpted from page 286- 287.

Write a poem of at least 15 lines that employs the principle of the via negativa, either in whole or part.

The via negativa (by way of denial) is one of the essential devices for any poet's toolbox. Through repetition and resistance, it creates a pressure that can be both dramatic and psychological; through the use of a releasing turn (somewhat like that of the sonnet), it can create surprise and structure. Structurally, it provides the sense of counter-argument and of changed feelings. A famous example is Emily Dickinson's poem # 510 (below).

The basic idea is to create an impulse to deny some facts, events or feelings and to deny repetitively, so that pressure builds. Then you release all that pent-up energy by reversing direction and admitting to something.

Poem #510
by Emily Dickinson

it was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down-
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Sirrocos-crawl-
Nor Fire-for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool-

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine-

As if my life were shaven...

Other examples:

Wallace Stevens's Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
Marina Tsvetaeyeva's Homesickness

Untitled

I see a splinter of fire
Flickering inside a grey votive
It's dancing shadow
Creates distractions on the wall.
Slivers of smoke punctuate the air
Like a pantomime hidden in forest quills.
I raise my hand to touch this strange kinesis
And, instead catch moldering ash.

Friday 5 words are in bold.

Friday 5

Friday 5 is a collection of five words which can be found each week (middle column) on this page and inside this post. If you choose to write a poem or story with these words please leave your comment below. I hope everyone can find the same inspiration with Friday 5 as they do with 3WW. Hope to see you around and don't forget to post your comments below. Have a nice day.

Friday 5

splinter
distractions
molder
votive
punctuate

Lick Fork of Jenny's Creek

I imagine I’ll return to my childhood home
Built of life sized Lincoln Logs, one day,
And see the rich texture of its stained walls
Situated between two bluegrass mountains.
I’ll recall where Jenny Wiley escaped from
Cherokee, Shawnee and Wyandot Indians
One winter morning, 1780. Her wool skirt
Soaked in frigid waters. I’ll seek one last stop
At Lick Fork of Jenny’s Creek where Jenny’s
History mingles with my own. And,
I’ll picture myself following a circuitous trail
In yesterday’s habitude, my eyes ascending
A palatial gray; this, my secluded solace.
I’ll penetrate its limestone walls of Hercules
Encompassed by watercolor of summer.
And, I’ll sojourn for a time among aged walls
Where my uncurled fingers touch
The sun’s warmth against its pallid skin.
Until time recedes into absorbed silence
I’ll reflect on this place- its history, memories.

3ww words are in bold.

Poefusion

Poefusion #15

Write about a place you long for.

Poefusion #15 comes from the book A Creative Writer's Kit by Judy Reeves.

Poefusion

Poefusion #14

Write a mantra. An example would be like what aired on Lifetime's Why I Wore Lipstick to my Mastectomy. Here's a snippet of what aired; I am like the sky and nothing can stick to me. Your mantra doesn't have to be about breast cancer. Make your mantra fit who you are.

Scarecrowess

by Leontine May
art Watercolor
from Flickr

Somewhere amidst the bluegrass field,
A small child’s white dress
With two buttons instead of a ribbon’s braid
Tossed itself across small blades with finesse.

The Sunday dress landed on petrified wood;
A post, standing in a tuft of green grass.
It’s waiting for an arm so it won’t be misunderstood.
Then Braylee with curling cockleburs made her a lass.

Now she watches Poe’s black crow
Standing atop a jibing white brolly
Where he was trying to stow
Away a mouthful of broccoli.

When the crow flew away without so much as a splinter,
She squiggled in dance with her funny looking scarecrow.

Wraith of War

Worn boots on frosted field
Holds life for man killed in battle.
Mind crazy with prattle,
His filled throat brattled up front
And center. He took brunt
Force while unit still hunt enemy.
They trudged mud the many
On a good luck penny and faith.
Downing every eighth,
They saw a pale man’s wraith of war.

The inspiration for this poem came from the photo Front and Center by Stephen Weaver. It can be found in the Camera Arts magazine. Here's a link to Stephen Weaver's website if you would like to see more of his work. Poetic form, Luc-Bat. I couldn't adhere to the syllable count in only one line.

Luc-Bat (six-eight)

Here's the link to sign up for the giveaway if you haven't already done so. This will be your last week to sign up so hurry and get your name in the drawing.

Luc-Bat is a Vietnamese form consisting of alternating lines of six and eight syllables; the end-rhymes of each pair of eight-syllable and six syllable lines are echoed by an internal rhyme in the next line, positioned at the sixth syllable; a new rhyme then begins at the eighth syllable.

Here's an example:

Prologue and Opening of Chapter One of
Kim-Van-Kieu (the Tale of Kieu)
Nguyen Du (1765-1820; tr. John Drury)

In life, a century's sum,
Talent and fate may come to blows.
You pass through ebbs and flows,
Sickened by what is going on.
Something gained, something gone,
Fair cheeks are set upon by spite.
Manuscripts by lamplight
And bamboo texts relate the Ming
Period of Kia-Tsing
When peace was prevailing among
The people. In the Vuong
Family there was a young man, last
Son of a clerk whose modest
But literary past he knew,
And daughters named Thuy-Kieu
And Thuy-Van, both slim, beautiful,
In their two ways equal.

Excerpted from The Poetry Dictionary by John Drury.

Here's something I found online I thought might help you better understand where your rhymes are supposed to go.

O.O.O.O.O.a.
O.O.O.O.O.a.O.b.
O.O.O.O.O.b.
O.O.O.O.O.b.O.c.
O.O.O.O.O.c.
O.O.O.O.O.c.O.d.
O.O.O.O.O.d.
O.O.O.O.O.d.O.e.
O.O.O.O.O.e.
O.O.O.O.O.e.O.f.
O.O.O.O.O.f.
O.O.O.O.O.f.O.etc.

She's Un-buoyed by a Conch Tree

She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree
Where her fingers traced the ebbing flow
Of lightning strings- pulled free.

Her nu de dos only night can see
Under pink noise that’s on the go.
She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree.

Her columella beads of three,
Are strung together just so
With lightning strings- pulled free.

She rests her weight upon one knee
Waiting for the swells to grow,
She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree.

Facing west with an eye’s plea,
A purpling edge wants to know
Of lightning strings-pulled free.

Her shellboat is underway to the sea
Allowing her breast morning’s bestow.
She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree
From lightning strings- pulled free.

I wrote this poem using Under Way by Agnieszka Skrzypek from the Camera Arts magazine I bought yesterday at the bookstore. By following the link provided you can see the image. You will need to scroll down to the seventh picture though. While you're there check out some of her other artwork. It's incredible.

Monday Mural

by Leontine May
artwork Watercolor
from Flickr

Monday Mural will feature a picture/ artwork for you to lend your words (poem or story) each Monday. I want you to ask yourself what images are provoked here? What words would you use to define this picture? If you choose to write for Monday Mural please leave your comments below. Hope to see you around.

Watercolor was originally uploaded to Flickr by anongrrl. For an extra challenge try writing a sestina with these words: crow, umbrella, shade, dress, post and scarecrow. Happy Writing~

Pomes

A puce slur skreys across glureon skies
Tousling notes from a loquacious mozzle.
Somewhere behind the Caprussule tree
My hands reached for succulent pomes.
I heard a caggle of cack above my head
As I twisted the pomes fleshy skin.
I draw its five seeded forest near my lips and
Partake of sweet earth’s russule and grass.
A raindrops twang lingers upon my tongue
As a puce slur skreys across glureon skies
Tousling notes from a loquacious mozzle.
Somewhere behind the Caprussule tree
My hands reached for succulent pomes.
The caggle of cack have since flown past.

I may revisit this someday as I am not sure I like the length of this poem. Friday 5 words are in bold.

Villanelle

The villanelle is a fixed form of nineteen lines consisting of five tercets (three line stanzas) and a quatrain (four line stanza). The first line (refrain) is repeated in lines six, twelve and eighteen while the third line is repeated in lines nine, fifteen and nineteen. These refrains (first/third lines) rhyme with each other and with the opening line of each stanza. The middle lines rhyme with each other to make the rhyme scheme aba.

Heres an example

J'ay perdu ma tourterelle
Jean Passerat

My dove has flown away from me:
Isn't there something I can do?
I'll follow her where she may flee.

You miss your darling's company,
Alas? for me the same is true:
My dove has flown away from me.

As your love proves its constancy,
My faith will show its mettle too,
I'll follow her where she may flee.

Your moans recur incessantly:
I swear my grief is never through:
My dove has flown away from me.

Now that her beauty I can't see,
Nothing is beautiful to view;
I'll follow her where she may flee.

Death, so often I've made my plea,
Take now what is given to you:
My dove has flown away from me,
I'll follow her where she may flee.

Domestic Disturbance (movie title poem)

Hush! Don't Say A Word.
I'm having a Titanic Breakdown
The Day After Tomorrow.
There's a Vacancy in the Panic Room
But, I hear its Hostel.
Until I can check in
I'll ride Hidalgo with The Others into
Jurassic Park like a Daredevil.
What Lies Beneath is Castaway From Hell-
My Final Destination.

Hanging on The Edge of One Thousand Acres
I Saw the Signs of Armageddon
In this Wild Thing-
The Object Of My Affection. There's no
Urban Legend here just something called
Rush Hour where Hope Floats
Inside this Parent Trap.

I wish I was Under The Tuscan Sun
Looking out my Secret Window.
But instead, I was Missing
For Six Days, Seven Nights.
When they came searching for me
I was a Transporter at Wicker Park
On a borrowed Cellular.

Sweet Home Alabama- Mr. Ripley,
The New Guy was caught being Unfaithful
At the One Hour Photo with
The Generals Daughter. I always thought
He was a Hollowman without a real Identity.

Today my Four Brothers are going
With me into The Village.
I had a Premonition they would be spending
A Night At The Museum while I got
Flushed Away like Lady in the Water.

I happened upon Dr. Dolittle carrying
A Golden Compass, his National Treasure,
When he said you will be buried
In The Cave on Silent Hill so that the
Tomb Raider won’t find your body.

Here are the movies in order of appearance:

Domestic Disturbance (title), Hush, Don't Say A Word, Titanic, Breakdown, The Day After Tomorrow, Vacancy, Panic Room, Hostel, Hidalgo, The Others, Jurassic Park, Daredevil, What Lies Beneath, Castaway, From Hell, Final Destination, The Edge, One Thousand Acres, Saw, Signs, Armageddon, Wild Thing, The Object Of My Affection, Urban Legend, Rush Hour, Hope Floats, Parent Trap, Under The Tuscan Sun, Secret Window, Missing, Six Days Seven Nights, Transporter, Wicker Park, Cellular, Sweet Home Alabama, Mr. Ripley, The New Guy, Unfaithful, One Hour Photo, Generals Daughter, Hollowman, Identity, Four Brothers, The Village, Premonition, A Night At The Museum, Flushed Away, Lady In The Water, Dr. Dolittle, The Golden Compass, National Treasure, The Cave, Silent Hill and Tomb Raider.

Poefusion

Poefusion #13

Write a poem, a cento of sorts, using only movie titles as your inspiration. You may use your own words but, try to limit them as much as possible. Don't forget to credit the movies in your blog post. I can't wait to see what movie titles everyone uses in their poems. Who knows maybe someone will use movies we haven't seen yet. Happy writing~

I Am Too Close

I am posting I Am Too Close by Wislawa Szymborska for the Poem in Your Pocket Day offered at Poets.org. I was originally leery of posting this one because of copyrights but, last night I found it online here.

I Am Too Close
by Wislawa Szymborska

I am too close for him to dream of me.
I don't flutter over him, don't flee him
beneath the roots of trees. I am too close.
The caught fish doesn't sing with my voice.
The ring doesn't roll from my finger.
I am too close. The great house is on fire
without me calling for help. Too close
for one of my hairs to turn into the rope
of the alarm bell. Too close to enter
as the guest before whom walls retreat.
I'll never die again so lightly,
so far beyond my body, so unknowingly
as I did once in his dream. I am too close,
too close. I hear the word hiss
and see its glistening scales as I lie motionless
in his embrace. He's sleeping,
more accessible at this moment to an usherette
he saw once in a traveling circus with one lion,
than to me, who lies at his side.
A valley now grows within him for her,
rusty-leaved, with a snowcapped mountain at one end
rising in the azure air. I am too close
to fall from that sky like a gift from heaven.
My cry could only waken him. And what
a poor gift: I, confined to my own form,
when I used to be a birch, a lizard
shedding times and satin skins
in many shimmering hues. And I possessed
the gift of vanishing before astonished eyes,
which is the richest of all. I am too close,
too close for him to dream of me.
I slip my arm from underneath his sleeping head-
it's numb, swarming with imaginary pins.
A host of fallen angels perches on each tip,
waiting to be counted.

excerpted from Poems New and Collected (1957- 1997) by Wislawa Szymborska. A Harvest Book, Harcourt Inc. Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.

Friday 5

Friday 5 is a collection of five words which can be found each week (middle column) on this page and inside this post. If you choose to write a poem or story with these words please leave your comment below. I hope everyone can find the same inspiration with Friday 5 as they do with 3WW. Hope to see you around and don't forget to post your comments below. Have a nice day.

Friday 5

caprussule
mozzle
cack
skrey
glureon

Friday 5's words this week are made up for your enjoyment. My hope is that everyone will have fun with these words and make up a poem as good as Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll, found below. Happy Writing~

Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Poem in Your Pocket

Today has been designated as Poem in Your Pocket day by Poets.org. What that means is you carry your favorite poem around all day and share it with someone or everyone you come in contact with. If you don't want to carry it around all day post your favorite poem on your blog and let people know you support poetry. Mine can be found at Poefiti.

The Pane

The window had other views...

Wasps stung my paned face as they flew
Initially from the burning glass. Poco a poco
Needling birds addle themselves beneath my silled
Door. A very loud knock came stern
On my windowside. It was a sparrow without an alibi.
Wincing at this new pockmark, I felt a warm breeze grow.

I used window as a beginning/ ending acrostic so that it would resemble a closed window from the left side and an open window from the right side. Have a nice night~

Poefusion

Poefusion #12

"The window had other views."
(after Wislawa Szymborska)

Poefusion #12 is from the book The Creative Writer's Kit by Judy Reeves.

I've Never Seen His Face

I’ve never seen his face before this dream
His hand in mine became an endless seam.
He was an older guy I longed to see
And, his smile never lost its guarantee.
Although this became a recurring theme,

I longed to touch this hallucinate scene
Between silence and the edge of a stream.
My hands to tender skin fall and then flee.
I’ve never seen his face…

This infrastructure we built is supreme
We cannot deny this romance regime
Because, for me, you got down on one knee
And, I said yes before I had to flee
My eyes wake with esthesia and gleam
I’ve never seen his face…

The guy in this poem is named Danny. He is someone from a recurring dream. I have never seen his face in real life. But, there have been a few times I thought someone resembled him.

Poefusion

Poefusion #11

I've never seen his face.

Poefusion #11 comes from the book A Creative Writer's Kit by Judy Reeves.

grassland

barbed fence
horse tries to
scratch backside

brown hair pinched
between fingers

tree limbs
sway in the wind
after a soft rain

tattered bursts of laughter
play on shadowy ground

hot air balloon
dropped into an open field
with careful guidance

a single car
searches nearby

Renga

Renga are long, image- filled poems written by poets who take turns alternating stanzas of three lines and two lines. Thirty six stanzas continue to be the popular length today because of the great poet Matsuo Basho.

Start a renga by including an image that suggests a season and place where it's being written. You then begin linking your images together by making parallel images, contrasting images or a shift in focus onto another aspect of the same image. Other ways to link stanzas include repeating prominent sounds, making a pun or play on words. Also, you can continue or contrast with the mood of the stanza before. Finally, the last image of the renga is Spring indicating hopefulness and peace.

Here's an example

bringing home
a friend from afar
the cherry-strewn street

the white cat lazily blinks
the long afternoon

teacher's pet
cleaning the erasers
after school

thunder clouds
behind new leaves

after a shower
a sunbeam
on the garden stone

running out of the house
trailing the jump rope

~Tadashi Kondo, Kristine Young, Sherry reniker, Robert Reed, Sachiko Karasawa and Kazuyoshi Hirao

Tanagers Poem

artwork Aphrodite
by lxzp
from Photobucket








A tepid Rho and a third ope;
Aphid tore her moon pillow.
A tempera song where paragons meet,
As nap sod me
A moan sped from asp demon- mad opens.
Go hotly my Aphrodite- rip sky
With pate hid or dreamed.
Drape tho I of beauty,
Arid he top against napes mod; ado her tip,
Reach yet to Adonis and Eros,
Termly, rap rows a etch rye,
Risen from foam.
Ache tyre- arc he yet of lime sea,
Dolphins chart eye.
Aura ion and magenta prose
Heat drop I, a garments ope;
Tanagers poem begins a
Montages rape.

Tanagers Poem is in large part an anagrammed poem from these words, Aphrodite, mythology, Kypris, Cytherea, myrtle, sparrow, Pandemos, Ourania and pomegranates. Information I found at wikipedia also proved helpful. Here is the anagram tool at Wordsmith for those of you who would like to create an anagram poem.

Monday Mural

by lxzp
artwork Aphrodite
from Photobucket

Monday Mural will feature a picture/ artwork for you to lend your words (poem or story) each Monday. I want you to ask yourself what images are provoked here? What words would you use to define this picture? If you choose to write for Monday Mural please leave your comments below. Hope to see you around.

Aphrodite was originally uploaded by lxzp to Photobucket. I couldn't resist this beautiful artwork as one of the Monday Mural choices for National Poetry Month. Happy Writing~

Thalassa's Childhood Memory

Proust Window
at Henri Bendel's in Manhattan
originally found here
quote Marcel Proust

"If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time."

a small girl named Thalassa
became excited when she saw the Swarovski
crystals shining. they lined the
edge of water with their brilliance
from east to west. she arrived at the base of a
great red rose, eight feet tall, wrapped in more crystals.
helping herself, Thalassa began climbing each
intricate thorn to the top. Sitting beneath a
Jupiter moon she saw each delicate fold
keeping a book. When she reached and stretched a waggling fish
leaped from its pages, falling down onto a
mermaids back whose fin glistens in Thalassa’s eyes as she
nods her head towards the quiet smell of salt and a
picaroon. the pirate held a teacup of Swarovski crystals
quietly pouring them over a small
rowboat; a silver mannequin took form. the pirate was a
soi disant artist, Thalassa
thought. the moment it got colder she stood
up and reached for Jupiter’s
waistline. standing upright, she played the rings like a
xylophone. The loud song
yelped across the sea as Thalassa continued
zigzagging across each note.

Thalassa's Childhood Memory is based on two prompts (Poefusion #10 and an ABC poem). I used as many details from #10 as I could. Hope you enjoy.

ABC Poem (abecedarius)

The abc poem uses the alphabet (a-z) as points of departure for lines of poetry. Also, you can look at one letter and let its appearance suggest images and ideas for your next poem. Take a look at Nu de Dos by Michelle Johnson and Birds Fly Gaga in Her Head by Christine from Maria Christina's blog.

Nu de Dos
by Michelle Johnson

alone in her upright fetal position she
bared her nu de dos. She’s
closed within her imagined walls
debating whether an
eviction from her self would expose a misguided
freedom. She wants to
graft these new emotions into her
habitude but, doesn’t know how to
induce them. She cries fresh tears on
jaundiced sands and tries to understand the
kinescope playing through her mind. Her
liaison carried weight beyond
maturity as she succumbed to these
nocturnal invasions of her womb. Her face
obfuscated, tender, lay in quotation of shadow and
pain until the imbricated movements ceased into the
quietude. She holds into herself as she
retraces the experience, wanting to wash it away in
subjacent waters. She slowly realizes she’s still
tethered to her skin and this
ubiquitous feeling won’t subside. The
variegated sky and its sepia hues bore
witness as she was born into this
xenophobia. She wants to
yerk fistfuls of sand and cleanse her skin but, in her mind she lays in
zoysia.

Birds Fly Gaga in Her Head
by Christine Swint

An agitation of avian airfoils
beats the breaststroke in her brain.
Not badminton birdies-
bona fide birds babble barcarolles
to broken balaclavas,
while crones in black babushkas
crow their cacophonous calypso,
crowding the margins of her deliberations,
duping her into debauchery,
driving her from a delicate dream
of equanimity. Every Easter
she entertains the fancy
of facing East, her euphemism
for eternity and easy living.
But inflicted fantasies as glossy as flaxseed oil
flit and scud, like flocks
of flamingoes flapping forever,
going on and on over the indigo gouache
in her hysterical head.

Both these examples have accompanying pictures but, I did not copy them here. Nu de Dos is the same title as Pablo Picasso's painting. Happy Writing~

Poefusion

Poefusion #10

The next writing exercise is by Maureen Seaton from the book The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki. Detail Scavenger Hunt excerpted from pages 287- 288.

Here is a good way to gather details to make a rich and textured poem. You can do absolutely anything with the details once you've found them (written them down)- write a rant, translate them into another language and write a pantoum, collaborate with a group or go solo. Use all of the details in your poem, or a few, or just one. You can make up your own Scavenger Hunt- try a City Hunt, a Suburb Hunt, a Cornfield Hunt, a Seaside Hunt, a Cyber Hunt. Wherever you are, come up with a list of things to find and then go looking. Or use the same list everywhere and see how the details and poems shift. Here's one I suggest for cityscapes. Go to the corner of your street and prime your senses. Notice the eccentric and neglected details. Really search for something no one else might find. Walk around.

List:

Something Red

A Headline
An Interesting Window
A Bright Light
A Quiet Smell
Your Favorite word(s) today
Something Not Orange That
Reminds You Of Orange

Something That Rhymes With Juniper
Something You Overheard
A Childhood Memory
Fascinating Footwear
The Moment It Got Colder
A Loud Song

A Walk in Spring

My feet embraced the blacktop
On Olivet Church road today;
Its brittle belly holds a stripe
Of white-gravel dust
Like a skunk’s tail.

I wish I had my camera
To excavate the Polaroid
I carry in my head.
Succulent pink Sakura-
Blooms to its edges, carefully
Minding the bee’s symphony
Playing around its orbit.

Tonight I made thin conversation.
What shared the spring
But enough the muse,
Vivid. Deathly. Fall.
Unleafing petals of salt.

So, I cherished on sweet torrent
Thousand flown they blow.
I clang and whole one dream
Inside a sliver of aluminum foil.

Friday 5 words are in bold. The last two stanzas of my poem come from my favorite lines of poetry at Darwinian Poetry. I will be posting a Poefusion for this, possibly, next month. So, any credits due someone can be found during that time. Photo by Michelle Johnson.

Friday 5

Friday 5 is a collection of five words which can be found each week (middle column) on this page and inside this post. If you choose to write a poem or story with these words please leave your comment below. I hope everyone can find the same inspiration with Friday 5 as they do with 3WW. Hope to see you around and don't forget to post your comments below. Have a nice day.

Friday 5

brittle
aluminum foil
Polaroid
skunk
salt

Onawa's Mourning

Artwork by street artist Swoon
Originally uploaded to flickr

I have been working on this since Sunday. And still, the format is wrong. How this bears some semblance of a story is beyond me? Somehow I left out the word weather and had to go back and add it in. Then I found I had placed the end words wrong. So, rather than pull my remaining hair out I have decided to just post it as is (without the tercet at the end) and maybe by some blessing in the sky I will come back to this and finish it the correct way. Below is what I have attempted without changing the end words back to the correct positions. Thanks for your understanding and I'm sorry for the rant but, I am MEGA aggravated over this.

Onawa pressed against a wall painted blue.
Her eyes held a distant weather
As she remembered her simpatico daughter,
Aiyana, playing alongside me-
Chiding the maize to stand upright and point
To the sky Gods until the clouds took shape.

I saw Aiyana spying her mother’s face. Its shape
And smooth texture she memorized like a pressed blue
Flower in American books. She rose from her point,
Leaving warm sunny weather,
On the ground and said, I am Onawa’s daughter.
Then she took my hand and pulled me

Freely through the corn until she could hear me
Laughing. Patches of tall grass, rhombus shape,
Began to form as Onawa called her daughter.
We were almost able to touch the water’s blue
Weather
Surface when we saw a buck, an eight point.

When the deer tail flit up to a point
I knew he was ready to bolt from Aiyana and me.
White clouds pushed against this rendered weather.
As evening took parallel shape,
The screech of a hawk pierced the sky’s blue
Territory over our village- Mother Nature’s daughter.

Onawa is mourning the death of her daughter
Today at the street’s corner point.
In native tongue she says, the sky is no longer blue.
She watches a mother’s hand take shape
Around a small child then looks at me
With wrung eye’s resembling rainy weather.

Onawa searches new direction in the weather-
vane as she remembers a beaded, blue
Buckskin dress she had sewn for her daughter.
Its frayed edges used to tickle Aiyana’s feet like me
When we played as children- searching our compass point.
What I found was unwanted freedom in a foreign shape.

Poefusion

Poefusion #9

Write a sestina using these end words: blue, weather, daughter, me, shape and point.

Poefusion #9 is from the book The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki.

Poefusion

Poefusion #8

Write a poem about your hands.

Poefusion #8 is from the book The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki.

My Hand

My hand is an amulet of strength
With protruding white nails that
Protect the soft pink flesh of my fingertips.
My eyes follow the cleft ridge
On my right thumbnail, imagining the next
Hand and foothold through Mt. Everest;
Its lifeline, long as my own.
I carry the map of two marriages
And, one child upon this strange Caucasian land
Where I’ve circumnavigated my way around
Its perimeter with steady weight.
I dug inside its rich, bluegrass roots
And came out dry on the other side
Amidst a veined crop circle-
This blueprint of Stonehenge
Just visible beneath my skin.
I start my search back to the beginning
Through knuckle-white mysteries
To find where God took my hand once,
Leaving signs of Stigmata
Upon the center of my palm.

Note: I do not have the power to perform a stigmata. I used the word stigmata to represent a scar I received as a child. I was trying to climb a muddy hill and couldn't. So, I decided I would hit a board that was lying there with my hand. When my hand came down on the board it hit a rusty nail and punctured my palm. I now have a small white scar in the center. I am sorry if my use of Stigmata upsets anyone who comes to read my blog. That was not my intention.

Lune

The lune was invented by poet Robert Kelly. It's a three line poem with a syllable count of 5/3/5. Below is an example of Kelly's Lunes. By omitting the capitalization and end punctuation it made this form more simplistic but, not part of the form.

they are given to
hold close, not
air, not each other

~

thin sliver of the
crescent moon
high up the real world

A variation of this form comes from poet Jack Collom. He mistakenly told some school children it was a 3/5/3 word count, not syllables. Here's some examples of children's lunes.

A raindrop falls.
It falls on my nose-
delicate, light, transparent.

~

Think of me
as a beautiful ballerina twirling
around the block.

~

Rock shock the
house. Everybody to the funky
beat, yes yes.

~

Remember me, remember
me. Put it all together
and remember me.

The beauty of this form is you're not confined to writing about the seasons. You can write about whatever you want as long as you can fit it into an eleven word or thirteen syllable count.

4th of July

provided by Easystreet Prompts
photo Carnival

Fourth of July fair
comes to town,
nighttime fun with Aunt.

twirling and whorling
upside down
in favorite rides.

goldfish won playing
assorted
games on the fairground.

our favorite time-
watching fireworks display their brilliance
at Archer Park.

Poetic form, Lune. I used a syllable count of 5/3/5 for the first three lune and a word count of 3/5/3/for the last one.

Monday Mural

by Nubia 1515
artwork
from Photobucket

Monday Mural will feature a picture/ artwork for you to lend your words (poem or story) each Monday. I want you to ask yourself what images are provoked here? What words would you use to define this picture? If you choose to write for Monday Mural please leave your comments below. Hope to see you around.

Artwork was originally uploaded to Photobucket by Nubia 1515. When I saw this I immediately knew it was going to be the first Monday Mural of April. Happy Writing~

pokemon battles

by Nubia 1515
painting Artwork
from Photobucket
originally uploaded here

articuno and
moltres facing off at sunset
legendary birds

rhombus plumage flows
against freeze and flame currents
pokemon battles

Bout- rimes

Bout- Rimes is French for "rhymed ends." A bouts- rimes poem is created by one person's making up a list of rhymed words and giving it to another person, who in turn writes the lines that end with those rhymes, in the same order in which they were given. For example, one person writes down tanned, jump, fanned, bump, reading, lawn, misleading, yawn, yoyo, death, no-no, breath, France and pants for another person to use as rhymes, as in:

Getting burnt, evaporated, bleached, or tanned
By the sun ain't no way to jump.
I'd rather plop in shadow, be fanned
By some geisha girl, and lay around like a proverbial lump.

I'm not that hot for so-called good reading;
I just crave a cool drink on a bluegreen lawn.
I mean, don't let me be misleading:
Where I'm at is sorta like the center of a yawn.

You now, excitement's like being a yoyo-
I don't wanna beat the subject to death,
And it isn't that repetition ain't no no-no,
but the last thing I hope to be is out of breath.

So let somebody else go lost-generate all over France,
Or fly to the moon, discover Africa, some damn hotshot smartypants.

~Jack Collom

Excerpted from The Teachers & Writers Handbook of Poetic Forms Edited by Ron Padgett

Here are your words to write a Bout- Rimes:

butterfly, steam, cry, dream
hair, lake, mare, late
test, create, mess, sedate
scheme, wicker

Butterfly at a Spa

What a strange thing! A butterfly
Went to a spa for a nice steam.
When she fluttered out she began to cry
“This is not part of my dream!”

Her beautiful etchings were gone and this spiked hair?
She looked like a moth flying over the lake.
What was she to do? She went to ask mare.
But, mare didn’t have time; she was going to be late.

Maybe butterfly thought, I could do a test,
All I need is colorful petals and honey to create.
“No, No, No!” she said, “That will only cause a mess.”
Butterfly decided to see a tattoo artist who could sedate.

Now she’s the prettiest butterfly... for her scheme.
She’s relaxing at the spa in a chair of white wicker.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Tree

I
Among fourteen thousand sunrises
The only growing thing
Was the bud of an oak tree.

II
I was of an undecided mind
Like a tree's dance
With its juxtaposing limbs.

III
The birds like black pepper fireworks
Dip and sway from a distant tree line.

IV
I am one with the tree
Whose jutting bones
Break a stitch of earth.

V
The hawk sat inside a silent tree
Awaiting its next prey.

VI
A winter-chilled night
Wined the vitreous trees
Once-stark below the
Lank skies ceiling
And found morning limpid
With a lacquered white varnish.

VII
Eve of Eden,
Why do you imagine another life?
Are you not satisfied with the beauty
Of the tree that surrounds your feet?

VIII
I know the feel of rough textures
And callus hands,
The scent of apples
And, the stickiness of a silkworm’s nest.
I also know that the tree is
Intertwined with my spirit.

IX
Rain resounds off
The passing spring
Like tattered bursts of laughter
From a child
Hanging upside down
In an apple tree.

X
At the sight of a tree
Leaves reach for sunlight
As the sentry flying above
Stretches its wings in welcome.

XI
She rode over
Lick Fork of Jenny’s Creek
In a blue Volkswagen
Allowing tree shadows to
Momentarily tattoo her car.

XII
The river is moving.
The trees must be swaying.

XII
It was evening.
It was raining.
And, the weeping willow
Was mourning.

Today's poem is fashioned after Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens. I felt this exercise was taxing, rushed and that my effort was not so good. But, here it is nonetheless. I might revisit it at a later date to see what else I can do to refresh it. I wanted to post something today for National Poetry Month and that meant setting this one out regardless of how I felt.

Poefusion

Poefusion #7

Read Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens (below) and write your own 13-part poem using one repeating image or symbol.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Poefusion #7 is from the book The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki.

Friday 5

Friday 5 is a collection of five words which can be found each week (middle column) on this page and inside this post. If you choose to write a poem or story with these words please leave your comment below. I hope everyone can find the same inspiration with Friday 5 as they do with 3WW. Hope to see you around and don't forget to post your comments below. Have a nice day.

Friday 5

avocado
hemisphere
gasoline
ceiling
brick

Blew By You

I blew by you and your
Avocado green house
When you said,
Hey! You wanna take
Pictures of MY house?

The hemisphere was tilted
In the folds of silence
Where I heard the church bell ring
Simultaneously smelling gasoline
From passing cars.

I stood on 4th and Market Street
Taking pictures of
Old Hayswood Hospital
Whose red-brick foundation
Held broken glass
And, splayed vines.

Those sinuous tendrils
Reaching out, creating
A dark ceiling from
Shards of memory.

Friday 5 words are in bold. I also wanted to mention that the words Blew By You and Hey! You wanna take pictures of my house are snippets of something I saw yesterday or conversation I overheard while trying to take pictures of old Hayswood Hospital. Photo by Michelle Johnson.

Canoe Race

A smooth long journey!
Great Expectations.

A mid-June sun beat down
Against our skin as
We readied our borrowed canoe
Into cold river water
Lapping the bank’s edge.

Our paddles
Inside the folds of our hands
Breaking each small wave
Along the Big Sandy River;
Temperatures rising- summer throttle.

Camouflaged Swift
And his lost treasure
Amidst those curvy bends
Eluded us for fifteen miles;
Prestonsburg to Paintsville.

Great expectations and a
Levisa Cup on our minds
We whipped the water like
An alligator preying on food-
Hoping for first place.

Our smooth long journey
Came to an end 3:25:10 later,
Washing ashore thirteenth.
We learned that it wasn’t the prize
But, the journey and that…

You are grateful for
the small pleasures of life.

Poefusion

Poefusion #6

Write a poem using two fortune cookies from a box or Chinese restaurant. Use one as your opening line and the other as your closing line. Below you can find some fortune's to get you started. Choose only 2.

Poefusion #6 is from the book The Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki.

Fortunes:

1. You will never regret the present, but you live to its fullest.
2. Your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded.
3. You will be lucky in love.
4. Happier days are definitely ahead for you. Struggle has ended.
5. Your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded.
6. You will always be successful in your professional career.
7. You will hear pleasant news.
8. Your exotic ideas lead you to many exciting, new adventures.
9. You will be successful in your career.
10. A pleasant surprise is in store for you.
11. You will be rewarded for your kindness to others.
12. Big things coming in future. Only matter of time.
13. All your sorrows will vanish.
14. You will travel to exotic places on your next trip.

Poefusion

Poefusion #5

The poster for National Poetry Month features a line from Jay Wright's poem The Healing Improvisation of Hair. Keeping this theme in mind try writing something about hair today.

Don't forget to sign up for the giveaway here.

Hair Nostalgia

I used to wear my hair down
Past my shoulders
Where every brown strand
Could shimmy and shine
Beneath the red sun.
It’s mass, dark and rich as the
Big Sandy River-
Flowing rivulets across my back-
Playing with the wind and
Stretching the length of my spine.
As it reached into
A graying adulthood
I squelched its freedom
With one twist and pin.