Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - Thursday, April 10, 2008

Today's high temperature is supposed to be in the mid-70s, which is soooo great. The next 3 days are projected in the mid-40s: Say what?!? Gotta love Ohio in spring.

*****

The prompt for today is to describe something--only one thing--that is either very interesting to you or something you think is often overlooked and taken for granted. I'm thinking inanimate objects here, but I'm not going to restrict you to that. (Btw, I'm totally wondering what object Kateri Woody is going to describe--yes, I've been paying attention to all those Joker-slanted poems.)

Here's my poem for the day:

"Ornament"

-for Nancy Breen

Gold string attached to the top and bottom--
one to hold the tiny bell, the other to hold
everything up--it has blue wings, an angel
hugging a rose, words in the background.
Whenever it moves, the whole thing rings.

*****

The co-founder of this blog, Nancy Breen, makes these wonderful Christmas ornaments every Holiday season. Knowing that my favorite movie is "It's a Wonderful Life," Nancy made the ornament described above--a tribute to one of the most touching elements of the movie that "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings."

Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts

4/11/2008 10:26:23 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Comments [177]

Day 4 Highlights
Posted by Robert

Day 4's prompt was to write a thankful and/or tribute poem. While I've been digging reading all these poems each night, this prompt was surprisingly heartwarming. There's a lot of love and thankfulness spilling out of y'all. For real.

Thankful poems were written for mothers, fathers, teachers, wives, husbands, pets, home, and so much more. Among the unique topics were TiVo, Nolo.com and Wartooth (which I'm guessing is a motorcycle?). Now, here's the thing: No matter who (or what) you wrote that thankful poem for, I hope you will take the time to share it with him or her (or it). Even the people writing thankful poems for corporations or celebrities, send them to corporate HQ or the fan club--you would not believe what a difference it makes to someone's life to hear they're appreciated. That said, so many of you have really made my 2008 something special through your kind and appreciative words about this challenge. Thank you so much!

And with that, let's roll out the thankful poems that especially caught my eye.

*****

Power Switch

Right now, most of all,

I am happy to look

at the black of my TV screen---

its shadow of inactivity

in sharp contrast to the world at large.

No Pokemon, no Yo Gabba Gabba,

no Oprah and all her asphyxiated

sister-girlfriends screaming over free gifts.

No Whitehouse press releases

or news from Iraq. Just quiet.

Somewhere a great tragedy or crime

is happening,or some kids show

is trying to teach my child to read.

Without a doubt, someone is talking

about American idol or Top Model.

But here there is silence. The light

of mid-morning warms my room,

and the noise of the world outside

goes unanswered from within these walls

and I can at last sit and think for myself.

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

For Julie: A woman of the stage

You are the thunder clap

in a shushed theatre

hot pink lip stick

in the grey of winter

bending and pulling

b o u n d a r i e s

until they snap back

to let other voices in.

Shannon Rayne |shanpidAT NOSPAMshaw dot ca

*****

A Lighter Look at Friendship

You were my friend, even when you stole a fork.

You've been my friend – though we've never been to New York.

We've called in sick – played hooky from work,

Even made friends with a 7-11 clerk.

Stayed up late – our minds corrupt,

Drank cocktails from giant paper cups.

Saw some bands, stayed out much too late,

Drank in bars that weren't so great.

You slept on the floor instead of your bed.

Sorry I ate your pizza bread.

Melanie |melanie0971AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The Collective Pulse of This Blog

These posts, each one of them

All of you in your

Yearning and earnestness

It’s like mainlining your dreams

Such rawness and vulnerability.

Graced I am, and awestruck

To have stumbled upon this crowd,

Such hearts!

Thank you for beating within earshot

So valiantly, so true.

Corinne |c dot dixonAT NOSPAMtelus dot net

*****

LOST AND FOUND (WHEN POETRY PAYS)

I found $150

tucked between pages

846 & 7 of the

Norton Anthology of

Contemporary

Poetry. I’m a

satisfied customer of

the First Bank of Eavan Boland.

Matthew Falk |mdfalkAT NOSPAMsvsu dot edu

*****

Seven ways to be grateful for chocolate chips

Among the cooling cookies

the chocolate chips sit liquid hot.

semi-sweet bombs ready to explode

on your tongue.

After the dentist's drill,

A chocolate chip sits melting

Alone in the corner of my mouth.

III

The mouse nibbles at the corner

of a yellow plastic bag

of chocolate chips

shoved in the back of the cupboard.

Rodent ecstacy.

She rode past the suburbs

in the back seat of a minivan

Once, fear pierced her

as her mother glanced in the rearview mirror

and saw the shadow of chocolate chips

smeared across her lips.

I was of three minds

Like three kids

Fighting over a chocolate chip cookie

The chocolate chip rolled across the floor

A small part of the mess.

VII

It was evening all afternoon

It was foggy.

And the fog would never lift.

A chocolate chip cookie sat waiting

in the tupperware.

Nina Berry

*****

Despite the gifts I was given--

a diary covered in mocha and gold,

and a set of stationery from Japan

I set my face in the crook of my arm

and wept.

Summer and its promise of freedom

lay outside the door.

I could not rejoice, for

at eight years old, I knew

no one would ever

have books

or the love

for my poems

stories

and essays

like Mrs. Pine.

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Chance

It was by chance that we met.

If I hadn’t been so tired

I wouldn’t have stopped

on my way home,

but the bar was quaint

and the night was rainy

and only a cat was lonely for me.

If there had been a table

I wouldn’t have sat at the bar,

but every table was taken,

and I was taken with the cute smile

of the fellow sitting on the end stool

so I went and sat down beside him.

If I hadn’t been tired of chardonnay

I wouldn’t have ordered a Chevis and soda

and if the new bartender hadn’t run out

of Chevis he wouldn’t have motioned

for the regular bartender.

If the regular bartender

hadn’t asked me where I was from

we never would have found out

that we both hailed from Virginia.

If he hadn’t thought I was cute

he would never have asked me

for my phone number

and if we hadn’t gone

to the same college I never

would have given it to him.

But he had and I did and

that was how it started.

Thank Heavens for chance.

Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

Cardinals (For Mom)

You loved cardinals.

They stood out for you,

not in huge flocks like the grey birds

that swarmed your backyard feeder,

but one or two.

The male, easy to spot

the female, with subdued color a little more elusive.

You loved cardinals.

They predicted the snow;

at least that's what you noticed every year.

Announcing a storm bringing white

that made them easier to see

venturing out of the holly tree.

Leaving the nest you know was there but never saw.

You loved cardinals.

You surrounded yourself with them.

My son counted 136 in your house;

photos, models, light-catchers, plush.

We all knew you loved them

and buying a gift was easy

as you found a new place to display number 137.

You loved cardinals.

Every spotting was mentally noted,

shared with me on the phone.

Now, we see them occasionally and think of you.

We watch our feeder now,

hoping to spot one before the snow

and catch that red reward of memory.

John Mucha |je dot muchaAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Uninspired

am ever

grateful

this poem

need

not

any

longer

than

this.

Lori Jackson |ljacksonAT NOSPAMtcsdk12 dot org

*****

Thankful today

My car started

after only

three tries.

The eggs didn't break

on the way home

from the market.

When I called,

you answered

on the first ring.

I found my

Jon Dee Graham CDs

under the couch.

The neighbor's dog

did his business

in someone else's yard.

I got a letter

in the mail

from my mom.

The moon rose early

in a clear-blue sky

and I noticed.

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The Throne

You spend your hours

tucked away in a space

no one will call by name—

the john, the powder room,

the water closet—there you sit,

never complaining

about the lot given to you.

Sparkling white outside holds

swirling blue water,

covered by a wood-grain lid.

Always there when nature calls.

I think of your counterparts

around the world—holes

in the ground, the backside

of bushes. No porcelain thrones

in the African desert,

only imitations at the ruins

in Peru.

I’m so very glad you are here—

I flush you just to hear the sound.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Burning Questions

Her eyes stare straight ahead

focused on the red light

at the crosswalk,

waiting.

And I wonder if she notices

the people around her?

Watching, wondering,

their faces

twisted with curiosity,

crippled by shock.

Or has she crossed this road

enough times before

that she makes them

instantly disappear,

like paper in fire?

Is it any easier today

than yesterday?

Or does it make her see red,

like the burnt skin of her face?

The light changes,

and as we pass

I think of my own scars,

deep and dark,

but hidden inside.

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Thankful poem

We pulled the car in-the baby clapping in the backseat

Like a mad cymbal-crashing monkey, creepy

As hell from a one-week road trip. Really

All of us were giddy with whizzing miles

Smearing Winter to Spring and back again-

Dripping luggage, pillows, half-eaten muckamuck

Into the kitchen where the cat was singing.

It was definitely a song, though not a flattering one-

Today at least, meow is a four letter word-but

It made the baby giggle and run up and down

After her, saying “home” “home” home”-

A word I’ve never heard from him before.

Hope Greene |hopeAT NOSPAMhopegreene dot com

Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets

4/11/2008 9:39:33 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Comments [6]

Thursday, April 10, 2008

April PAD Challenge: Day 10
Posted by Robert

Shoooooooo, doggies! We've made it to double digits! One-third of the way to pay dirt! Thirty-three point three percent!

In other words, we're well on our way to the barren wasteland of the middle of this month and the real (really real even) gut-check time for any PAD challenge challenger. I've been having a lot of fun so far, and I hope you have, too.

Last night, I was up until the witching hour catching up on my laundry at the local laundromat. While folding up my warm T-shirts, I started thinking about the importance of location in our poems. Many people (not just poets) form their identities based off where they are born and raised, or even where their ancestors were born and raised. From favorite sports teams to music tastes, location can often play a major role in who we are.

Today, the poetry prompt is to write a location poem. You can write about a city, a building, a planet, etc. I suppose the poem doesn't necessarily need to be "about" the place, but the location should play an important role in the poem.

Here's my attempt for today from, naturally:

"The Laundromat"

There is, of course, the hum and throb,
the anonymous faces wandering in and out
with arms wide and full of warm clothes.
This is where she called me twice in one day
just because and to say she loved me.

Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts

4/10/2008 8:56:34 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Comments [178]

Day 3 Highlights
Posted by Robert

Day 3 was all about that funny little form the haiku. Some people complained; others moaned; but everyone took a shot (or even several shots) at writing this Japanese classic. Here are some of the pieces that made me stop and ponder.

*****

Crescent moon at dawn

frosted blossoms bowing low

to the rising light

Lorraine Hart |lorrainehartAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Scarlet clouds

drift over the sun.

Hawks snatch their prey.

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

*****

Soaring hawk

On a cold blue morning

A mole’s destiny

Judy Brassard |judyb144AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Sudden rain

Pitter-patter shore of flamenco

Flip-flop

Zona Yi-Ping Tsou |besidelakeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

yellow jackets hum

hanging on old-barked branches

late for the party

Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Girls in the driveway

hopping up and down, twirling,

above white clouds dance.

patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Flaming trees herald

the last drunken flight of butterflies

before the first frost

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Two trails through cracked leaves.

Light and twigs cast chickenscratch

Warmly on two trails.

David Edwards |zehayeAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

as wet as the pond

fishing with my son

in the June rain

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

My corgis pause

to water the dogwoods;

coats wet with spring dew

Marcus Smith |sleeperdesuAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

wind whips aloft

fire light filtered through

tree branches

AlaskanRC |Ruffian_chick24AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets

4/10/2008 8:20:43 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Comments [5]

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

April PAD Challenge: Day 9
Posted by Robert

Today's prompt is to choose a word (any word) and then write a poem either about that word or using that word in different ways. Be sure to point out which word you're writing about.

Here's my go at it using the word "twister."

"Twister"

I never played the game Twister as a boy,
though it always looked like fun to contort
bodies on a plastic mat covered in bright-
colored dots. "Sex in a box." That's what
Milton Bradley was accused of selling, and,
well, it's hard to argue. As a teen, I didn't
need instructions or experience to imagine
what that game might lead to with the right
girl. Born in the 60s. Like "The Twist"--a dance
that involved not touching your partner, but
instead, putting out an imaginary cigarette
and wiping your bottom with an imaginary
towel. A dance floor filled to capacity with
people who don't touch using their imaginations
to quit smoking and dry off. My brother
could relate chasing his twisters across
tornado alley. Always chasing with his
camera pointed to the skies. Never wanting
to touch or get tangled up. A voyeur
until the end. Another thing I've never tried.

Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poetry Prompts

4/9/2008 9:42:43 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Comments [195]

Day 2 Highlights
Posted by Robert

As you may remember, the Day 2 prompt asked poets to put themselves in someone (or something) else's skin. What great responses this prompt produced!

Before I share the poems that most caught my attention, I want to share some patterns I noticed. For instance, poets became dogs in about every 3rd or 4th poem. Sylvia Plath was the most popular poet to be channeled. Of the inanimate objects, cell phones dominated. Some interesting subjects included a revolving door, hotel mattress, and hybrid car.

*****

Computer Keyboard

must be morning

here she comes

again

pounding

all day

pounding

the sound of the phone

brings respite

5 minutes

anything

I’ll take it

oh God

not the peanut shells

every day

peanut shells

until I can’t move

upside down

her hands crashing me

on the desk

over

and over

until the shells are gone

pineapple juice

peanut shells

salt from pretzels

pieces of sandwich

drops of soda

why can’t she see me?

why doesn’t she care?

when will it end?

jane |wordscribblerAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

discarded paper

meant for greatness

from the second highest tree fell

years spent gathering dust on the shelf

amongst lesser paper

from lesser trees

he brought me home

put me in a warm place

ink seeped into my fiber

once, twice, three times the ball of the pen found me

neglected once more

setinto a dark case

dust gathers

it is cold

strange hands my temporary rescue

once again warmth

till

sudden pain

fibers broken

crumpled i fall

once again amongst lesser paper

from lesser trees

tim |timputnamAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Sylvia Plath

In the darkness,

And under the stairs,

I smell the firm

Dry earth

Beneath me,

Comforting, that dank

Strong scent

Wafting through me

As I attempt

To still myself

In silence,

Block out

The world at large.

My little hiding place,

A hush to keep me warm,

I will stay here,

Only a little while,

Make shadows in the dark,

Whisper my litanies

To a future me unsung.

I’m a little girl,

Mean and grey,

A monster miasma

Waiting to burst

Into rain.

Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Bouncy Ball

Whee! Bouncing up, up, up

Falling down, down, down

My rubber flattens slightly

when I reach the ground

and then I am up again

Soaring, flying, racing

The air swooshing past my sides

The ground retreating, retreating

then coming back again

The air is fresh and new and clear

The ground propels me upward

I could do it again and again

all day long

Tonya Root |booklet dot geoAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Dad's Old Brown Sweater

Don't hate me because he would rather be close to me than you

I smell like him, cigarettes, whiskey, and maraschino cherries

and anything else he has eaten in the past month

He likes the temp at 65 in the winter

makes him feel like he's saving money

he likes the feel of me around him

like his blanket when he was a baby with a bottle

when he had a brother and a father

before they left him alone and untethered

We like it when you tease us about how close we are

"you love that sweater more than me!" you shout

it's true, it's so true but he can't tell you

you would not understand

Last night he we fell asleep together on the couch

he dreamt of a long walk on the beach with Cordy

fetching sticks

you were there too

in the distance waving

at least I think it was you

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

turntable

you like the way

i swivel wax

against my hips: my hula

hooping coyly against

a needle

the vinyl swirls

in a whir of autumnal

sounds; crackle

of leaves, cool

wind, and lovers

under thunder

and covers

i sing the blues

and bring back

jazz, memories

of faraway throats

and fuel

the dance

be careful

oh yes

be sweet

because, sometimes

my birdsong

is noise

and static

and when you

least expect

a chalkboard

shriek; i

scratch

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Holly Golightly

A chocolate croissant

and coffee in front

of a storefront window

in the morning

before all the feathers

fall around at night.

In the morning

knowing the cat

is around here somewhere

and seeing the neighbors

through thick eyelashes

and thin hangovers.

Oh to be somebody's Tomato

and have a cab waiting

so long for me in the rain

just as darlings turn to dusk.

Golda Fried |goldafriedAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

NASCAR Trophy

Today I can be anything.

I have chosen to be cold, metal, hollow.

Smeared with fingerprints,

passed from hand to hand

on a wave of sweat, motor oil,

and gas mileage calculations.

Shaken-up soda, sprayed everywhere

in the exuberant celebration

that belongs more

to eight-year-old boys

than full-grown men,

drips down my smooth sides.

First place, he grasps me with warm hands,

hoists me up, plants a kiss

on my shiny face, reflecting his own.

He raises me over his head.

I am afraid of heights, I want to say.

Kiss me again.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Cell Phone

I'm tired!

My buttons feels bruised

by constant finger pressing;

I am loaded with images I'd rather not see--

The scary one of your cat

with laser beam eyes;

The one you sent you boyfriend

when he was out of town. . .

well, we won't go there!

Full to overflowing with texted words--

LOL, OMG, ILMAO. . .

I have two letters for you sweetie. . .

But, we won't go there either.

Annoying ring tones--

My God what kind of hip-hop

rap crap is that?

All I ask for is one day off--

no calls, no texting, no photos,

don't even put me on vibrate,

(It may feel good to you, but

does nothing for me)

One day. . .

just let me. . .

sleep!

Terri |ttlmtAT NOSPAMaim dot com

*****

Sunday Morning Crossword Puzzle Not Yet Solved

It's all been a blank until now,

A few bits here and there

to piece together a coherent whole.

I'm open to your questions

I'm willing to take suggestions.

Yet I feel boxed in somehow...

When at last I reach daylight

morning sun warming my bones

the smell of good coffee nearby

with a good snap of the page

and the soft folds until am

the only one you desire--

Then I will be a slave to your gaze

for as long as it takes,

at least until your coffee runs out

and I am left, drunk with words

and yet so easily discarded.

Elizabeth Keggi |lilyclarissaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Cell Phone

I hear you laugh

I hear you cry

Can you hear me now?

Hello? Hello?

You yell at me,

drop me repeatedly,

and you wonder why your signal was lost

Hello?

Mee* me a* ***

You're breaking up on me

Run over,

lost,

drowned in the washing machine...

Use me,

break me,

replace me

And yet you feel empty

when I'm not with you

And you never leave home without me.

Cari |nyscarebearmassAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Wearing My Sister's Dress

The times I feel at my best

I'm wearing my big sister's dress

she's everything I'm not

I'm the sister that time forgot

She's wild and crazy and fun

I see a cute guy and I run

In her dress I don't have to be me

yet I still can't see what she sees

I try but the dress has not spell

to make me the popular belle

So I'll spend another saturday night

in my sister's dress, no man in sight

Diana |laydedeeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Kindergartener

Every day we have to

say I plejallejens and then

sing yankeedoodle.

Our teacher makes us sit

on the hard floor

but she gets to sit

on a fluffy chair with

rolly wheels.

She tells us to write

when we want to draw.

Then we count to a hundred

and it takes so so long.

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

*****

Muse

At three p.m. I push back

the silk eye mask that shelters

my delicate eyes from harsh daylight.

I’ve left my charge to wade

the early hours of the day

alone, unguided, uninspired.

After a quick tossle

of my auburn curls,

I start my daily stretching

routine—poke the fantasy

still ten chapters away from completion,

poke the short story idea

she still hasn’t put to paper, poke

the poem, the one about the plum,

that she just can’t figure out.

My workout complete, I lounge

on a velvet chaise and eat cold grapes

until she calls for my aide.

I sip wine as she pounds

her head and the keyboard—

a slave to my whims.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Mountain Bike

Robbed of my knobbies,

Stripped of my tools,

Tilted against the wall,

I see but am not seen.

Dirt-covered wheels,

Grease-coated chain,

Clothes-covered frame,

I am but a coat rack.

Until

Oregon skies brighten,

Clouds drift away,

Puddles disappear,

And he comes to my side.

Caressing my body up and down,

Running his fingers across my top,

He clears away the debris

And tunes me ‘til I hum.

As his thumb strokes my gears

And he mounts me for a ride,

I know he’ll take me long and slow,

He’ll take me all the way there.

Intrepid Explorer |salyxraeAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

A.P. Stylebook

I'm afraid I've been affected. What a horrible effect. I think I am infected – with words!

Peddle harder. Pedal faster.

Begin your reign by reining them in.

Enjoy a cupful or even a few cupfuls, but never ever enjoy cupsful.

Am I anybody or any body? I am nobody. I am a body – of text.

Would a book by any other name be as fully revised and updated?

From a to ZIP code I have your words, my words.

KP |kerritothepointAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

The Politician Speaks

Blah blah

Blah blah blah blah, dee dah.

Blah blah

Blah dah dee dah, blah blah.

Paula Fairbrother |liveadrmAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

MOZART

When I was a lad of nearly three years

They discovered my gift

Music to the ears

I wrote a little ditty

Then another, then three

They used the word genius

when referring to me.

I cranked out those tunes;

became the hit of the day.

Travelling the world with no time to play,

except on a keyboard in vast concert halls;

the applause was thunderous -

it bounced off the walls.

Then I died and was buried -

with the old RIP

The music is all that is left of "Motzee"

Essa Bostone |essybeeAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

Poetry Challenge 2008 | Poets

4/9/2008 8:42:30 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04: