OK. Here’s the better late than never Wednesday Poetry Prompt. Beginning with my grandmother passing away on Friday morning, this past week has been a whirlwind–and I only realized today was even a Wednesday about an hour ago. Sooo…
For this week’s prompt, write a poem which loses itself. Perhaps, the narrator loses track of time, loses track of emotion, or something else completely.
Here’s my attempt at a lost poem:
“Losing Track”
First, a call and a scramble
to get everything together
and leave. Second, driving
through one state and another
(always another). At midnight,
it’s okay to cry. And still, there’s
so much (so much) to buy
and wrap. A speech, a casket–
the race against a sleigh.
There are no winners,
only survivors. All the bells
ringing, the carolers singing.
At least, we’re all together.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
I sit this day, with thoughts of a poem.
My mind on a journey, as it begins to roam.
Abstract in theory, are my poems of ryhme.
My thoughts and theories are as vast as time.
Yet the written word sometimes lost in prose.
When all of a sudden, I happen to dose.
Thoughts now gone, senior moments at hand.
The best I can do is a haiku on demand.
A journey of time.
As body and mind collide.
No winners emerge.
Here is a poem
that loses itself.
Here is a poem.
Here it is.
A poem.
That loses itself.
That loses itself.
Better late than….well, it’s late.
ASKING A FAVOR OF GRIEF.
all I ask of grief is this
that when I lose my fragile hold
on missing you
and sadness overtakes
I would look a bit more like
a Hollywood starlet, glowing,
tragic and dewy
and less like me, snotting,
wrinkly and red
and that it would not come
to visit at inopportune times,
like when I’m preparing for
company.
A Lost Poet
by Carla Cherry
Of course I have lost people and things.
The people, I could do nothing about.
They either chose not to stay or were wrenched away.
But the things—
four folded up twenty dollar bills,
an ID card holder,
desire to get another degree,
myself at times–
I have gotten over them all, except
the keys to my parents’ house—
given to me when I was 14
after our house had been robbed.
I lost them one night, and since, repeatedly
cull through memory
recall every step
search for the clang of falling keys.
Before I threw them out
I sat on my bed with two old pocketbooks
ran my fingers over every crevice
and only found crumpled receipts from ATMs or dinners out.
Pulled up my mattress,
got on my hands and knees with a flashlight under the bed,
pulled back sofas and the dresser.
Every corner has been vacuumed.
Even after I moved out
those keys let me in for my mother’s and niece’s hugs
my sister’s smirk and rolling eyes
treats in the fridge
and to my parents’ bed to cry when Daddy was dying.
Like any stranger, now
I have to ring the bell.
Lost in Hey Jude
I wrap myself in lyrics and melody
as I play the song.
I close my eyes
when the song with piano chords,
and Paul’s voice
a simple tune
resonating inside me.
Drum is added
and harmonies,
and I let this song take me
where it wants,
memories stirred
and fantasies of love.
The song builds
through measures
until it crescendos
and leads to a long refrain,
while I lose my sense
of time and place.
When it’s over,
I play it again,
to take me to another world again.
Hey Jude takes me time traveling.
Tired
I am tired of lost
dogs, cats, patience
tempers, memory, chances
children, bets, races
hope, relatives, desire
hearing, eyesight, limbs
wars, teeth, trust
weight, figures, rings
pregnancy, accents, paper-clips
library-books, marbles, letters
senses, orders, page
causes, trophy-fish, and
love
But I’m not tired of losing all
track of time when spending it
with you
Read this twice to fully take it in. Nicely done!
Thanks! It’s nice to be read.
My condolescences regarding your grandmother. If she was anything like mine, you have lost a very special gem.
My prayers are with you.
LaSteph
Lost and Found
A crown.
A clown.
An upside down frown.
One snicker.
One skate.
One mitten.
No cape.
Ah, my piggy bank!
My favorite rubber snake.
There’s my secret thing that escaped.
Best of all, now I have a new treasured ball.
Cute!
Okay – and now the poem is back up – but at the top of the page. What?!!!
Wow. I posted a poem here – and the site actually took my post on the 1st try. But, when I refreshed the screen – it was gone – just like last week’s work. I give up.
Holy Curiosity
“Never lose a holy curiosity.” ~Albert Einstein
They say that curiosity
kills cats with great velocity.
Despite my fears, I do not want
to ever just be nonchalant.
Losing self should not be proem*
even if well-meant. This poem
vibrates loudly, “Blasé! Don’t taunt
and do not just be nonchalant.
Instead, inquisitiveness proves
that underneath the doubt, what moves
the hand and mind, like a savant,
is ever don’t be nonchalant
and question every one – and thing
and don’t back down. Those queries fling
my thoughts to stars, in twelve point font.
I won’t be holy nonchalant.
###
*Means prologue, preface or introduction.
You kill me.
Well, thank goodness you’re still here, then. Whew!
Lost
By David De Jong
December 28, 2012
Lost in a dream the year fades away
It only started yesterday
Tears and sorrow for stranger’s dismay
Yet kindred of hearts kneel to pray
Desperate for words to say
Lost in a dream as the branches sway
Missing everything of May
Department stores rid their posh display
Christmas over just yesterday
No decorous words to say
Lost in a drive homeward stray
Certain this is the way
Deep blank snow, falling all through the day
Erased landmarks of yesterday
No subtle words to say
Best wishes for the coming New Year to all!
Condolence – to those that have lost
Joy – to those that have gained
Hope – for those that have strayed
Grace – for those that we have prayed
Thank you for this lovely piece and sentiment, David. Absolutely lovely.
And I must ask … are you any relation to Anders De Jong?
Not that I know…
… and Thank you!
Poem
Turned loose upon the page, the poem circled
around like an old dog settling down to sleep,
not wishing the freedom to run wild and loose,
unleashed, preferring instead to wind itself
into the familiar comforts, the safety of stanzas,
order chosen, not imposed, where dreams arrive
invited, welcomed as the same twenty-six letters
arrange and rearrange themselves, looking up
just before dozing into doggy dreams to ask
for a gentle scratch behind the ears, a “good boy.”
Morning Bustle
Tea in the microwave
Bread in the toaster
Eggs in the pan
Milk in the microwave
Him in his chair
Her wheeled in place
Sausage in the microwave
Butter on the toast
Sliced banana on the plate
Milk in the microwave
Toast in his mouth
Cut up the sausage
Bell goes off
What’s in the microwave?
Lost to Think
Lost in your thoughts
so shiny and new, brought
me from innocence
to a license
to think.
When The Track Split And Time Quit
She was soaked in sweat
nerves tingling
skin on fire
He, in that room, was her world.
Then she remembered
there was someone else
she married,
still lived with.
Her marriage lost long ago,
now, her sense of time.
WOW. Powerful, powerful little piece.
Wow.
Sorry to hear about your grandmother, Robert.
Elisheva
She arrived by ambulance—in
ambulance, actually.
There was this big bump
in the road, and she fell right
out, caught in mid-air.
She arrived in turmoil.
Her mother was unwell,
could not breast-feed her.
Everyone took willing turns
with the bottle.
She arrived in trouble.
Cried all the time—allergic
to the formula, it turned out.
But Mom had to figure
that one on her own.
She arrived in a strange place,
where all doctors were on
strike (except for the ER),
and a baby who cried and
threw up was not an emergency.
She arrived in her new home
when she was ten weeks
old—in the middle of the night,
while everyone else slept.
She was finally at peace.
She was lost to her mother,
who still cries every once
in a while prompted by some
random thing, even these
twenty-plus years later.
Ellen Knight 12.27.12
(write a ‘lost’ poem)
Poignant and captivating write, “Mom.” Well done.
Ellen, how do you pronounce your daughter’s name? The spelling is lovely.
El (like the letter “l” ) – ee-sheva (short e short a) I’m sure there are doodads that will let me write that, but for lack of that knowledge… btw, the name is Hebrew, and means God is seven. The mystical teaching that 1/7th of the Torah is numerology.
Beautiful and meaningful.
I’ve emptied my mind
of thoughts about you
of my anger unkind
regret, and love too
Our arrangement’s not working
like we expected
the ball is still turning
forgotten, neglected
When I come home
will dinner be ready?
Will you be on the phone
talking to Eddy?
I don’t know why I bother
to put up with you
I should go home to mother
she’ll know what to do
You’re sorry you say
I say it as well
you plead me to stay
you say it’s all swell
We spend the night talking
and drinking some wine
I forgot about walking
I’m feeling just fine.
COME
into temptation, a passage
through the revolving door
outside your one-man cave
between the umbrage
of Xanadu illusion and reality
beyond etcetera
across the drawbridge
into the 21st century
before darkness swallows you whole
unless darkness swallows you whole
in the 21st century
beneath the blocked bridge
via etcetera
amid reality and Xanadu illusion
through the umbrage
inside your lonely cave
as the revolving door becomes a closed door
barring passage, temptation
*So sorry about your grandmother, Robert*
I leave with you all for this Wednesday a “Side of Catch-Up,” three weeks worth of responses!!
Christmas has kicked my behind this year…are things finally slowing down for a minute?!
Warm smiles all around poetic friends!!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/12/27/a-side-of-catch-up/
SLIPPING AWAY
Blind to the light reflected in tinsel
and the shining eyes around her,
numb to the feelings expressed
in each holiday greeting;
she stared blankly at
each passerby,
unaware
that
each
passing
moment brought
her closer to the end.
# # #
Better viewed as centered on the page, as found on my blog:
http://whenwordsescape.wordpress.com/2012/12/27/slipping-away/
Hardwood
Eight schools in eight years, a clutch of eastern
Europeans turned into D-two studs
and an angry scowl that argues with the
PowerPoint about his love of teaching.
But perhaps most telling is this one line:
“I’m not a rules guy” – a giant red flag
that screams, “You’ll never know what to expect.”
Forget about consistent discipline.
The team goes out and plays like frightened cats
and my son says that he hates basketball.
All I can think is, This is what it’s like
to live with an alcoholic father.
… and another powerful piece. A punch in the gut.
Wow.
Very sorry for your loss, Robert.
My getting lost poem is here:
http://fightswithpoems.blogspot.com/2012/12/this-came-on-staten-island-ferry.html
TRADEOFFS OF LOSS
The hospital is lost, a ship aground
and sinking in a sea of seismic waves,
so many other ships already gone –
the bank, a dozen highrise offices, apartment
houses, factories.
Here on the hospital’s back-
side, your search dog finds her way
down a makeshift tunnel dug
between chunks of broken concrete; lost
from view, you hear her scratching
at rubble. Then,
from the front-side of ruined edifice, a cheer!
A baby,
pulled out alive! And here on the backside,
your dog comes back, waving
a chairleg lost in masticated concrete:
her sign, she’s caught the scent
of someone buried, lost alive!
But all the energy of men and backhoe’s
on the front-side, the lost birthing
center. There’s no help here
for the backside doctors’ quarters. Here,
a living doctor’s lost.
My goodness, all the power-packed offerings today — this, not the least of them. Extraordinary piece, Taylor.
Lost
Remember when clouds were elephants
and every rainbow was traced with a finger?
We spun until we fell to watch them
swirl in a world always in motion.
Morning dreams slipped through our wakings
Like silken realms on the edge of thought,
chasing the echoes of music box lullabies
and morning beams of sunlight.
Epic cities were raised by imaginations
filled with colorful princes and princesses,
cops and robbers, dragons and knights.
We always knew who the villains were.
We reached for everything beyond our reach
until what we held in our hands was not
the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,
but a reckoning of dreams lost and left behind.
I write this poem with a lost intent
I know not where it will end
Truth be told I’m already astray
Just can’t seem to write a poem this way.
Unredeemed the words are not clear
I can not find a stanza anywhere
I Gaze out the window at the falling rain
In search for a stanza which I can claim
Like words at sea adrift in me
My stationary paper is so empty
Off course and obscured I can’t find my way
Not a single stanza have I written today
Perhaps I shall scrap this prompt today
Put it off for another day yea I say
Surly my thesaurus
Will show me the way
LITTLE LAMB
Not all little lambs breathe earth’s air,
finger blanket’s silk,
rock-a-bye with Grandma,
hold Daddy’s hand,
sleep with a sibling,
laugh with their poppa,
or lay against Momma’s breast.
They never know sadness or hunger,
failure or pain,
the loss of a loved one,
or fear of the dark.
Some breathe Heaven’s sweet scent, and nap
in the arms of the Lamb of God.
I write of my granddaughter Sophie often. Her momma (my sweet daughter Michaela) miscarried Christmas night. In the middle of the night, she and her husband wrapped the teensy, fully formed baby in tissue, placed him in a Christmas lantern, and buried him beside a rose bush in their garden. I can’t say I understand the hows and whys of a new and deeply wanted heart that was beating strong last week, suddenly halted late Christmas night. But this I know — God knows the baby’s name, and its life is in His hands.
Oh, Marie. I am so heartbroken, for all of you.
This could not be more beautiful.
You are loved and lifted up.
Thank you, De. And your fun word play made me smile this morning. <3
Dear Marie – to you and little Sophie and the whole family, my heart goes out. May that little lamb rest in peace in God’s arms.
I am so sorry. My prayers to you and your family, Marie.
Marie, this is beautiful. Praying for comfort and peace for you and the family.
Oh Marie – I certainly do not understand the “hows and whys” of this Christmas night for you, your daughter and the rest of the family. I want pretty words to come to comfort – but there are no pretty words – just a hug across this strangely intimate cyberspace world in which we walk all sorts of paths. Now, I offer you my shoulder to lean on, my arm to take, — tears form no words — your poem stands as the exquisite tribute. With all my love.
So very sorry, Marie. Your words are exquisitely tender and beautiful. I’m heartbroken and know that I hold you all in my prayers during this difficult time. Love you.
You are all so very compassionate and sweet. Thank you so much.
Prayers for you and your family Marie. Things like this are difficult to accept and impossible to understand. Love…
Thank you so much, Mike.
A Waltz with Bubbles
We waltz with bubbles –
Steps seemed to curl
and unfurl from our embrace,
and I long to feel you wobble
and pop, soft tints of pale
opalesque spasms, tightened
and stretched to a clench.
Ssssh. Stick me. Prick me.
Wake me; I am lost in your
pearls and bobbles to burst.
Spacious jewels insistent
on spin, dervishing swirls,
rapid beat our hearts that
spread thin into moonlight.
Ssssh. Move me. Sooth me.
Wake me; I am lost in your
bubbles that whisper
of waltzes on cool breezes,
Spherical enigma, be thee
my bubble. Rustled
round and plump by scented
luminescent soapy song.
Ssssh. Stick me. Prick me.
Move me. Sooth me.
Wake me; I am lost
and waltzing with bubbles.
Misk, this is so imaginative and delightful!!
Robert, very sorry to hear about your grandmother. Condolences to you and your family.
Yes. Your poem captures the sadness, chaos, love, and relief of this time for you. I don’t even want to think of the day coming when my own grown children will lose the grandparents they love SOOO deeply.
Hugs to you and yours, Robert.
My condolences as well, Robert…so sorry.
Memory
Are you kidding me?
No, it didn’t happen.
I would have some recognition
of things you are saying,
something would spark
inside me
letting me know it was real.
I am weary of this.
Day after day I face
this loss this enormous cavern
empty of things past.
I fear this nakedness
I feel when you know
so much more of my story than I.
In honor of Robert
Grandmothers
One red lipsticked and henna haired
High heels clicking on her way to this
or that friend’s final “bon voyage party”
We were on the way back so she’d stop,
expect and receive coffee and danish
served by my mother
as she prattled on about people
we had never met
laughing loud, leaving quickly
with only a trail of perfume and
dirty dishes to remind us she had been
when she finger waved and left -
I could never have imagined following
her into the car waiting at the curb
sitting beside her as she gaily
set off for another cemetery party
The other silver haired and hatted
Just a bit of powder from an immaculate
puff on her gleaming dresser
At her home all shoes stood inside the door
Her hat sat back in its box
Each bureau drawer arranged as carefully
as a department store display
Her velvet carpets bore not a single
footprint, welcoming the little girl
I was, to enter and after dinner to
wear a silken
slip as an evening gown twirling
before her long mirror to her high bed
in a sleepover tucked into her crisp sheeted
bed scented with cashmere bouquet
Both gone
vanished
as a laugh
or a soap bubble
song in the air
Like a dream
Lovely, Pearl. Just lovely.
“Vanished as a laugh” … reminded me of my own grandmother, memories of her thick pile carpets, the scent of powder and lavender. I hope to leave such warm and loving memories with my grandchildren, too.
A lovely piece of writing, Pearl. I also envisaged bubbles for my poem.
My Self
That hard bodied
Raven tossed hair
Unshakeable
Confident
Sexy kitten
Purring
A true legend mirrored
Shining in my
Own mind
Faded now
to misted memory
Facing clear mirrors
and a mind’s
myriad
naked realities
I LOVE this, Pearl!
Aw thank you Catherine
Add me to the “love this.” Bold, open, honest poetry. Bravo!
Thank you Marie … isn’t it the truth? lol
Lost Lovers …
I was going to write about
a man and a woman
who started as a
boy and a girl
in a green sunshined field
dotted with dandelions
until the night wind blew
rain pelted windows
hard and the image flew
softly
away
I like! I like the opposites in the first and second stanzas, as if the first were a dream chased away by the second, reality.
What a wonderful comment! Thank you Emma
Robert, deepest condolences for your loss, and many prayers for your family, especially over the holiday season.
.
Half Baked
Gonna write me a poem. Got
some verbs all lined up, strong and
fine as you please, got a sweet cool
breeze blowing through my nouns,
participles all dangling just right
from these trees. Geez, this just might
be the best poem I ever did write,
you’ll see. Hand me that article,
and we’ll get started. Time for some
prime poeming and word playing,
yep, that’s –
Wait, what was I saying? Oh,
look! Cookies! Yum!
Can I have some?
..
De, I was loving the words and play…then the cookies! I laughed out loud.
Brilliant.
Robert,
I am truly sorry for your loss of a grandmother. No matter how grown up we are, these things always hurt. Sorrow was interrupted by travel, Christmas, and life in general. Please be certain you allow yourself time to grieve.
I am a lighthouse
standing on a foundation of rock,
surrounded by ocean
and heavy, damp, grey fog
In need of paint and repair
I stand alone
in heat from the sun
in rain and wind.
Waves come with the never ending storm,
waves much taller than I
knock against me,
growing more furious through the hours
Hard-slapping waves
smack me like angry, open palms
working toward my destruction
breaking my glass.
Palms turn to fists
cracking the mortar between my bricks
beating me over and over
with the strength of a boxer.
My light is out.
I crumble, large chunks falling
until I tilt,
then fall silently
lost in the sea.
Oh, Emma. This is so vivid. Just gorgeous, and sad.
Stunningly visual, and deeply touching. Lighthouses should never be allowed to crumble from disuse.
Oh my goodness. This is a “wish I’d written.” Visually stunning; emotional piece, Emma.
Excellent imagery!
Yes this is a stunner Emma!!!