Paper clips! There were a lot of paper clip poems written on Day 11--when I asked you to write a poem describing a thing. Actually, I found that your focus on description led to some really, really great poems. One of my favorites, in fact, is a poem about--you guessed it--the paper clip "Bent into a 'u', then bent again,/another 'u' into itself, this bit of wire/we entrust to keep our documents secure." Check out all of today's highlights below.
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Calendar Above My Desk
Every month a new world
bubbling brooks
scarlet sunsets
sailboats idling in the harbor
words like
Winnipesaukee
Ammonsoosuc
Mt. Monadnock
days morph into months
months yearning for vacation
a glance up from my monitor
is a journey away from here
Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com
*****
Everything Must Go
In the parking lot, behind the dollar general, at 2
in the afternoon, a young man thrust hands
into pockets of an old three-button suit fit
for someone half his size—as if he might
have fished it from a thrift-store or a pile
of clothes at a yard-sale, estate sale, auction
for the peeling home behind the elementary
school where people pick and peck at tables
on the outgrown lawn, silent as hungry
blackbirds after grubs. Nobody looks
into windows, knocks on doors. Nothing
to see here. Nothing they haven’t seen before
on every street in town. Another sign goes
up. Another. And someone gets a tax break
when they buy the place on Market for half
of what its worth. And damn, if they’d a let us
pay that price to start, we could a kept
the bastard. Or if the Ford plant didn’t move or if
And the walls ache empty as the stomachs
of strays who wade sunsplashed in river water
with a girl off route 222. Everything idles,
engines low on gas, turn, sputter out a grinding
song. Everything’s for sale. For rent. Fore
closed. Everything must go. And the young man
hums a melody that could be a spiritual, though
he doesn’t look like a boy to sing spirituals. Too
mod, too hip, too fashionably poor. And no-one
sings those old songs anymore, having lost the feel,
the touch that looks you up and down and says, “I know”
because we do. Or should. After all, it’s nothing
we haven’t heard before: the way we mutter
to ourselves, taking as we do what falls
to us with hands open as any supplicant’s. How
many doors swing idly in and out? And tell me who
wore the jackets we are wearing now?
Joel Peckham |joel_peckhamAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
The Nose
Well, as the old saying goes.
The thing you overlook’s your nose
A nose is such an odd looking thing
A bump, two holes, graced with wings
It blesses you with fragrant smells
Like cookies, lilacs, caramels
Or it curses you with things malodorous
Skunks, dirty diapers, a diesel bus
But above all, its kindest grace
Is to keep your glasses on your face
Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
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WINDSHIELD WIPERS
Back and forth
back and forth
We wipe the tears of the sky
off the glass shield
to give you safer travels
while on slick roads
back and forth
back and forth
We remove debris and dirt
that has piled up in your neglect to clean
as often as you should
back and forth
back and forth
We grow weary from the frequent use
but keep going at whatever speed you choose
back and forth
back and forth
You get frustrated with us because
we aren't as sharp as we once were
Smears and smudges leave a trail
because YOU refuse to keep us up
The next time you are squinting from the
glare of oncoming lights
because there is no more fluid
and we can't wipe the glass clean dry
maybe you'll decide to stop going
back and forth
back and forth
without giving
CHANGING THE WIPER BLADES
a try!
Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
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In Consideration of My Left Eye
Today will I consider my left eye.
Not my metaphorical eye,
nor the third eye my sister's friend
the astrologer says is wide open
even when I sleep. No, today
I will look directly into my own left eye,
taking into account everything I see.
First, my upper lid obscures the iris
unless I pretend to be surprised. The fine
window cracks of blood vessels in the whites
flow like mapped roads, driving beneath
the skin where I cannot follow.
On the inner wall of my pupil, beneath
the green ring which precedes the blue
for which I have received so much praise,
something geometric grows, straight, angled,
and a complete mystery. It catches the light,
making the study of whatever it is
quite impossible.
Approaching the mirror, I can see in the black,
the reflection of me, looking at myself. I am
small, as if I have captured myself, imprisoned
more than my reflection, more than myself.
When I turn and look straight at my eye,
I notice how part of my eyeball is darker,
almost jaundice. I pause to consider the line
between bright and dull, wonder if it cuts me
in half in other ways, intersects my life,
determines for me who I really am.
With nothing more to observe worth mention
inside my left eye, I think it best to avoid
the symmetry of my right eye, or perhaps
the disappointment of learning
they are in fact not the same as each other.
My final consolation is this:
At least I was, after all has been seen and said,
wise enough to avoid observing my nose.
Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
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Moss
When we say “moss” in the South,
we specifically mean Spanish moss,
that kinky, grey wig that drips
from the old oak branches,
that red bug-infested parasite
that (with the smell of wet
cow pastures) reminds me of home.
JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Manure
Every time you
spoil the lilt of my potpourri,
every time you stick to my feet or
my thoughts along
that path I want pristine,
I need to remember
that you are the Limburger cheese
behind all things verdant.
Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
The Tree
stood in the front yard, next to its
brother on the other side of the
walkway. Small maples, beautiful
lush leaves. One of the reasons we
bought the little fixer-upper in the
first place, the nice visual at the
front door. One tree continued to
grow and thrive. The other seemed to
shrink into itself. As the seasons flew
by, the brother grew tall and strong,
while the sibling’s branches stopped
growing and curled up toward the
center. Then the bark started to peel
off, and we knew the end had come.
It was time to cut our losses and let
it go. I watched the saw cut into one
of the reasons we bought this small
fixer-upper and felt a sense of loss.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
The Treadmill
Symbol of my hope, my will,
rubber walk on frame of steel,
How I wonder how you feel,
my poor neglected treadmill.
She who walks you nowhere goes,
yet we keep you, I suppose,
not for walking, heaven knows.
I need a place to hang my clothes.
Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
Paper Clip
Bent into a “u”, then bent again,
another “u” into itself, this bit of wire
we entrust to keep our documents secure,
has been attached to unexpected lore.
The story goes that some Norwegian
was the first to patent this invention,
and much later, in the Nazi occupation,
his countrymen wore paper clips
on their lapels, a secret solidarity
against the Reich and for their king.
Eventually this morphed into a symbol
of the Holocaust, and recently some kids
from Tennessee collected paper clips,
six million plus, to represent
the Jewish victims of that hellish time.
A humble turn of wire for a soul,
something we must fasten,
never to forget.
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
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Baby Fingers
Impossibly small
Perfectly formed
Lilliputian mimics
Of my ten digits
So tender and soft
Pink and clean
Translucent
Like a sea anenome
Exploring, reaching
Waving at the breeze
Giving my Gulliver sized
Finger a squeeze
SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
his ear
shiny skin pulled tight over stiff cartilage
soft down covers boneless earlobe
the swirl and whirl of light and shadow follows
the sinuous curve which doesn't seem to end,
like a nautilus circling ever more tightly
around the auditory canal, which waits to
hear the words, "I love you..."
A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Spoon
It's a big and made of plain metal
with a wood handle worn by use,
by washing. It stirs the pasta
or the onions, the peppers in olive oil,
it serves wherever it is needed.
How bright the sun poured
as we walked out our new door,
under the thick leaves of old trees,
past the jail, circles of razor wire catching the light,
and onto the broad boulevard,
or that's what it was called.
Our first night in our first apartment
together, our first morning
and a trip to the diner for breakfast.
We lingered by the tables
of the church ladies' sidewalk sale,
and we bought this practical spoon--
our first utensil in our new life.
After two decades,
I'm on the other side of the country
and the husband has passed,
but the second-hand spoon keeps
its place in the drawer, more
treasured than the meat fork it came with
or the glass bowl I bought
when I was twenty, even
the colander handed down
from my grandmother
that has a dent and is missing
both handles and that I can almost
let go of. The spoon stays.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
My father’s shirt
My father’s shirt,
Soft brown cloth
The color of his cigars
When he smoked them
With the stitched deer head
On the pocket
That I’d snuggle
My cheek against
I snuck it from
The garage sale box
And wore it
For a few years
Now it’s folded
In my drawer
Sometimes
I take it out
To trace the stitches
On the pocket
And hold the worn cloth
Against my cheek again
Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
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My Parents’ Marriage
It will be 52 years this summer
And it is a hand played with finesse.
I watch them and soak them up,
Their fealty, concern for other.
How tenderly and diligently she
Cushions his world as the Parkinsons advances,
How dignified he is as his body cripples.
No trumping each other, though there were the years of that too,
Now transcended.
And when they were describing the accident
To me
(20 years ago, now?)
Each of them said, separately,
How when the car started to spin out of control
That they instinctively just
Reached
For the hand of the other, and held on.
No panic, like that, together.
Corinne |c dot dixonAT NOSPAMtelus dot net
*****
Canvas
What colors cast their spells
against this void of fabric
and gloss, blended from brushes
and thinners into magic potions
or portraits of the serene. Bleeding
fingertips of horses’ hair splash,
sling, and dapple, creating the shadows
and highlights, and highlights
inside the shadows of faces, of hands,
of trees. Reality is captured
or captured and bent through a diffuse
set of eyes and a prismatic lens
to give the world a taste and a glimpse
of something as pure and intangible
as a snowflake on the tongue.
It’s a hymen, a gateway, to all secrets untold,
but before that, it’s blank,
like this empty page, I filled with words.
Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
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Sleek brown fox
peers over his shoulder
at his identical mate.
Ears sharply alert,
eyes deep and penetrating.
He poses with one paw
held in mid-air.
A sentry on my mantel;
Carved by great grandpa,
now guards our family.
Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
and i will make you a mixtape
music holds
a history: i laugh
at my age
when a girl
asks me
about cassettes
and how
we used them
in the wayback
and bygone
era
i still
listen to tapes
and their hiss
and watch
as the toothy
gears spin
inside
the deck
the sound-
track of three
years
together and three
apart, the friendship
spanning
an ocean, a first
boyfriend, the saddest
songs known: all
recorded
magnetically
for me
and frozen
in time
i have sat
for hours
pushing record
and pause
to give someone
a rectangular, musical
reminder of who
we were
if only
for a little
while
sometimes
a love letter
finds its way
into the case
or a collage
from old
magazines
and sometimes
just the handwriting
from a friend: every
song inside
a little gift
k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com