Super interesting Robert, thanks for sharing this.

BLACK HEART

How is it that a
heart designed to
love can harbor
an all consuming
hatred? Feasting
on all that is
light and love
and returning
nothing. Heart
becomes more
dense and
hardened
by the
moment.

Congrats on top billing, Hannah! Great start...

Nea code: AFANH (a fan of Hannah!) TRUE! :)

To burst or not to burst

You ask me
Why'd you stay
when it was so bad?
I try & explain.

You asked me again,
why'd you stay?
Anger rose
and the dam burst
erupting in to tears

Grabbing you
by the collar, yelling
and pushing you
to show you
how it was to live each day,
afraid it was your last

You cannot understand
what came over me.
I sobbed as I spoke
"This is how it is
when you're on the edge"

You pulled me to
your chest
encircled me with
your love
and stroked my hair
and hushed my tears

"I don't understand
why you stayed
but I'm
very glad you
escaped"

Outside and In

You crept into my life
gently, at first,
allowing me get used to you
sharing my space.
A short distance in time
brought unfamiliar fireworks to life,
exploding throughout my senses,
enriching the soil
where our union was planted,
watching it grow more powerful
than could ever be imagined.
Walls I created, brick by brick,
to protect my remnants of sanity
shattered into a pile of dust,
imploded by a force beyond nature,
creating a space to transform
this solitary being
into the other half of two.

Hannah and Pamela, the message your words portray is powerful. Intensely beautiful work.

Effusive Gratitude

Many frank thanks for your casual aplomb
I so dislike people dropping issues like bombs
Your acetylene voice, flammable but smooth
The best aged scotch ever coated my throat.

2 for Tuesday Day 17
1. Write an explosion poem.

2. Write an implosion poem.

I wrote one poem but with both prompt's


Self-Destruction

I am on the verge
of self-destruction...

my world is falling apart
my mind is crumbling within.

The implosion is instantaneous
disaster is near.

I am on the verge
of self-destruction...

my world is slipping away
my mind is rumbling again.

The explosion is catastrophic
myself I fear

Pressure

Totally exhausted
you sit
and tell me
how it is
to experience
the ultimate failure

You cry as you explain
he had a beautiful baby
and a wife
at home

Firefighters
save lives
You taught them well
everything you knew.
Men to be proud of.

You reached into
the foundation
of the building
and caught his hand
and grabbed on with the other

But you are only human
and your strength
just wasn't enough.
You held on as long as
he could
and so did he.

The pressure is too much
today
and you're tears flow
You are my hero,
even though you don't think so.

DEAD WALKER

she insists she’s a dead walker
believe her when she says
the life went out of her
when the man who said love
said it from venomous lips

and she took it all into herself
unknowingly allowed the words
to inject into a swooning heart
black magic charms of deceit

that meandered down aorta
through ventricles and atria
till lying there breathless
she felt the dark bedroom

burst in a shower of light
but it was an illusion
demon lovers know how
to trick the gullible

make them see what’s not there
make them see the bursting
when all along
it’s an implosion of the heart

a nasty rending of tissue
a blood main bursting
a life seeping from the wreckage
of a heart so easily fooled

if you ask her where
she’s heading now
what are her future plans
will she ever love again

her eyes will dim
inside her chest
a cobweb trapeze
sways hypnotically

a dead walker she says
heartless
cold
empty

#

WITHIN YOU WITHOUT YOU

I get lost in this “cosmic cloud”;
a mind meld that connects
memories of old with the
revelations of a moment ago.
They span the distance of
heartfelt compassion
and unflappable uncertainty.
And at the core of these
synaptic brain waves
is the beat of your heart.
You’ve remained within me for
as long as I’ve been without you.
Your smile has been emblazoned
on the projection screen of
my consciousness, playing
in a loop of tender remembrance.
Your eyes penetrate still
in the gaze of love once proffered,
and they retain their light to
shine upon me from the heaven
in which you now reside.
Your hair has become the sunset
that graces my skies in my
every dusky retreat, glowing in
your burning auburn exuberance.
You have nested deeply into my soul,
the core of the love I carry for you.
You energize me and keep my grief
from being all consuming, giving me
the tether I need to pull myself
from this hole you’ve left gaping
in this shell of myself. I have found
the place to explode my charge
detonating my muse with the inspiration
wrought by just the sound of your name
as long as I am without you,
I will hold you safely within.

Picture Postcard: The Traymore Hotel, Atlantic City, 1972

She was once
the grand prismatic gem.
She glinted in the sun,
sending out rainbows
and light beams
down the Jersey Shore.
Glitterati, literati,
the famous and the rich -
they all came
to pay their seaside homage.

It was only a matter of time.

But like an aging movie star,
whose reputation
outlasted the glamour,
she declined
and kept pace
in the downward spiral
with the city
whose name
once meant the epitome
of charm and enchantment.

It was only a matter of time.

When we were young
we would visit my grandparents
who lived in Atlantic City.
When we strolled
the weathered boards
of the old Boardwalk,
my father would point out
the old grand dame
who was standing and waiting,
long past her prime.

It was only a matter of time.

Dynamite, carefully planted
like a hidden treasure of volatile gems,
sets off the spark
which turns the air
dull and opaque
from dust and ashes.
She died slowly,
collapsing in on herself
as if her heart, at last, gave out.
She was mourned only by those who would remember when.

It was only a matter of time.

Explosions

When I was a young boy
on McGill Avenue,
one of the Egan boys and I
made a batch of black powder
out of saltpeter, sulphur,
and powdered charcoal.
We blew apart my brother’s cap
and our mother’s went ballistic.
We bought new supplies
from a downtown druggist,
and blasted vegetables
from the backyard garden,
two-legged garden pests,
leaving craters where carrots
once displayed their verdant crowns.
In school we watched films
that showed the work of older boys,
and we learned to crawl
under desks and cower
to the accompaniment
of blasting air-raid sirens.
I later learned how
ancestors manufactured
gun powder out of manure,
urine, wood ashes, and straw.
That black powder helped clear
giant stumps from their fields,
and supplied them with game
to feed their wintering families.
But, it was always more than that,
this love of the power to blast,
the joyous thrill of destruction,
the flying carrot, the shredded hat,
the bullet ridden tin can, shattered bottle,
the persuasive power of clenched fist,
rattling saber, or nuclear umbrella.

Sorry - I sent the wrong version. Ooops! I so apologize.
Here's the correct version with the correct *Our Grandparents* stanza included.

Picture Postcard: The Traymore Hotel, Atlantic City, 1972

She was once
the grand prismatic gem.
She glinted in the sun,
sending out rainbows
and light beams
down the Jersey Shore.
Glitterati, literati,
the famous and the rich -
they all came
to pay their seaside homage.

It was only a matter of time.

But like an aging movie star,
whose reputation
outlasted the glamour,
she declined
and kept pace
in the downward spiral
with the city
whose name
once meant the epitome
of charm and enchantment.

It was only a matter of time.

When we were young
we would visit our grandparents
who lived in Atlantic City.
When we strolled
the weathered boards
of the old Boardwalk,
our dad would point out
the old grand dame
who was standing and waiting,
a sandy shell, long past her prime.

It was only a matter of time.

Dynamite, carefully planted
like a hidden treasure of volatile gems,
sets off the spark
which turns the air
dull and opaque
from dust and ashes.
She died slowly,
collapsing in on herself
as if her heart, at last, gave out.
She was mourned only by those who would remember when.

It was only a matter of time.

Wow! What an astonishing prompt - and what fantastic poetry. I must read them again before I can comment.
=D

Evacuate!

Fire lights the skyline.
Terror runs deep and wide
as I grasp a photo, checkbook, wooden bowl,
throw them into a basket of laundry,
run for a vehicle.
I start the engine, jump out to grab the dog
as an explosion of flame leaps across the ridge.

The pickup bounces wildly down the dirt road.
Skidding to a stop
I open the gate to the horse pasture.
A sorrel, bay, and buckskin flash by me,
eyes wide in fright.
Cattle are safe far, far away,
My foremost thoughts are of my husband
fighting the monster consuming our lives.

Safe, at a friend’s home in town,
we prepare food for the fire crews,
wondering who is winning the war of flames;
fire or men.
I pray.

My Love for You

The old places, rimmed with quartz and limestone
echo afflictions. Unvisited for centuries but not
dormant, rocks play tricks in the sun. Wavering.
as if their stiff structures could be twisted in air
by the alchemy of holding warmth, strung intent,
taut with willing wonder, steeped in sepia beliefs.
Each idea shimmering, red bursting hot, as created
rubies found scattered on the graveled ground
picked up, separated, valued, distinctly reshored.
A religion, sans doctrine, no rules, just astonishment
at the odorless explosion within each ancient atom
treasuring at no expense every rocky advance.

life-size doll house

built in an ear-splitting second
an upheaval of smoke

a white bathtub sits on the edge
of one room, a shoe
dangles by a string
from another, a calendar
with a picture of fall
in New England clings
to a nail on a blue wall
flaps its pages

some dolls are buried
except a leg or hand
others walk around
silent, stiff, their eyes
painted wide open

Anger Management Count Down

He was incensed, angry, livid, enraged:
his fury was on holy rampage.
His behavior was explosive
and his words quite corrosive
as he vented his ire
in terms truly dire.
Off of his bean -
such a scene
of doom.
Boom!

That last code was lgfzz. Large Fuzz?

Passage

On life’s final day
comes an explosion of light.
Be at peace with it.

Patricia...that gave me goosebumps!!!
Walt- As always, I am astounded.

Day 17 – Explosion

I held my heart
In a box
Protected from the
Wind and rain
Of emotions

It was safe there
Carefully padded
Swathed in velvet

I walked around
Knowing that no one
Could see my heart
But me
When I chose to
Take it from the box

Today I met you
I felt a stirring
Like gases
Bubbling ‘neath the surface
Of a long dormant
Volcano

It was disconcerting
It felt weird
It was unexpected
It was scary

Day 17 – Implosion

I have no idea
Why our society
Has chosen to
Frown upon
Burping

Don’t they know
That a body that
Burps and farts
Is alive?

Why would I want
To hold it in?
So I can implode?

Enlightenment

Collapse of the self,
the blowdown of illusion.
Peace freed asunder.

Explosion

E ethereal
X x-ray
P predestined
L lump
O omnipresent
D demon
E erupts


Implosion

I impatient
M musing
P possibilities
L linger
O obstinate
D depression
E emerges

laurie k.

Without Warning


Implosion of the soul generally occurs without warning. – m.b.


It was so sudden
I did not anticipate
The extraordinary pain
From the gaping hole
In the center of my chest
Where my heart once sat,
I thought, safely nestled
Inside my rib cage
Cradled gently in soft tissue
And muscle until the day
I understood
That you never loved me and
Never would and
All those years
Of trying to be good
Didn’t soften your heart but instead
Bred distain
So you could easily rip
Mine to shreds over and over
From childhood ‘til now
Until finally
The light dawned
– not like soft candlelight
But like sticks of dynamite
Strategically placed
To cause my soul
To collapse onto itself

Butterfly

The workout is almost over. Whenever we get down onto the floor we are moving into the stretches. The instructor introduces the Butterfly. I pull my knees towards my chest and then I let them fall open, bringing my soles together. I hold onto my ankles and bring my chest down towards the diamond shaped space of mat and floor underneath my legs. I seem to remember this. Maybe from the two track practices and one meet I managed to attend the spring of my freshman year in high school. When I had a friend who was on the team and would give me a ride. Before the required physical when they said my tonsils were so large and infected they would not suggest I run. I would not suggest I run for other reasons but I thought maybe I could learn. I still don’t run but I can do this stretch. My chest can make it to the floor. I can see the cracked skin on my heel and then I implode. Why now? Why ever? Tears unbidden. I try to breathe them back in. I sound like a child sniffling after she’d lost some doll to a stronger playmate or when she didn’t get the crusts of her bread cut off just so. Maybe, to everyone else, it sounds like – what do they call it? – a dragon breath. I wipe my face on the rolled cuffs of my yoga pants before lifting my head. Everyone else is moving on to the next position.

A Maine poet considers a moss agate pendant bought in Pike’s Place market, Seattle
A star explodes. Light cools
into earth; molten rock pools
into continents and folds
like paper till it holds
the shape of mountains. Crumbled
into stones, tumbled,
hung on a silver chain,
brought from Washington to Maine:
around my neck, America –
red bleeding into blue,
blue bruising the red,
not ready to implode.

Jenny Doughty

Time Bomb Life

They planted little time bombs
wherever they went,
jolts that sent the blood racing,
acts sliding verbal knives into friends.

The brother and sister
trod different paths,
left separate trails
of destruction.

Hers ended early,
a final suicide attempt
by pneumonia. She left
two young boys and dozens
of broken hearts.

His end came after decades
of shambling the earth
in a drunken haze. He left
a grown son, grown crooked.
No broken hearts.

Jessie - enjoying your theme and format and rhythm...a nice stretch of your imagination

Shrapnel of the Soul

A single word
Crammed with insult and innuendo
From lips that once kissed
Detonated inside my heart
A shower of spiteful syllables
Ripped through my soul
Shredding my spirit

Your shrapnel
Left me crippled

(Another unedited, three minute poem, so again, please do forgive. I've come to this late and in the middle of starting a new novel, so time is limited -- ha, like it always is! But this was too fun to pass up. This would be a riff on the explosion theme.)


Watch out, he might blow

That little man in the corner over there...
I've been watching him.
The party swirls on around him,
conversations ebbing and flowing,
punctuated by the silver peals of laughter
of our hostess,
the inestimable, the esteemable, the powerful:
Maude.

And he,
the husband,
so quiet and unmoving.
The lines on his face settling deeper and deeper
into a roadmap of stillness.

His eyes, though,
so much more alive than the rest of us,
darting and fleeing around the room
to stop, to settle, to hang
so heavily on his wife
and then start the pendulum back,
touching always on
that dapper gentleman over there...
the one who hangs on our hostess
so gracefully, so tightly, so singly,
with every bon mot and every glance,
even from across the room.

There's an undercurrent of tension
here, among the frivolous joy --
And I cannot help but wonder
whether cocktail weiners can be
used as weapons of mass destruction.

Explosion

We are the star stuff
cast off from the explosion
that set us adrift.

Implosion

Without a whimper
The venerable towers
Are brought to their knees.

It happened so suddenly
I didn’t have time to react
My heart shriveled up and died
It curled in upon itself
Creating a black hole
Of misery where your love
Once resided
The searing white hot pain
Radiated through every inch of my being
Till it felt like it to would
Curl in upon its self
Sucked into the black hole
And I ceased to exist.

Thank you Marie, you make me smile!

Susan, thanks for the comment as well. :)

I'm going to save the reading for a hopeful time when toddler naps! Then I will be able to read a big poetic explosion all at once! He, he, he...

Outsider

There’s nowhere I feel more alone
than flipping through a catalog
asking for money
to help others.

My Buddhist teachers would tell me
this is because already there is an “other” –
someone I am not who needs my help.
“Pray for them,” a friend says, “this is enough.”

Inside of me something burns
a pain of suffering I know personally
and I wish I could carry to the Res
and share it, and listen, in person.

But this person needs new eyes,
needs an education,
and my mother always told me
to give money domestically.

“We have enough trouble in this country,”
she warned, “no need to send it abroad.”
My mother knew the further away we made the other
the easier it would be to ignore someone.

Already I have bared my privilege
by writing this poem.
The fire explodes,
searching for safety.

ONE AFTER 909
(9:10 A.M.)

The timer is set.
A daily revelation is planted,
the nuanced prompt of a cryptic nature
doused in nomenclature
and heavily laden with rhyme.
Anytime a thought like that
comes to the fore you pounce,
using every ounce of your
muse to open the gates of reason
and pen pleasing poetry
before the idea causes
self-inflicted harm. For in
the span of a moment,
your “self-abuse” can be
a healing cure, or a dreaded curse,
but it could be worse if you let it.
Give in to your inspiration.
Ignite the light of wisdom and
your come-as-you-are attitude,
for it would be rude to keep
these thoughts to yourself.
As this morning unfolds
it holds the promise of new
expressions laid waste
by these verbal hand grenades
spraying the shrapnel of knowledge
on the unsuspecting seekers
of poetic perusal.

Exploding/Imploding


Joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, deep emotion within,
Light envelopes, portraying exterior cheer

Darkness plunges, unwelcome fear,
Roller coaster speed, penetrating solid ground.

Depression imploding, many have been,
Exuberance, fireworks explode in the air.

Hearts serge forward, heaven, ultimately, there
Life’s tribulations ebb, flow, solace found.

Ninacarole
11/17/09

Two for Tuesday: “Explosion and Implosion”-- Poetic ASIDES humor

Ex Plosive © Rich Atwater Nov. 17, 2009

Speech therapy centers on pronunciation,
Thus the teacher may emphasize the letter “P”,
Speak up my child, say an elongated “Please”,
Hold your breath, release the proper designee!

Perhaps a “K” would better suit our vocabulary style,
Just say “Kapow” as if you mean to “pack a punch”,
The plosive feeling, sound, release of sudden breath,
If done correct will lead to time of break, called lunch.

And now a “T” will be our next speech plosive undertaking,
“Trampoline”, to jump upon when we are finished, done,
So pucker up your lips, control the sound within,
Release that thunderous “T”, and do it like it’s fun!

Now, my dear student, listen up, and take me to the task,
Just “read my lips”, and say the words you need to hear,
Prepare to Kiss this Tigress proper like a He-man,
Place Kinesthetic Twitter upon my lips you noble peer.

And Press them tight, Kangaroo style, to Tempt my moorings,
So thus the story of my past “leave me speechless” girlfriends’ pun,
Please may I go Kapow upon the Trampoline
Now that my PLOSIVE speech is “EX”, because I’m done!



Imp Lotion © Rich Atwater Nov 17, 2009

Only two years old, the little imp,
Got into the bathroom cabinet today,
There it was, the helium balloon, like blimp,
Risen to the low-lying ceiling, above the fray.

Had to have it at all cost, to climb up on the pot,
Then up into the sink to reach the string,
Who would think that such a tiny little tot,
Could fly so high, to reach the sky, upon those angel wings?

But what is this I see inside the mirror?
Why it’s me! I’m such a lovely, tiny joy!
Mom and Dad may think I’m just a wonder, who is dearer!
But “the devil in my eye” says that is just a ploy, I’m coy!

Behold this latch is loose for me to open!
Wow! Look at all the bottles, jars, and crème!
Other kids may play upon the ground, just mopin’
Like the basic INFANTry, but I want to fly, that’s my dream!

But wait, forget the balloon, or the danger of my dangling height,
What’s this, mother’s hand lotion, toothpaste, Daddy’s shaving cream,
My imp like mind says: unscrew the cap, undone, behold, it’s white!
Squeeze it everywhere: “Imp Lotion”, makes my face a beam!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Poet’s Note:
Only a romantic “fly boy” could right (write) such poetry!
Rich Atwater, the pilot. Guess what I got my daughter for Christmas:
A real leather “Top Gun” pilot’s jacket with all the patches and her brown leather name tag that bears the rank of “Major”, U.S. Air Force Intelligence complete with Logo—Defenders of FREEDOM---U.S. Air Force “Fly Boys”!
At age 17 she’s come a long way from climbing pots into sinks to explore the “Imp Lotions” of yesteryear. Now she has her own lotions. And imagine what a lady speech therapist can do to a man she has her sights set upon, as opposed to those days when "Please", may I go play "Kapow" with the boys on the "Trampoline"?
Yours with a grin on my chin—Humbly yours, Obi-wan RMA (alias “Uncle Dickie”) 1974 "Top Gun" pilot graduate!
© Richard-Merlin Atwater November 17, 2009
“Poet Laureate of “the Maine Woods” and Romantic Psalmist of “Tampa Bay”
Founding member of “The Living Poet’s Society”
Hip—Hip---Hooray! For Explosions and Implosions! (Sounds like Francis Scott Keys, “Star Spangled Banner” with “bombs bursting in air” while our flag was still there!)

Great work, everyone! I've been enjoying reading here and there throughout the month. Really looking forward to chapbook manuscripts at end of December/beginning of January.

Explosion

Words flying
to the left and right
Arrowing in, or spiraling
Backwards toward
the abbes
The explosions from
your mouth
Staggers me to my knees
I struggle up avoiding
The shrapnel
Tiptoeing through the
Warzone until I am hidden
in a bunker.
****

Implosion

Curling up
Nautilus shell
Tightly wound
compactly coiled
Hearing words
Saturated deep
Imploding


****
Hope the day gets better Robert. Looking forward to todays words!

Supper

Tina can feel her heart bending
in unto itself, imploding
even as her father explodes,
gravy from his mashed potatoes dribbling
down the left side of his mouth. Her mother pretends
all is okay in the dining room as she dabs
lips so taught, no food can enter. Daughter looks
down at her plate, twirling peas and pretends
she’s a munitions expert who must diffuse
a bomb, and wonders if she can snip
the situation with a soothing set of words before boom
splatters more than food on the sage-washed walls.

~Envious of You~

I watched as he walked over to you while you slept
taking you up in his arms he held you lovingly
and you awakened at his touch

Quietly I looked on as he carressed you slowly
You responded willingly to him and I heard you sigh
His fingers moving lightly as you murmured

I couldn't take my eyes away as his passion for you intensified
his hands roamed over you until you cried out for him over
and over; driven he took you higher

When once more you lay still and quiet in his embrace
I turned away feeling weak, envy in my eyes
Who would know that I could be so jealous of you

But then who wouldn't feel jealous after all
considering just who you are
I suppose I'm not the only one…

…Who wants to be Keith Urban's

GUITAR!

[I don't need to explain this one to KU fans... the man is an "explosive" entertainer... I couldn't resist, heh...]

---

EXPLOSION

It's something she used to say,
my husband will say to the police:
She told me her head would explode
when a publisher finally offered her a contract.

He'll pause a moment then,
wipe away a tear and admit:
She told me
and I didn't believe her.

SOUND AND FURY
(Electra)

Brother,
there is such venom rising up in me.

When you consider all we've gone through
(father kills daughter, mother kills father, and we two
juvenile delinquents sent away)
tell me how you don't burst with feverish dreams.
It rises in me like a witch's garden, this blind hatred
dysfunctional and contagious
plucking the strings of my spinal cord
until I must cry like a harpy for satisfaction.

There is justice and then there is Justice, and
she deserves the latter.
Poisonous orchids are blooming in my lungs to choke
and suffocate me. They run their bile in streams down
my insides, and it curls my fingers into fists. I know
no sympathy and no fear, only this ferocity.

When she enters the room I want to blow out
my throat with screams, demolish her with my fists.

I need you to put an end to this agony, to commit
a crime of passion and avenge our father's memory.
We are a thermonuclear family
and all we can do is react, react, react, so I beg you,
shorten your fuse, lose your temper, not your honor,
squeeze the trigger that must be squeezed.

...

NIGHT AND SILENCE
(Orestes)

Sister,
there is no more fire left in me.

All that holds me together is the thought of you
out there, alive, untouched and safe.
The dust that's left in the wreck of my soul, when I
scoop it all together, it resembles my love for you.
Your justice has been done, and you can
rest easy, knowing that no maternal blood will stain
your hands for eternity, caked under the fingernails,
inherited agents of destruction.

They won't allow me a pen in here,
but I've recited my plea ten thousand times in my
shriveled skull: what choice did I have between
murderer and murderer,
how could I cope with that pressure any longer,
without snapping myself off at the root?

I couldn't, you see: I've crumpled like papier-mâché,
sides of my soul so much crushed garbage.

I need you to put an end to this agony, this cell
that is as dark and quiet as a seafloor grave.
We are an unwoven family
and the one small mercy left to me is to collapse
like broken homes, to feel the heat of decomposition,
come and trim my wick and burn my ashes down.

Just Another Day in a Writer's Life

Lost in her characters
as they plotted and planned
she forgot to eat - yet again-
only remembering
when her tummy growled

(more like a rabid dog in heat
than its normal quiet way,
a daring attempt to compete
with lovers and triangles
and solutions and stuff)

Just who were these people
who kidnapped her mind?

She left them hanging
(in suspense)
and grabbed the nearest can and bowl,
grasped the silvery ring
(not gold or brass)
dumped tiny beans slathered in brown
into an open bowl

door opened
turntable loaded
numbers keyed
button pushed

and off she ran
to end their suspense.

Two minutes thirty seconds
while covered would have
served her food quite well...
but her 'typo' was really quite
grand

and beans exploded
- imploded, too -
and reality came rushing back.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

Explosion:
His anger exploded out of him,
a torment of vicious attacks,
aimed at the eldest son
and younger daugter,
never expecting the final
tragedy these words would bring.


Implosion:
The house was big, but rickety,
old and falling apart. It
sways back and forth in
the wind, having been
completely gutted on the
inside. A bolt of lightning,
a crack of thundeer, and
the house falls in on itself.

Amen, Daniel P.

***

If everything’s matter, what’s it matter
if you wear a feather boa to work
or name your dachshund Zero Zanzibar
or wade knee-deep into the low-tide muck
just to look up at the sky and wonder?

The Big Bang birthed potential, I reckon,
not just stuff. In light of that explosion
it all makes perfect sense from big-foot trucks
to Shinto temples sighted on Saturn.
Everything’s real, imagination born,

matter made or energy engendered.
A Bang like that one, brothers and sisters,
makes astrophysicists Xerox their buns,
makes you and I amoeboid ape spirits
whose dreams set the infant heavens quaking.

That’s why it matters to pay your respects:
it’s happening. Do you feel the quavers?


DA

Walt....the first amazed me... "One after 909" just moved me.
WOW...
This prompt spurred some awesome work!!!

Thanks Pamela. You're holding up well yourself!

Making Explosives

I’m exactly half Italian, and half Irish.
One would assume this fusion
Would increase the predilection toward
Explosive behavior.
I blew that theory all to pieces.

A Quiet Riot

The quietest poetry can be an explosion of joy. –James Broughton

It’s the quiet of the night,
but my mind can’t find rest.
Words whirl in speeding flight
as if they are possessed.

I search that starry field
of streamed contemplation
and at last, it’s revealed
in my mind’s conversation

with those muses who tarry
within lines sweetly tranquil
and euphoria will carry
‘til the conflagration’s still.

Bright Sparks.


I love the way fireworks burst and send
into the air sparks of bright colours,
so bright they print onto my retinas
and I can still see them with my eyes closed.

I love how no darkness is so dark
it cannot be illuminated -
nowhere an idea cannot visit,
gaze and having done so imprint itself.

I love that in us all is the power of explosion
just waiting for that one shared pure idea.

Wow - so much intensity out here today. So many well-written works of deep emotion. Robert, you've struck a vein with this one. I guess mine can just be considered comic relief.

To be able to write like you all do...

Too much a lady to exceed
the decibel level of a sigh
she exploded

Explosion of Light

Driving down the canyon,
three generations tucked
in darkness and conversation,
Mom, great-aunt and I
twist and turn our way
back to town.

Through velvet night, I glance
above towering canyon wall,
startle at little explosions of light:
stars brighter, more beautiful
than fairy tale.

We park at edge of forest,
claim this clearing as our
personal planetarium
for the next five minutes.
Mom rolls down the windows.
Even Marge, blind in one eye,
sees the magic. Like a child,
I kneel on my seat, lean far
out my window, lift my face
to sky. The light is so far away,
yet surely close enough:
I could swing on Orion’s belt,
climb Cassiopeia’s rise and fall,
drink from both Dippers.

Soon, though, we must return
to clouded atmosphere
of town and daily drama,
where this shining sky
always arcs
but I forget to see.

WHEN I GET HOME

Me.
Dad.
Father.
The big guy.
Always the heavy.
Invoke my name for some action.
“Wait until your father gets home!”
Won’t go to the strap,
‘drather nap,
A slow
Burn.
Pop!

You use words, right?
Make sentences based on thought?
Sometimes rhyme?
Follow the prompt?
And offer more support than anyone one here?
Last time I checked,
you do write like we all do!

Now get on wit it
and write another!

after the sand storm

empty
daughter flown
nest wind blown
21, engagement ring, winged
migration

nature collapses
in on herself,
leaving a brown hole
from which
no red
or yellow
or orange
can escape
until spring
explodes
again.

THE PANIC

[for Elihu Burritt]

What does a man do
when government makes bad choices,
banks go wild with speculation,
paper-money inflation, and
then a run on the banks
and everything collapses in on itself?

It’s 1837. The grocery business
you financed with a brother’s loan
crashes like so much else around you.
What to do but assemble
what’s left of your earthly possessions –
three dollars

and a silver watch in need of repair,
a change of linen in a handkerchief –
grasp your walking staff,
and set off for Boston, 120 miles away,
to find your place in this new
uncertain world.

Yes sir, Mr. Wojtanik.

There once was a poet named Walter
Whose word smithing never did falter.
Exploding in talent,
His thoughts, more than gallant
They flowed like the Straight of Gilbralter.


And that's all I have to say about that. ;)

Thanks Forrest!

Implosion

When few of our friends had the luxury
of an honest-to-goodness honeymoon,
wartime weddings often planned in haste
before ships sailed, we saved enough
to spend our first days together there
in the Old Maxwell House Hotel, famous
for the coffee, already decades old
when we arrived. We laughed to think
ourselves old enough to be married,
fortunate enough to find each other,
daring to see ourselves through the
other’s eyes, clouded only by love.

What drew us back then to the sight,
demolition experts in place, spectators
behind designated barriers, everything
ready for bringing down the house?
As the countdown began, you reached
and took my hand, as tenderly as before
when we were young. I tightened my grip
at the strangely muffled sound, waiting
mere seconds for the old hotel to fold
inward, crumple in upon itself. Neither
spoke. What could we say about all
that lasts, that cannot be destroyed?

I saw it on TV they showed
A line of trucks and children stand
Nearby on desert sand.

I saw the broken truck they’d blown
It up and bodies lie while others stand
Nearby on desert sand.

I saw a small boy’s eyes that glowed
With tears for enemies on desert sand
His world imploding while another man’s
Exploded there and died.

I saw it on TV they showed
The aftermath and child beside me hands
Me the controller.

"Dancer"

She starts low
to the stage
crouched in
a ball
an electric
movement
shoots arms legs
a star shaped
jump.

She is free
jumps high
legs stretch
fingers delicate
as if holding
a rose head
tilted back
smiling.
She breathes in
is weightless
air
then fir
she lands and spins
burning a hole
in the stage
her toe spins in place
shooting sparks
and her hands crackle
around her
whirling form.

Stepping off
the stage
sweating brilliant
skin she leaves
the applause to
retire to her
room.

Will he be there?

She sees roses.
A knock "your
best ever!" the
door closes. She
reads the apology.
"He didn't come" she
mouthes.
Her straight spine
curves.
Her shoulders slump
forward.
Her perfect bun
visible as she
rests her head
on her hands
and she implodes.

SEARCHING THE RUBBLE

It went off like the 4th of July
and Thor’s best lightning strike
all at the same time – booms and sparklers
to shake a city block.
Fire caught the houses
on both sides and across the street.
By the time the engines rolled
we thought we might lose the whole
neighborhood. Now
this is what we’ve got. Heaps of char
and metal, and the stench
of burned lives. At least four
families. Who knows how many folks
were sleeping when their world
ended.

The Rest of the Story

Four homes were lost in the fire.
Miraculously, ours was not one of them.
Four families with nothing but love and courage
began anew.

Fund raisers were rampant
as were outright gifts
of bedding, clothing, food.
Nineteen people survived the loss,
one mother did not.

Who’s to say what tipped the scales?
She seemed to implode.
She has been in a mental institution
for eleven years.
Each day she feeds on the flames
that destroyed her.

VIEW FROM A SUBURBAN TRENCH

Little explosions pockmark our mornings.
At six o’clock, National Public Radio erupts
from our beside, with news of those killed
yesterday in Iraq, in Afghanistan. We are
informed of the suspected number of roadside
bomb fatalities. We rush to shut off
the radio, opt for The Weather Channel.
We learn a blast of cold air
will arrive from the northwest
later this afternoon. You
stub your toe, burst out
with a curse: damn it!
Loud music surges from
our daughter’s room, yet we still
must call to her twenty minutes
later. She rockets out of bed:
I’m late!
Sunlight spills into the world
as the day cracks open
before us. We wonder:
Where, exactly, does morning calm live?

It's absolutely impossible to choose standouts from among the morsels here today. The stories, thoughts, composition … astounding, all.

Banana - every single word of that poem is perfect, every line complete, and, especially, "nowhere an idea cannot visit". I have a perfect visual, of an event, and of a concept. Wonderful.

Back for a second try, on the implosion side this time...
**

Am I going to turn into butter?
I now realize I’ve been running
this loop since before I remember—
the manic rhythm normalizing
as I spin around ever faster—

the speed! I feel it, but keep losing
my sense of it before I can stop—
or slow—forget stopping. I’m melting,
my stripes blurring solid, fit to pop—
but not—I’m afraid—fit for father.

Thank God for a moment’s mountaintop
perspective on this dread momentum.
God help me use heart-sight to throttle
my acceleration compulsion…
But that’s not enough because praying

happens in the thrall of addiction.
No. My feet. I must stop their motion.


DA

Imploding Upon Exit

Physician waiting rooms’ aren’t equipped for parental distress.
Let’s face it, plastic stacking toys won’t replace valium dispensers
or whatever the drug of choice for anti-anxiety. Parental worriers
sit rigidly on germ-infested, cotton seats like Spartan warriors
about to face Athenians; body language and undefeatable mien
enfolding potential explosions of gnashing angst, and stomachs
in upheavals. Angels that they are, ailing children sweetly suck
their bottles, warming the stoic, harried hearts of their parents
waiting to hear the pediatrician’s reassuring words that the enemy
is in retreat, and it’s okay to put away the battle spear called fear.

Daniel P - thank you so much for that comment. I'm overwhelmed you liked it so much. Literally overwhelmed.

The word “implosion” made me immediately think of my daughter. I always hesitate to write about her, as my words do her no justice. As I’ve said many times before, I have a difficult time expressing deeply seated emotion. With that, this is written for my lovely daughter. She bravely battles schizo-affective (schizophrenia, coupled with a severe mood disorder), and now CIDP daily. Mental illness is the most heartbreaking of all diseases.


IMPLOSION

Slowly, fear took her from herself.

Fear of being with people. Fear of being alone. Fear of travel. Fear of going nowhere. Fear of opinions of others. Fear of her own thoughts. Fear of what she knew. Fear of what she knew not. Fear of music. Fear of books. Fear of her beloved NY Times crosswords. Fear of putting pen to paper. Fear of putting brush to canvas. Fear of diagnosis. Fear of no diagnosis. Fear of God. Fear of no God. Fear of voices. Fear of silence. Fear of death. Fear of life.

I witnessed the implosion. But, when one cannot stand to be in one’s own skin for another moment in time, to where does one implode?

As a follow up, my implosion piece refers to her breakdown. That was two years ago. She is now living once again in Brooklyn, and trying to get her own life back. Every day is a struggle for her, but, with the grace of God, she is coming along.

Choices: Day 17: Two for Tuesday—Explosion and/or Implosion

Single Heirloom

She inherited the rare peony bush
with the house, unexpected artistry
on a property where cement cracked,
windows tilted, and linoleum lay
crooked down narrowing halls.

Year after year, the hardy bush bloomed
in early spring, its fast-paced bud to blossom
often overlooked in the melee of children growing,
marriage crumbling.

One long winter, the woman, alone,
waited, needed more than ever the flower’s
defiant color, needed some sign she too
had survived the winter’s loss.

And surely as day follows darkest
night, she woke to see marbleround buds,
hard, fuschia tinged. Next waking,
flowers opened, wide, wider: scarlet
petals surrounded stamens laden with gold.

A day or two of extravagant beauty, floral
arms spread full, nothing held back,
then petals dropped, expended,
scarlet kisses on a broken sidewalk.

AFTER MAKING LOVE TO YOU

The disintegrating pocket-watch
slides over the edge of the cube.

The number five flies off
the time-piece (there goes all our senses!)

chasing the gelatinous figure
of a centaur into the cloudy-blue sky

leaving only her shadow-self behind,
which, if doubled and flipped, could be

the invisible eight, the eternity that,
though missing, is still there.

The number six is trying desperately to get away
from the power of the second hand

while his mirror twin, the number nine,
hovers suspended beneath the chess-piece angel

casting no shadow, like a dream of heaven
about to come true. Like two rungs

of Jacob’s ladder, the perfection of seven hangs
between nine’s salvation and six’s damnation.

Ten has vanished, and eleven is broken,
but one and two are still together:

at the end, you remember the beginning,
and beginnings have no end.


Three is that trinity that cannot be
denied. It is what comes before the four

that shimmers for the golden angel
holding her harp above him

as she twists out of the metal frame,
singing.

Now do you see the butterfly in the corner?
She has no number. She waits

outside of time, still like my soul
after making love to you.

For time has no power over us
in light of eternity.

Come, let me swim in the deep lake
of your soul now

for all the cliffs are echoing
your name.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

You never quite expect that fatal moment
When life just seems to blow up in your face
One minute you are on the verge of having it all
And then as though some dark mysterious figure
waiting in the sidelines of your life reveals
itself to bring it all down in one massive
explosion. Not any explosion mind you, but
a brilliant one just like in the movies with the massive ball of flame, an ear shattering blast, and the wreckage of your life flying outward like so much debris.

New job, new girl friend, maybe even a new car or house. But the real price is what went up in that ball of flame, the hope for better times ahead and the feeling that you had control over your own life. What isn't like the movies, is the way you just seem to implode inward to a deep dark hole of you when everything else has gone away. It is in that moment when all else fades away and you are left to ask why? that you are finally free to of all the distractions that prevented you from asking who am I?

Like a spacecraft upon the event horizon of a black hole. You are left to answer that question with one heroic act of will. To stand against the massive gravity of your own inflated ego. leaving all of your illusions to fall in to it's depths; or to grasp helplessly on to each as they fall in to it's depth. There to lay frozen beyond time in a world of longing and regret.

Let go!
Be Free!
Be you!

wow guys--As someone said , it is very hard to pick anyone out today, but I did note the ones that knocked me over:
Pamela's "Pressure"
R.J.'s picture postcard
J hugh MacDonald's Esplosions
Patricia F Evacuate
Walt 9:10
Debbie ohi and Marie's Making Explosives both made me smile
Chev
Taylor and
Nancy--so good

I'm caught up to day 7. I had 8 in just when the hacker hit, and I'm too tired to go at it again now. See you bright and early

ALL-CONSUMING

One of the wickedest women
ever upon this Earth
managed to exist a long time
because she feasted each,
day, on woes and ills of others;
fattened by glee she sipped
and savored and rolled on her tongue
when someone else suffered;
laughed in the face of Misery.
The vile bawd gushed venom,
a secretion of giddiness
she oozed while viewing pain.
Her being exuded no love
for any but herself.
Acid and bile turned against her;
began their debridement
of her soul; started to fester
and rot her inner core,
creating a sinkhole filled by
debris, the detritus
of so much evil gluttony.
Post-mortem: cause of death
was suicide - engulfment by
self-inflicted cancer.

W

Wrong

She exploded and
Imploded so many times that the
Outcomes weren’t as
Important as the
“Why’s”
That continually found themselves
Under the
Rug

:a star is …:

“this is the way the world ends …”
~t.s. elliot, the hollow men

loose seams stream among the stars, kindled
by the resonate bang, the tongue-tied thrum of waves

that foam against the heart, sail forth and fly
like flames to wrench the bits of soul stuff

from our hollow hands, and drench the searing needles
that tear the threads from our fires, burst the binds

we grasp as they, too, torn asunder, unknit the sea
and leave us deserted strangers.

***

:Spirit implosion, 101:

Your demolition will be kept under wraps. The world
will find your weakness, use it as a catalyst
to reduce you to rubble, sever your soul
to fragments in the derby for your destruction.

It will pinpoint your places of support, watch you stumble
through the frayed fabric of gravity’s fencing. You will drop
like a smokestack, razed and fallen, dizzied by the velocity
of your own collapse. And how could you withstand it?

You are no strong tower. You shatter like glass
at the slightest touch, bearing the selfsame weight
that will force you to your knees, rupturing your walls
as your hollow knees crumble, give in to the ground.

The fetters are undone.
The reign of the prince
broken once by death,
has begun once again.

Loki's sin and Týr's bane,
breaks the silken cord,
The high lord rises
to walk the land of old.

the worn sun shivers above
at the ice-cold breath,
of the offspring of jotun,
and the stone rolls away.

the end comes swift,
each ray exploded by crush
of grim jaw, and then the hush
before every hand is raised
against the other, bereft,

of light, of warmth and love.

(myth of Fenrir)

The Outburst
First response, wham, out of control
Red face, burst vessels, anger unrestrained.
Deep breath, monitor, check, regulate, encouragement
Confidence gained

Disappointment
I thought he would come to me in need.
He withdrew into himself.
My heart cries for the shame I have brought upon him.
The body folds, the tissue relaxes, the limbs disintegrate
the soul dies.

A few comments for now

Hannah - Clever, sad, and touching
Pamela Gordon - I'm not the first to say it but powerful indeed.
Debra Elliot - Freightenly beautiful portrayal. I've known that place.
Salvatore - Beautiful portrayal of a haunted soul
Walt - Once again you deliver with the power of a poetic warp drive
RJ - I love the feeling of mystery about the old woman's life

Frank and Maude

Frank and Maude met in a garden,
where Maude kindly begged Frank’s pardon,
For nibbling on the same clover stem,
which made Frank think Maude was quite a gem.

Frank and Maude soon were hitched,
the lovely couple was just bewitched.
There soon was an explosion,
twenty-four bunnies causing garden erosion!

Frank and Maude hurried their twenty-four
right out their burrow door!
Now Frank and Maude seldom embrace,
while nibbling clover they each have their own space!

The Last Good-bye

Flames fed by fear
And betrayal
Erupted in
The parking lot
Car door slammed
With the force of
Anger
Fine and
Pure
Formed in the
Crucible of
A broken heart
Harder to Hit

Sitting on the plane
Reflecting on
Love left and
Lost
My heart
Caved in
On itself
Becoming denser
Smaller
Able to
Avoid any future
Arrows of love

Does it Matter?

Does it really matter
if destruction or death
comes by implosion
or explosion? I don't
think so, do you?

Fed Up and Down

Gulls are crying again,
their silhouettes,
a cloud,
circling for bread
they have come to expect.

They swirl inward
their tornado of wings,
bills open
angrily squawking
as they land in the yard.

Hunger pains
felt deep
and hard
can cloud your mind
to what you need.

Eat.

EXPLOSION OF WISDOM

The experts say
we double all wisdom
every eighteen months.
Yet I wonder,
is it wisdom
or merely knowledge.

Festivity 11-17-09

Twice a year
high above the four bridges
brightening the water below:


Hot June nights
Riverbend Music Festival
brings the stars and the Stars
and the fans.
Ends in the sky with thunder and glitter,
color and light.

The Grand Illumination
on the Friday after Thanksgiving
entertains and cheers
Hot cocoa abounds.
Lighted boat parade
makes the river twinkle.
But it sparkles even more when Santa
waves his red furry sleeves trimmed in white
and the buildings, bridge, and city
silently explode with light.

Explosion

Rage rioted across
his face. Anger rose
like a rocket takeoff.
Bulging cheeks ballooned
and burst. His head exploded.




Implosion

First her liver
began to fail,
then her kidneys
shut down. Her heart
hesitated; she imploded.

Taboo

Ore docks
stood tall for centuries
rising from the water
till the lake swallowed
it all.

It spit out wood.

Litter
caressed by water
till every edge
is as smooth
as a forearm,
the shore is tattooed,
black lines formed
by rejected debris.

The pilings stand,
a landing stool
for weary gulls
who add their poo,
exploding comments
on man's efforts.

Detonation

She waits, but
there is no countdown
warning, or
wires to cut.
Only the slow and steady
ticking of her heart.

Role Models

Sometimes it is hard to get out of bed
with plentiful bills and ever fleeting money,
giving abundantly and receiving scantily,
pushed and pulled by the status quo.

Every day as I make my way to my front door,
I pass pictures of my grandparents' stoic faces.
I've forgotten much of what they've said, but what I
remember most is that they did not complain about

segregation or discrimination, financial troubles,
illness, or death. Every Sunday, Pop-Pop was in the fourth pew in the center balcony with Nana, especially when he had to be
without her. Grandma was similarly devoted.

A wooden cross hung over her bed,
and the Serenity Prayer sat on her table.
I seek to emulate their steely faith in God, without which
I might implode.

Jane Eamon - That was hilarious
Michelle Bishop = You turn emotional pain in to a thing of beauty
Patricia Wellingham-Jones - What a touching tragic story
Kimberley Pauley - That was really good. Seriously three minutes?
Melanie Kerr - Such poignant expression in such a clean simple poem.
Miriam Hall - Incredibly thought provoking and nicely delivered.
Walt - I (and probably all) could relate to your 2nd wonderful poem.
Ellen Black - Your poetic description of that moment packs quite a punch
Daniel Ari - Thought provoking, quirky and dream like. I loved it.
Marie Elena - I loved your the way you twisted it at the end.

Joyful Explosion

Lenny Bruce said
comedy was the only
artform
you couldn’t fake.

They either
laugh
or they don’t.

I have been on
the trail
of the mystery
of what causes
the joyful explosion
my whole life.

I generally can mange
small grenades
with a well-placed word
or artfully-timed
pause

but knowing
what will yield
that really big laugh

remains an
unsolvable
puzzle.

Often,
creating a minor
conflagration
of giggles

is the best part
of my days.

When God smiles
upon me
and the elements work
in concert

I can orchestrate
whatever you’re drinking

to come out
your nose.

Chaos

emptiness lingers
his deceit, lies, suffocate
hatred turned inward

anger, turmoil build
explosive aftermath brews
razing storm within


November 17, 2009
(prompt- explosion/implosion
(c) Rose Marie Streeter

You need one of two things
1) something to knock the legs out
so gravity takes its toll
or 2) pressure outside so great
the walls of the structure
collapse
inward

A.
1.) love
2.) time


Explosion

1) just the way he came in the door was enough
2) my head was gone, my body, for a moment, sense of structure - shot out a mile wide, out, hold, sweet, space filling a void, the self, in particles, settling. a rain of self, settling. Him -holding me in the shape I was to become, again.

A.
1.) pressure
2.) explosion

The Journey: Day Seventeen: Explosion, Implosion

Explosion: a violent expansion or bursting with noise
Implosion: a bursting inward

Words gathering energy,
expanding, exploding into an exposé
of inspiration, concept, prose.
Words gathering energy,
impacting, imitating, imploding into an interpretation
of thought, ideas, thresholds of theory.
Words given, words taken, poems written.

Outer Fire; Inner Flame

That raw moment . . .
Injustice,
Incorrect,
Not fair,
Not chosen,
Righteousness,
Hidden deviance,
Rage,
Disquiet,
Despair
Can turn to . . .
Inner understanding,
Peace,
Compassion,
Quiet,
Resolve,
Balance,
Calm,
Release.

Outer fire comes to burn,
An exlosion,
An outer expression of,
What is just not ok.

An inner flame,
Has no other name,
But trust,
In what one knows.

That peaceful center,
Where one can always go,
And glow,
Within.

To Marie Elena,
This poem is just for you,
And about what you do!
You lift our spirits,
Up so high,
Encouraging us to continue,
To reach beyond the sky!
You give and you give,
And offer still more.
You read all our words,
And then comment galore!
Others have followed you,
Walt does his best,
So your positivity just grew,
You both passed the test!
Of being such inspirations,
For all the creative November expressions.
Thank you so much,
For that Marie Elena touch.
For taking all the time,
To also craft your rhyme.
To create each day,
Positive things to say,
While you do your written prose,
With your own unique way to compose.
And your humor with Walt,
Should never halt,
Because the heart warming repartee,
Is to me . . .
A grand written party! :)

THANK YOU!

After

The black smoke rises like a
cat stretching after a nap. I used
to be able to smell it. I used to
like the smell. I used to do it on
purpose just so I could inhale the
withery scorch . In the middle of
the day I drive back to my place just
to watch a slice of bread go from
golden brown to charcoal.

Other hangers on
finally fell
to their bruises,
scooped up
for sauce

The last to cling,
shriveled and dark,
a slo-mo
implosion,
sweet pomade
under the wrinkles

Ornament
of fading autumn,
in friendless space
and deepening chill,

Lit still
by descending,
renewable sun

Recalls
upturned faces
of young pickers,
sneakers on
the bark,
sweet, sticky hands
grasping,
enfolded in scents
of his brothers

Final rest
will come late
and welcome,
at last spilling seed
into the high,
unmown grass

(the National Weather Service reports there are approx.1000 documented tornado touchdowns occurring in the United States each year, along with another 1000 or so additional weak tornadoes that go completely undocumented. The majority of tornadoes are Category 1 or F1, meaning wind speeds of 70-110 mph. F2 & 3 strength tornadoes will generate between 115 and 200+ mph winds along with an approx. 30% death ratio. F4 & 5 tornadoes are formidable monsters at 210-300+ mph, and cause the majority of death & destruction with an approx. 67% kill ratio. These numbers are all based on the Fujita scale).



F2
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder


I am in a tub
taking confession
as if this might be our last;
my house rattling on
and on about lifelong fears
and secret sins long ago
committed. I’m grinding
teeth and trying to listen
but hail and violent winds
just outside these walls
are distracting.
There are things banging
against the house, debris
hurling themselves against
rows of windows.
My dog huddles close
and whimpers.
“I don’t want to die!”
my house sobs.

Just then,
there is a curious sound,
like billions of leaded pencils
around the world snapping in two
in total synchronicity,
and suddenly, the ceiling,
the rafters, the roof
is gone, lifted and simply gone.
A funnel swirls counter-clockwise
above me against a backdrop
of greenish-black sky,
but then curiously bends over
at the waist as if to peer down
the inside of a dollhouse.
It looks and sounds like a
mighty waterfall, only the
flow is eerily backwards,
upside down.
“ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod”
my house and I cry out in unison,
clutching hands in those final
terrifying, moments,
as my ear drums pop
and the dark rushes in.

© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

I just put my niece back on a plane to Anchorage, AK. Maybe I can get some serious word count catch up done on the NaNo project now that she's gone...I hope. Oh, and read all the posted poems, not just the ones I happened to stop on while attempting to frelling post my poem. ACK!



I'm not sure what you'd call it,
the event which exploded all
over my life, my body,
my brain stem.

An occlusion. An implosion.
A stoppage of blood flow
long enough to, well,
you get the picture.

Multitude

I forced them back on the tube
up escalators and along tunnels
popping out into a flood of humanity,
some with a purpose, marching over the bridge,
others loitering gazing at the river
taking photos, Big Ben at least
made an impression
‘I’ve seen it on Dr Who.’

I remember the years I lived in London
taking the tube each morning
the unbearable closeness of strangers,
some evenings I’d crack, jump off early
walk the last miles home
trying to shake off the crush, the madness.

“Solarious”


Dusk succumbs to darkness
Green turns blue, then red as
The globe inhales energy
Explosive light and darkness wed.

Relevant, fragile outer shell
Or sparked frailties, deep within,
Each change becomes an
Exhale, a sigh, never dims.

Blossoming color, gentle power
Permeates the atmosphere,
Fragrant flowers, accompanying sphere
Explosive sunshine awakening

Another deep breath, mere.

Ninacarole
11/17/09

And the mutual admiration society continues to grow! Thanks Penny, Pamela, Tim and Janet once again.

Implosion


Fragments float downward
seeking a center,
some gravity source
to circle around.
Pressure keeps pushing
them ever inward,
a pointless passage
form there to nowhere.


Explosion


Called away from sizzling bacon,
I quickly turned the burner off.
Behind the barn I heard him yell,
"Come on--you won't believe this."
Two big black snakes were heeding
the call of procreation.
We watched in wonder while they
writhed and tumbled all around
the paddock. 'Spect I reversed
that stupid badly numbered knob
cause the kitchen exploded.

Thanks Penny, Tim, and Janet.

Janet, you are completely fun and amazing! You compliment in STYLE! I hope you somehow know how much it means to me. :)

Forrest, eh Walt? So which do you prefer … peas? Or carrots? :)

Oh, Penny! That's horrible! Was your kitchen mishap a long time ago?

A Cat Named Blower
(my prairie cousin Peter told me of this explosive tail)

Back in the day
When thrashing was the way
Of harvest for my prairie kin

I heard that Cat
Had taken himself a nap that
Nigh scare’t the life out of him

Cosy he lay
That fateful summer day
Grandpa Peter’s machine needed clean

Poor kitty’s bin
Was blown out from within
And kitty shot out with a screech!

Hairs spiked outright
Body and tail, what fright!
Blower the Cat blew out of sight.

That is the tale
And it is true, no fail
For that is how Blower was named.

A Novel Big Bang

Words explode
filling the page
in a frenzy of activity
lines of dialogue
collide with reams of descriptive passages,
settings, character portraits, plot
and is cut
edited
moved
clipped
until the whole thing
is almost
(but not quite)
entirely unlike a novel –

the characters
are drowning in purple
and sinking
under the weight of verbs.

I screw the whole thing up
an implosion
of plotting and writing
leaving just the premise
to survive

AC Leming: How awful.
Juanita: Terrifying.
“An inner flame, Has no other name, But trust, In what one knows.” Lovely, Janet.
Buddah Moskowitz: LOL! Love how you orchestrated this piece!
Beautiful, Carla Cherry. Reminiscent of my own grandparents.
De Queen’s still got it!! Hop in whenever you can, De. Your work is worth the wait.
Karen Phillips: Heart warming images. Nice take on the prompt.
Michelle H.: Are you a published author of kid lit? If not, you need to seriously consider publication. Your light hearted pieces are absolutely delightful … every one.
Walt, my usual awe … especially (as usual) when you write about your auburn beauty.

So many terrifying and all-absorbing emotions expressed as only you all can. What talent you’ve unearthed here, Robert. I didn’t get to it (yet) but I wanted to write about the explosion of talent in April that left you (Robert) with the job of sorting debris (lovely, talented debris mind you!). Hoping you are making progress weeding through the words of wisdom, wonder, woe, and wit. Bless your heart.

An explosion of colour

Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Had packed away his trusty easel
He was planning on taking a break
And thought he might go to the Lakes
Where there was much inspiration
To be had for artistic creation
However before his trip began
He had one last cunning plan
An experiment in artistic style
Something he’d planned for a while
He covered the floor with a sheet
And pinned it out quite neat
Then covered the room with plastic
Fastened up tight with elastic
From the ceiling he hung a rig
Which he called the whirly-jig
From that he hung paint pots
Not just one but lots
In each tin was a different hue
Reds, yellows and blues
And black and green and mauve
All swaying high above
In each tin was a tiny hole
Plugged up with a piece of coal
Connected to a string
He fancied it just the thing
He wore a boiler suit and a mask
And sipped tea from a flask
As he swung the crazy trapeze
And pulled on the strings with ease
The coal all fell free
And soon he began to see
Dancing lines of paint
Some darker, some more faint
They sprayed across the sheet
(He got some on his feet)
And he danced a weasely jig
As paint sprayed from the rig
He was quite sure of one fact
That this was his largest abstract
An explosion of colour
That made him dance and holler
He was excited as could be
Although he now looked like a bee
Striped in yellow and black
With some green all down his back
And as the paint ran out
He left the room with a shout
Hurrah! That’s a success!
And now to clean off this mess
He showered and brushed his coat
And left the milkman a note
“I’ve gone to paint in the Lakes
-no milk for goodness sakes!”
He grabbed his kit and his case
And set off with a smile on his face
A month’s well-earned vacation
Painting this glorious nation
Communing with the flowers
And sketching boats for hours
The cab took him to King’s Cross
And he said goodbye to the dross
And dreary grimy faces
And old familiar places
At platform number one
Bart’s adventure had begun.


Iain

Carrots.

There he is! Iain, do you also illustrate? I can envision Bartholomew Foggerty so comically in my head. I think an illustrator would love to get their hands on your work … a book? A comic-style book, geared more for teens/adults? Is there a magazine out there that might be interested in monthly weasel episodes?

Peas it is.

I combined the PROMP on this one.

Come One, Come All
By: Meena Rose

Ladies and Gentlemen,
Boys and Girls,
Welcome to my theater.

Grab a seat and hold on tight;
You are in for one heck of a ride.

You have the best seat in town
To watch the economic meltdown;
Starting with AIG and going on down.

Come watch the action;
Investor Speculation;
Financial Prognostication;
Corporate Liquidation;
Market Retraction;
Economic Implosion.

Passing the kleenex box around,
In case you need it,
As the show shifts its focus
From Corporation to Man.

Come observe;
Personal Destruction;
Familial Deconstruction;
Foreclosure Protraction;
Job Extinction;
Life Termination;
Social Explosion.

I used to have a friend called Paul;
He was laid off
… During the year of the tax audit.
… During the month his Dad passed away.
… During the week he got into a car wreck while stopped at a red light.
… A day after his son’s cancer diagnosis was received.
… On the same day his wife was laid off too.
… A day before he received the foreclosure notice.
… Two days before he killed himself and his family.

Paul may have imploded;
The community around him exploded;
Myself included.

Questions came spewing forth
At a faster rate than I could
Reconcile.

Life: Is it meaningless now?
Humanity: Does that notion even exist anymore?
God: Is HE there? Did this happen when HE was on sabbatical?
Hope: Fading.
Faith: Faltering.
Depression: Growing.
Despair: Lingering.

My personal implosion.

My persistent children around me;
True beacons of Happiness;
The very messenger of Hope.

Day by day, they
… Gave me a reason to Laugh.
… Gave me a reason to Dream.
… Gave me a reason to Hope.
… Gave me a reason to Believe.
… Gave me a reason to Accept.

My personal resurrection.

long past Elena, and really more of a small fire than an explosion. I took a little creative lisence (good grief--I have spelled this 5 different ways and they are apparently ALL wrong)

I agree with Walt, Iain--I posted quite a long exhortation for you to find an illustrator (if Bartholomew himself is otherwise engaged) who is detail oriented, representational and has a sense of fun. I would definitely buy it, in multiple copies so I'd have some to share without losing my own. But I am so far behind, you probably never saw it.

Speaking of which I am now caught up! Yahoo! All posted through today. Near the end of each day, if anyone has time on their hands (as if). Some days someone named Steve is behind me, and he is worth reading too.

Meena, you've wowed me again. I'd love to crawl into that mind of yours to gleen wisdom and words. Incredible work.

Glad you are caught up, Penny! Lovin' your work, as always.

Let's all keep after Iain, shall we?

Marie Elena, my friend: Your IMPLOSION poems is very moving. It seems as though your daughter is caught at the cusp of the YIN changing into the YANG while the River of Life moves around her. She is caught between two equally opposing forces: one compelling outer action, the other inward reflection; never getting the chance to follow through on one or the other; caught in between. At least that is the imagery that I got.

ALL: Powerful passion, evoked in me so many tears, I went through a whole tissue box. Thank you for replenishing the Humanity bank account :)

That's what happens when you obsess over the spelling of one word--you miss someone's whole first name ( sorry Marie)

No Lunch, but Justice is Served

We came into town
It was rumored around
Two men who couldn’t post bail
Hid in the night
Then took their flight
And escaped from the county jail

The schedule was busy
So Emmy and LIzzy
Said, “We’re tired, we want to stay here.”
“It wouldn’t be smart
To stay on old Bart,”
Mom told them both with fear.

So Emmy and Liz
Had a big tizz
“We’re old enough to stay
We’ll prepare a good lunch
So you’ll have something to munch
Besides you’ll be mere blocks away.”

“Caleb sleeping in bed
Will stay too,” Adam said.
“He’s still tired from his last ordeal.
He’s sound asleep
Not making a peep
As if he has taken a pill.”

So Mari gave in
But doubted within
And left with cell phone in hand
“Just give us a call
If you need us at all
The show will go on as planned.”

They’d make salad and soup
For the entire clown troupe
So they put on some eggs to boil
But they were both so tired
After being all wired
And decided to rest from their toil.

Neighbors heard loud pops
And soon called the cops
Thinking the crooks were near by
The two girls and the boy
Slept through the noise
While the neighbors thought they would die.

The troupe heard the commotion
And soon were in motion
They called to check on their crew
Over the kids snores
The police knocked down the doors
The children hid with their shoes

The crooks hidden next door
Heard the uproar
They thought they were caught in their sin
When the eggs exploded
Their resolve eroded
So they decided to turn themselves in

When Mom took a look
The kids weren’t off the hook
The bus stunk to high heaven
“Caught crooks or not
You don’t leave eggs in a pot
As for lunch, there’s 7-11.”

Everyone helped clean
They thought it was mean
That the girls had to be grounded
The town had a laugh
At the clown girls gaffe
And the crooks the two confounded

So people say
God’s mysterious ways
Has once again prevailed
Though the bus will reek
For many a week
At least the two have been rejailed.

ACROSS THE UNIVERSE

Ignitions sequence started.
"T" minus 10 seconds.
You're feeling the pressures,
of a conflicted muse.
"T" minus 9 seconds.
The words you use
find you grasping for the
right ones, falling just short
of your objective.
"T" minus 8 seconds and counting.
Your payload is secure,
a seven month journey
into the cosmos of collective thought,
fueled by passions: yours and your "crew",
"T" minus 7 seconds,
and a steady flow of inspiration
from loves lost and found
feet on the ground but ready to
blast off for poems unknown.
"T" minus 6, 5, 4 seconds.
The countdown continues,
bringing you closer to
your objective, 3...2,
a collection
of your thoughts and notions,
elixirs and potions to take
you to that "special place";
your own inner space to explore.
"T" minus 1, and cou...
Internal combustion.
Houston, We have a problem.

Thanks for the credit Penny, but it was Marie who so aptly prompted Iain to give "the Weasel" a face. And I concur with the both of you. Iain, that is a definite direction. And always keep both "I"'s on the prize!

Blast off!
I had a blast.
He’s da bomb!
That one bombed.
That blew me away.
That blew up in my face.
He has an explosive temper.
They exploded on to the scene.
They have an explosive offense.
There was an explosion of color.
It caused an outburst of emotion.
She has an explosive personality.
Then the crowd erupted in applause.
Or then the crowd erupted in violence.
It was a case of spontaneous combustion.
I’m sure there are more, but I’m bombing out.

Coffee
beans, an aroma to awaken the senses
inviting
steam rises from my cup
and warms my hands
First sip a delight
warm and bold,
an explosion on my tongue
it swirls
with flavors of fruit and licorice
i close my eyes with pleasure
as the early morning sun
shines through my window
and I feel the crisp fall breeze upon my face
coffee, first cup

It's okay, Penny. Walt and I look incredibly alike. Twins separated at birth, I'm sure. And don't worry about the name ... Elena works just as well without the Marie.

Thanks so much, Meena.

More excellent fun from Connie and Walt! Love it!

Patty: Yummmmmmmmmm... :)

Marie Elena,

Glad you can empathize with my fictional character. I'm alright, just pushing the envelope on my character study. And trying to nano this am....

AC Leming: Wow ... I have a difficult time expressing emotion I feel myself, let alone what a fictional character goes through. Excellent job of getting inside the head and heart of emotion.

Are we getting over to 18 soon people?
The party's started.

Thanks for the heads up!

Blammo

The thunderous roar of the blast
made the ensuing silence overwhelming.
I had clapped my hands to my ears,
and there they remained
as a column of smoke and debris
climbed lazily into the sky:
heavier fragments of rock,
tugged by gravity ,
beginning to fall noiselessly back to earth;
finely pulverized dust,
caught by the breeze,
becoming a grey mist, obscuring the morning sun.

The Explosive Brain

When the neurons explode into action
and they all fire out of sync
The body becomes the victim
forced into helpless reaction of
moves it wouldn’t normally dare
Utterly helpless to slow this storm
this victim is really a victim
So unprepared in all ways
This explosion comes when it pleases
with no respect to time, place or situation
Onlookers always display alarm and
are helpless, thankful they aren’t Epileptic

Thrown


There in the crackling
kitchen
a thrown cup
on a white wall
shattering
coffee shrapnel
on her face
still caught in
the soft vestige
of love crumbling
into dusty tears

Thank you Tim, I'm glad that my piece evoked emotion.

Unfortunately I didn't get to delve into the fine work yesterday (yard-work), better luck today!

Have a great day ALL!

.
Screenwriters apparently think
cars cannot flip over
without exploding.
Trucks, especially tankers
are particularly prone to
becoming potential fireballs
just by being in the wrong place
at the wrong time.

In real life cars roll gently
over embankments, into ditches,
or spectacularly across freeway medians
without the added drama of
bursting into flame. In real life
it is enough to be upside-down
on the side of the road
with a broken leg.
.

Explosion

I never knew when she would explode,
hurl words at me like projectiles
from a cannon. I cringed, shriveled,
trying to disappear or escape
the devastation, but it crushed me,
flattened my spirit until I crawled
into myself and pulled my skin
around me for protection.
Then silence pervaded—sometimes
the yelling seemed better than
her muteness packed with guilt.
It would often last for days while
I tried to please her, to win her love,
yet I remained squeezed in her vise,
unable to free myself from shame.

UNDETONATED IMPLOSION

When you spoke to me in angry words,
I angered back at you.

It was as if a bomb inside me
was ready to detonate,
blowing us both up in the process.

But you never knew that,
because I never let you see my tears,
my frustration,
my hurt…
those things you heaped upon me
by the cruel and unkind things
that spewed out of you.

You cut into me,
like a knife wounding a tiny, helpless bird.

You changed in your last twenty years.

I don’t know whether dementia
or Alzheimer’s
was creeping into you,
or whether you were just sick of your own being,
but you changed.

There was a rapid transformation in you
from my childhood;
from the mother
I so enjoyed being with.

Tomorrow will bring another decade to my life,
and I will celebrate
with a joy you never saw
one day of
in your entire life.

You didn’t know how to experience happiness
unless it came with a pricetag
or a cigarette.

You passed away
before I reached the age
of my sixth decade,
before you caused me
to completely collapse violently inward,
but for the first time in my life –
yes, dear mother,
it is MY life –
I can look ahead
and see MY future
with great pleasure.

I can get excited
at the wonder
of what each new day
will bring me.

I can experience the pure ecstasy
of living.

I thank you for my birth,
but I find it difficult
to thank you
for much else.

Explosion & Implosion

The wedding saree was
made in colours of fire,
exploding around her
budding youth.
Flying shards in the pale
sunlight rained upon her head,
exploding all gold and red
around her childhood, which was
imploding and ruined within
her father's marital bargain.

"Walking on Volcanoes"

With you, I’ve walked on volcanoes
over dry paths strewn with stones
and prehistoric dust, circling round
the pit where liquid fire seethes
under ages of old earth.
Even on windy cool days with
the ocean near, and crowds behind
and in front of me, I’ve felt
the boiling, buried fire through the soles of
sandles, boots, and ordinary shoes—
urging me to rush past the edge
and not pause for long, just in case
it can’t wait any longer. Like you,
I always get too close, peering into
the abyss, half hoping it will happen now.

Checked in for a bit to read a few. J. Hugh... great read, my own childhood "attraction" was fire (nothing burned down.) ann m. liked your poem, too... line breaks, visuals, and firm metaphor. This is fun. (Walt and Marie Elena, you are wonderfully supportive of the poets, and your "asides" along with others are so entertaining!)

Another soldier

Another soldier blown up
By a roadside “IED”
Another son not going home
Lost in a foreign land

Another mother grieving hard
Another girlfriend left in child
And an endless source of national flags
To drape on every coffin

Sweet peas, lupines, impatiens,
California poppies, pansies

Each springs from the seeds of
predecessors, growing to green,
then proffering their blooms
to brighten the garden

Once spent, they
offer up their offspring
as artillery at season’s end,
shooting an explosion of seeds
to begin again next spring

Walt - 9:09 was outstanding
Meena - Come One, Come All - Heart-wrenching and well written
Hannah - Excellent
Marie Elena - Devastating, brave, and beautiful. You must be a strong, courageous woman.

Palimpsest

My husband likes to watch
stereotypically testosterone-driven
movies with car chases, bombs,

and a little nudity, movies his first wife
called Explosion Tit-Fuck 2000.
He’d complain in return about her love

for foreign films in which nothing seems
to happen, movies he called, Le Bleu Bleu.
His first wife, dead by her own hand,

still manages to bleed their life
into ours. Even their special time—
12:34, The Magical Minute of Childhood—

appears so often I catch it on the clock
when he’s not around. He thinks it’s her way
of staying in touch. I think it’s harassment.

The ink of her stains the new leaves we work
to turn over, the apparently blank pages
of the love story we’re attempting to write.

Implosion / Explosion

Universe
expanding outward
friction, resistance,
noise and heat.
Fire radiates outward.

Universe
contracting inward
decrease in friction and resistance,
increase in silence and coolness,
water down a drain collapses in on itself.
Tornado draws inward all matter to its centre.

Spiralling matter curves in unequal balance
between inverse directions.
One movement implodes, seeking centre
the other expands outward.

All motion both implosion and explosion,
the Tao of balance: yin and yang
yet only one dominates a single movement

the muse draws energy inward
the spark that births the poem
in the imploding universe

words spiral in musical dance
the poem’s energy an explosion
ideas radiate outward
into the expanding universe.

Carol A. Stephen
November 17th, 2009
PAD Chapbook Challenge

Thank you all for the great support and encouragement...I am going to talk to a friend who is a wonderful artist about the illustrations.. I shall keep y'all posted

Thanks again!! Much love

Iain

Can You Relate?
(Shadorma)

I'd rather
remember laughter
exploding
gaiety
July Fourth fireworks on high
than Hiroshima


(Fibonacci)
If
you
should watch
a building
reduced to rubble
once proud now a heap of ashes
you'd know how I felt
imploded
by force
of
tongue


(Haiku)
hold in or let out
noxious fumes create toxins
either course destroys

You Can't Be Alone

Thanks to Brian Swimme
I like to think of myself
as a raisin in the middle
of that yeasty dough
called the cosmos
expanding out in all directions
riding an air bubble
that belches me out
till my fingertips touch
the vacuum, feel just the
slightest pull of eternity

I refuse to envision
the eventual collapse,
the inward falling of
our world and all its
pretty contents unless
I can think of us all
curled up beneath our
blanket of stars, our toes
warming each other's
our breath mingling heat
that will soon turn cold
because that's how things end.

I'm not sure why I see the
explosion of expansion as
a solo mission and the
slow collapse of a universe
as a communal love in. I was
born under the sign of Aquarius,
but I don't believe in that stuff.

Maybe…

There is no end to the sky.

If I send a bird to find
The last mile to feather and fly
With wings beating in time,
Would clouds leave her blind?

Maybe…

There is no end to the sky.

If my bird returned to me
Her last wind now bringing her home
To sing ever song knowing
Would she leave it behind?

Maybe…

November 5, 2009

An explosion poem

We recently caused a small explosion
in a deep dark crater on the Moon.
A little satellite
crashed into it,
creating such a disturbance
that water vapor burst
out amidst the other debris.
After further investigation
that explosion exposed
the presence of water
on the Moon
in vast amounts.
Something we’ll surely use
as we continue in our omnipresent
quest for life beyond the Earth.

Sara McNulty - thank you for the feedback... Somehow saying "thank you for finding this heart-wrenching" just does not sound good.

The demolition engineer carefully places
Each explosive charge deep within
An old decrepit office condominium.
With tenderness similar to a lover’s touch.

He selects just the right place to
Give the desired effect
For the obliteration of this giant
That once bustled with life.

His footsteps echo hollowly
As he descends the empty staircase
Depositing his destruction from floor to floor
Until each packet and each fuse are just right.

With a final inspection of his work
He watches dust motes in the sunlight float effortlessly
Just as he will watch dust rise from the rubble
When he triggers the final implosion.

Slow poem


I went to my mother’s to take out her trash
feed walk the dog fix the computer nine o’clock and I’d been working since seven and the dog peed in eight different places running from one spot to the next
Hurry geez and orange
Not an orange but
Orange caught my eye
Muted oh perfect
Perfect single fall-like thing
Of course on time

Persimmon
Persimmon -with something, I don’t know what,
-in common with the moon

And another
High and up
More more
The tree twice the height of the house
In a rising field of muted
Night-dipped matt leaves:
Orange, orange like a path leading
Up into night and higher
A path of notes
melody

When did all this happen
This beauty?

Slowly, of course
When we weren’t looking

Some of the persimmons
We can’t even see

Explosion

My life was blown apart, decimated
by a bullet that went through my sons
head and exploded into our lives.
The stench of burning flesh permeates
my senses when I go there, and sometimes
I have to go there, have to step where
he stepped and feel what he felt.
I deserve that much, he was my son
and I didn’t know. The explosion
rumbled through my life as it proliferated
into a mushroom cloud, nothing
was recognizable, nothing was retrievable.
I pick up the pieces still and lay them
about me, trying to make them fit into
something recognizable but they never
do. I know about explosions now.
I know about starting over and rebuilding
I know about life now.

Sorry its late, fell asleep late last night finishing it, and struggled tonight trying codes repeatedly...




Extinction’s Exclusion



Beneath that boundary,
our predecessors probably descended
to bunkering burrows avoiding apocalypse.
They did not know that their earth was shook
by the extra-terrestrial Chicxulub or Shiva
beasts of impact – destroyer of worlds.
We now call it the K-T, or the newer K-Pa
event, geological markers of exploding meteorites
and imploding ecological systems, altering history.

Above that boundary,
the subterranean survivors ascended.
Mesozoic mammals continued to Cenozoic,
as oblivious omnivores ending Cretaceous, preying
on remnants of the greatest predators in any period.
Foraging on flora, detritus, and insect decomposers,
the terrestrial of the Tertiary Paleocene epoch, evolved.
Through millennia of metamorphosis, they leaped adaptively
into arboreal forest heights, as Primogenitors of Primates.

17 Implosion/Explosion

Mama and Daddy
Can’t communicate
He explodes
She explodes
Family implodes
Children scattered everywhere
Nothing left

"Amidst the Stars"

Goose flesh explodes
from head to toe
with soft caress
on silken skin.
And gentle breath
upon my ear
sends shivers up
and down my spine.
In your arms
I am aquiver
with want and
desperate need
as tempo rises
ebb and flow
we're racing toward
the fevered end
til in unison
we explode
and float
amidst
the
stars.

Razing

She was once so new and full of promise
but didn’t care for herself, fell into disrepair.
All that she consumed broke her down,
caused cracks in the structure, derelict
from her lifestyle. After all the abuse,
she can’t support herself anymore;
life has been a succession of quick fixes.
She’s been condemned, scheduled for razing.
She plants the charges alone, equidistant
around her foundation, every one
into her arm, then sets off the implosion,
crumbling into herself.

Beware, for time, it tends to fly
faster than you can imagine.
One day they're small, helpless, so needy-
you don't know where to begin.
Time you crave, just five minutes peace
From all the demands and patter
Willingly, you throw yourself in
Loving them is all that matters.
'Til time, with its rapid nature
takes over and sends them away.
To their own lives, their hopes, their dreams
yet here in this place you must stay.
So Mom, take care, of you and yours
remember that man you married.
Time expands when we're not watching
This truth of life does not vary.

Suicide Bombers

East to West
A modern day tool
The dying learn how to employ,
For the living to live?
What remains—

—Listen—Pay Attention—

No one went to Baghdad or Fallujah
To learn how to strap a chest or a head,
A weapon we carry from place to place
Year after blessed year—
Straight to Kingdom Come among the virgins,
Or to burn in a fiery hell—

Father—Mother—
Brother—Sister—
Did you?
'Teach your children well'

Fury
Exploding on the world,
Rawness shouting
Without remorse or
Control

Anger
Imploding on itself
Destroying what little
Is left of the man
Enraged

Explosions that lead to Implosions

He exploded on the scene
Every little girls dream
His records sold out
as the girls followed him about

His music, they could not do without
of his success, he had no doubt
his concerts packed to the brim
they just couldn’t live without him

Now two years have passed
they no longer kiss his ass
No more record sales
as every friend bails

His money all spent
he can’t even make the rent
he wonders where it all went
the fame, the fortune,
this was never his intent

Sleeping on the park bench
he realizes
while enduring the stench
he was the one everyone idolizes

He’s now old news
his records are not the ones buyers choose
he’s had so much to lose
his career is also old news

Time for a life change
Shave the beard, he’s tired of looking strange
Find a paying job
live like every other slob

After all a newspaper does not make a good blanket
he will be on top again
he’s got this misery to thank it
for all it has helped him to regain

So, with self confidence
he sets out to a life in indifference
he buys some new cloths
powders his nose
and off he goes

Where he ends up is anyone’s guess
will he fail or find success
this is only something he will know
what is certain is that daily his confidence will grow. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 20, 2009, explosion and implosion poem.

Explosion in the afternoon


Our old man can explode with anger
Over the smallest dumb thing
Like a gallon of milk left sitting on
The table
The fridge door not closed all the way
Someone’s shoes sitting empty in
The middle of the living room
And the TV still on

He’d use real cuss words
So loud the neighbors could hear
And scream back for him to shut
The ----- up
And our baby sister woke up crying
And mom yelling because we woke
The baby

I’d take off running through the back yard
Down be the old bridge where the train
Tracks crossed the swamp
And imagine myself a hobo swinging aboard
A slow train to China
Or any place far enough away
Where all you’d hear was the chatter
Of crickets in the tall grass

The ghost of a whistle from the days
The trains still ran.
There weren’t so many babies
And Mom and Dad would shut
The doors and be as quiet as the night.

Imploding to Explode

There's a building down the block,
it's been there for my lifetime.
The city has decided it needs to go
for reasons unbeknown to me and mine.

It's withstood the storms of 100 years,
it's withstood the test of time.
It's part of my childhood
as it's part of yours
It's important to me and mine.

It may not have any monetary value
but it surely does in the heart
An explosion will set it off,
An implosion will tear it apart.

Transcendance

Here, where the vines are thickest,
I like to come and sit.
It’s late afternoon, the ground
is warm, the grapes hang full
but the only scent comes from
the soil itself, an ancient smell
of pure earth. I grow still,
take tiny breaths, scoop air
through my pores, imagining
myself as a single grape
whose job is simply to ripen.
That’s when it happens:
explosion of sound, rustle
of leaves as a fresh wind
sweeps through the vines,
and I shiver as though I know
where harvest will take me.

Implosions

Sometimes stars implode
as some love affairs erode
So why take a chance
to be in a romance

Why not, what’s to miss
it might be that very first kiss
the joy of holding hands, or
being with someone who understands

So, why do lovers take the risk
Is there some deeper need
I believe it’s just this
Its the belief that love can succeed

Then when the relationship implodes
Lover’s look to someone else
taking untested roads
to gratify them self’s

Starting a pattern
with an acceptable loss
but, they might as well reach for Saturn
as the heart and the need cris-cross. . .


©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 22, 2009, an implosion poem.

November Poetry Challenge Day 17 Explosion v Implosion

Explosion Scherzo

What can explode shouldn’t contrariwise
Implode—it should enplode, shouldn’t it?
It just doesn’t make sense except
If you think about what your mouth does
When you say these words, well, ok, I get it—
“Ex” pushes your teeth forward, “im” pulls
Your lips in, so maybe that’s how it all
Came about, but seriously,
I doubt it.

Sibebe Rock

Standing atop the granite dome
looking out over tree tops that
remind me of broccoli stalks fresh
from the garden, it is difficult
to picture the time before we humans
inhabited this land, before we forgot
the connections we have to it and it to us,
before the rock was cool enough
to sit upon on a lazy summer day
snacking on fresh oranges picked
in the early morning sun.
Licking the juice from my fingers,
it is difficult to imagine a time when
volcanoes exploded in such fiery fury
that this granite rose high above all
else, waiting for dreamers to climb
the summit simply to rest
on the cool gray stone

Blowing Up

Don't you sometimes just hate words
refusing blanc de point
to do what you spit them out for,
insensitive bloody-minded and arrogant little mights.
And don't you tell me to just slow down and re-shuffle
because they are all just the same:
sly, devious, disguised and untrustworthy.

Deep down I am loveable, tender-hearted,
vulnerable and soft spoken
but those not so bon mots
are trying to make me unutterable.

Unparalleled


Things are just a bit off
in the perpendicular universe.

Lovers collide at right angles,
hunters aim at the sky,

blooming roses curl into buds,
birds wander aimlessly. Explosions

are quiet intakes of breath,
swallowing silence.

Exploding Mom

If I hear “Mom”
one
more
time
I think I just might
explode.

The world ignited

The sky is on fire
orange and red
the heat blows into our eyes
the uproar is so loud around us
we have to yell to be heard
then the next blast comes
knocks us over
the heat moves closer
singeing the hair on our arms
the lashes around our eyes
can’t watch anymore
ear piercing whistles start
whizzing between us,
flaming objects rain down
we can’t rightly see them
just try to keep moving
away from the fire
but through squinted, teary eyes
hope sinks with our hearts
on the horizon
the sky is orange and red

BREATHLESS

In the event it
cannot contain
the silver-white chaos
that purges all thought,
my head may lose
the race with my heart
to explode from anticipation
and rage,
spreading molten shrapnel
of disappointment

Like dry leaves my regrets
fall faster as my
summer years end,
and I'm breathless from
trying to fan life into my dreams

Can the paucity of autumnal
hopes flutter and root,
safe from this toxic burn
to sustain me
through my personal winter?

Maybe near the chilly end of life
its meaning will emerge
from the still-warm
ashes of frustration,
and I can breathe again
before it's too late

Characters Implode as the Plot Expands:
"There are no coincidences, Dehlia. Only the illusion of coincidence."--V from "V for Vendetta."

Self destructive rot
shaves the meat from the bones as
reality descends.

Three years ago Halloween
Bud stuck the videocamera outside
Even though I kept telling him it’s gonna frost
Pointing it at the pumpkin carved in the back
Even after Halloween when it started
Growing stuff inside black and hairy
And then green stuff that came out
In puffs whenever the wind blew
And pretty soon, I could smell it
When the backdoor opened and
Then it sort of started to collapse into itself
That face kept grinning
and the grin got more and more twisted and
Finally the whole thing just collapsed leaking
Onto the stair
And I had to clean up that mess.
Now like every Thanksgiving, after the game, Bud
Goes out to the garage with some of the guys from
Next door and down the block and
They play that video fast and watch that
Pumpkin fast forward like the way
A building comes down when they’ve dynamited it
And they laugh so hard they nearly get Schlitz up their nose.
I’m thinking of a Christmas eve that I took
Marcy in the waiting room at emergency
Because she fell on her arm, and we saw them
Wheel in someone mostly under sheets and later
Turned out it was Donnette Taylor’s oldest who
Got a motorcycle and then died on it. At the funeral
Donnette’s sister told me that the doctors wanted to take
Joseph off his lifesupport early to cut him up and give his parts to
Kids all over and they couldn’t even tell her who.

Implosion

Why is it, when you try to restrain yourself
Keep your cool, be the reasonable one
At all costs, you find, sometimes, that inside
You are doing a slow boil, simmering away
And signals such as little twitches in your eye
That maybe could be warning you that you are not
At all as self-contained as you would have everyone,
Yourself included, believe, go ignored;
In fact, you are just this close to blowing your top
But the longer you sit on your anger, keep a lid on it,
The more likely it is that your crazy mad
Will crawl deep inside you and cause your heart
To race and your blood pressure to climb,
Before you know quite how it happens,
You will be the victim of one of nature’s
Implosions – an embolism, a stroke, even
Heaven help you – a heart attack...kaboom

and

Mumbai Explosion Remembered

Anton speaks of Mumbai
And Leopold’s Cafe
From twenty years ago
He’s moved to read his old poem
Because Mumbai is burning now

Terrorists have set the Taj Mahal
On fire – not the palace;
The hotel, filled with westerners
Mostly tourists, obvious choices
For death and hostage taking

Anton’s memories are sweet
Gentle ones and speak of saris
And silk and wives covered head
to toe, and secretive smiles sold
For odd amounts of rupees