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Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 252

Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

Before today’s prompt, be sure to check out this interview with me over at the Poets and Artists website, in which I’m asked 10 questions, including which poem I’d like read at my eulogy, the saddest poem I’ve ever read, what I’ll never write a poem about, and more. Click here to read the whole thing.

For today’s prompt, write a building poem. The poem could be about an actual building, such as the Sears…err…Willis Tower in Chicago or Fallingwater house in Pennsylvania. Or the poem could be about building something, such as a mashed potato replica of Devils Tower in Wyoming or a papier mache mask. If you can build another interpretation, go for it.

Here’s my attempt at a building poem:

“Blue Mountain”

Will starts with a wooden track and then another
before adding a wood block and then another.
The track rises and then rises even higher,
and Will calls it Blue Mountain, his train track on fire,
before pushing it down, the entire track destroyed,
because the fun is in the building for this boy.

*****

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Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. Today, he’s enjoying the beauty of snow in Georgia, while the roads are a complete mess (click here to see what a couple inches can do). Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

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About Robert Lee Brewer

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144 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 252

  1. ABOVE THE RUINS
    “Flying Fox,” Van Gogh, oil on canvas, Nuenen 1885

    Again and again he painted the old tower –
    what had been a church; its brick ruins nothing
    but gaps above gravestones; dark sky, bat-
    flight overhead as the only sign of life.
    Could this place give his brushstrokes wings?

    Dark clouds brooded over old bat-
    tle grounds, the graved church, his young life
    neither solace-art nor sermons; nothing
    illuminating like the peace-dove’s wings.
    On Sundays stood his father like the tower

    of God. A son’s meager canvas, nothing.
    Later, he’d come to paint flowers like wings
    of rose, iris, the light of his mother’s life,
    and, even brighter, sunflowers tower-
    ing over their plain vase. Wheatfields, bat-

    like crows foreshadowing a darker life.
    The Rhône, each reflected light like a tower
    but uncertain, wavering on water-wings.
    Above the graveyard, this live bat
    with its arms outstretched toward nothing

    but night. And yet, not dark these wings.
    Who could imagine amber-golden in a bat?
    as if it caught sunset. The tower
    is an absent void; a silent “no!” Nothing
    that sees through the dark to life.

    One day, no tower; nothing but this bat,
    stained-glass glow of life in its wings.

  2. Julieann says:

    Building Blocks

    See Dick run
    See Jane run
    Dick and Jane are reading
    Building blocks

    A to Z – 26 letters to
    Spell every word in the
    English language are a writer’s
    Building blocks

    One and one is two
    Two and two are four
    Simple basic math
    Building blocks

    3-Rs – necessary basics of
    Stories, history, science, theories
    Come together as fundamental
    Building blocks

  3. LexiFlint says:

    Road blocks, a poem by Lexi Flint
    Trying to move forward
    holding on to the past
    hopes
    and
    dreams
    yet unfulfilled.
    Road blocks
    in my mind
    in the form of
    guilt
    anxiety
    sin
    shame
    and
    fear
    stop the flow of creativity
    from my brain
    to my fingertips
    from my keyboard
    into your soul.

  4. lionetravail says:

    Building Blocks

    A and C and G and T,
    from C and H and O and N.
    With luck and electricity,
    we came from sludge, back when.

    Genes, genes, they’re good for the heart-
    silent, nucleic, the only game in town.
    Genes, genes, the blueprint of art,
    and each one a hand-me-down.

  5. PressOn says:

    GENIUS ENVY

    Sometimes,
    young architects
    studying with masters
    develop a large edifice
    complex.

  6. Cin5456 says:

    Mother

    I tried to build a life based upon
    the concept of not like her.
    What I got was more like her
    than I knew at the time.

    I did not know her childhood, but
    later I learned ours were identical.
    I only glimpsed her marriages
    through the eyes of a resentful child,
    but later acknowledged ours were identical.

    I vowed to avoid her pitfalls,
    her mistakes, her later years alone,
    but now I know we are identical
    in our choices and our outcomes.

    I tried to build a life.
    Instead, I duplicated hers.

  7. David says:

    Regretful Builder

    By David De Jong

    I once heard a tale of a middle aged man
    Who earned his living hammer in hand
    The homes he built were beautiful to view
    Each miter cut perfect, each column held true

    His mind was tired and his body torn
    As he worked for another, he felt forlorn
    He told his master, he just couldn’t go on
    Began to collect his tools, soon to be gone

    His master begged him, please just one more home
    Reluctantly he agreed to build just one
    Soon he regretted his changing of heart
    Dreamed of finishing before he could start

    His skill wasted, as he labored in furry
    Each board upon board assembled with hurry
    Some doors could not open, some doors could not close
    His craftsmanship neglected that’s what he chose

    The home was completed his task was done
    Brought the keys to the master feeling he’d won
    But he felt so foolish and started to weep
    When the master told him, it was his gift to keep

    Now as we labor, we build and we toil
    We’ll reap what we plant, as from the soil
    May we use our gifts as best as can be
    While our homes are built in eternity

  8. PressOn says:

    DOWNTOWN ROCHESTER? WHAT DOWNTOWN?

    I miss
    department stores
    and long lines of busses
    and all the buildings on Main Street’s
    broad bridge.

  9. james.ticknor says:

    House of Memories

    This house of memories, that I built myself by hand
    Out of my armories, a fortress built to withstand
    Love’s heart-taking assault, memories that are guarded
    Making it difficult, to fall in love if bombarded

    Waltzing on battlefields, break way past my defenses
    Sprinting past my minefields, giving yourself all chances
    To find your way to me, risking yourself to tear apart
    ‘Cause I am all you see, and all you want is my heart
    Memories in my blood, some to try to take my pride
    Not this time- no flood, I will not ever be allied
    To take anyone’s side

    I’m in this house of memories without one
    Of how I got here. How had all this begun?
    It might kill me. I wanted nothing if to be true
    I wanted nothing else. I wanted nothing else but you
    Come, come break me down and bring yourself around
    Come, come tear me down and try not to make a sound

    My house of memories they do not control me
    But I will not be the one this time, not the one to die
    My house of memories they do not control me
    But I will not be the one this time, not the one to cry
    My house of memories they do not control me
    Come on dear and fight your way to me.

  10. Teena Brueggemann says:

    I wrote this on the first anniversary of my fathers passing. I’m new to this though –

    A Single Grain of Sand

    The tide laps greedily at the shore,
    Then retreats and repeats to renew
    Stealing grains, those we love, and more –
    Leaving emptiness and sadness in lieu

    So like grains of sand on the beach,
    Into our lives, loved ones come and they go –
    Our hearts learn to yearn and to reach
    Then sadly realize that time is our foe

    We long for what time strips away –
    But the tide, never ending, keeps pace
    We dream of a long ago day,
    Ever nearing the end of our race

    Look forward! Some say that’s the key
    Over the years, the wounds will be healed
    Looking backward you will NEVER see,
    The new grains the waves have revealed

    Teena Brueggemann
    12/19/2013

  11. seingraham says:

    JESUS, JESUS

    When I was sweltering
    in southern Italy
    a friend sent me a song
    and the refrain
    “Jesus, Jesus
    can you tell me
    what it’s all about?”
    stayed with me.
    It built up all
    summer until I needed
    to hear that damned
    song almost every day
    and me agnostic
    but still,
    I had to hear those
    words…

  12. Margie Fuston says:

    Nesting

    Build me a nest
    out of the scrap of paper
    you first wrote your number on,
    the green thread from the sweater
    you gave me when I shivered,
    a stitch from the yellow sundress I wore
    the first time you called me beautiful,
    a square from the mismatched quilt
    we huddle under with popcorn on our laps,
    the strands of hair I leave on your pillow
    every morning,
    and I will call it home.

  13. lionetravail says:

    Deconstructing the Dazzle

    Bright, hard sunlight, spearing from a clear and wintry sky to glint softly in your hair
    Roy G. Biv, white as a ghost, coaxing flirty reds from your brown, like Diogenes
    Particles piercing nearly ninety three million miles to point out highlights
    Waves weaving back and forth, sines and signs of celestial regard
    Playful photons, energetic as children, teasing chromophores
    Unquantifiable quanta dancing among molecules
    Spin absent mass, dervish-whirl among atoms
    Gamma’ and proton’s sub-atomic billiards
    Radiation and up-down quarks
    Energy, and energy
    Me and you
    Us

    (PKP totally inspired me to try out a decrescendo go at an ‘unbuilding’ poem- thanks!)

  14. Anne says:

    Spires, columns, gables and gargoyles
    Flying buttresses, arches, too
    All enclosed in wallpaper coils
    Waiting to be layered on walls

  15. cmariee says:

    Traditions and routines emerge as
    Santa needs his cookies.
    Then, sunny days of friendship spark
    during kickball and candy necklaces.

    But wands are for a fairy
    And baby teeth begin to leave.
    Each life a brim of expectations
    Still only youth knows what is true.

    One’s nerves, one’s tears take shape at twelve
    Via braces, bangs, and clothes.
    Movie dates with popcorn fights
    and pizza… always pizza.

    Competition then sets in
    As we learn we are on our own
    And friends and family stand helplessly by
    Because we’d rather be bitter. We’d rather be alone.

    (Then music helps)
    The yelling sobs becoming a rhythm
    And laughter is the best result, the best defense.
    We find ourselves are not ourselves
    But each a shadow with a broken heart.

    And for the lucky we emerge
    Through ashes, we dust off the pain.
    We right our wrongs, accept our faults
    We find our friends have somehow, some…how remained.

    But survival’s not a victory
    It’s a pledge, a hope towards change;
    A way to look past so many tragedies
    No matter what the TV plays.

  16. NoBlock says:

    We laid the foundation
    You and I, strangers at the beginning
    We agreed on the blueprints
    Of which our life would be built
    Together we constructed the overbuilt walls
    Picking up pieces, adding to our crew
    With blood, sweat and tears we tirelessly continue
    Completing one phase at a time
    Occasionally admiring our work
    We build this thing together
    Unconcerned with what others will say or think
    It bonds you and I like cement to rebar
    Thank you my love for building this life with me

  17. elishevasmom says:

    How to Build a Poem

    I
    will now
    attempt to
    build a poem that
    shows exactly how to write a
    fib, always increasing the number of syllables
    in each line by adding together the number of those in the two preceding lines.
    Of course, if I were to choose to write a reverse fib,
    the result would be a poem
    that is top-heavy
    and ready
    to fall
    down.

    (c) Copyright 2014
    [ 1.30.14, a “build” poem for PA]

  18. JRSimmang says:

    CONCESSIONS OF A BLIND MAN

    We lost our father.
    As he laid in his smoke-filled coffin
    with hand-crafted nails,
    my mother hugged me close.

    My brother was still in wonder of death.
    He couldn’t figure out how dad could
    hold his breath for so long.
    He tried and passed out.
    At least he was quiet on the ride home.

    I learned how to cook eggs first.
    Then meatloaf,
    then pizza
    and fish
    and soups.

    I learned how to tie shoes,
    and drive,
    and drop off
    watery-eyed little men
    in little suits,
    and kiss goodbye,
    and be proud like a good father.

    I learned how to fight
    and slam doors,
    and drink too much,
    and rely on black coffee.

    I learned that my brother
    knew that I was always going
    to be older than him,
    and

    I suppose

    that meant I would
    always be wise…
    I learned what it meant to
    truly cry,
    and know that I would
    never live up to his
    greatest expectations.

    And as I sat back, wishing it all
    to go to hell,
    I remembered that,
    when I cradled his head
    in my lap
    and felt him fall asleep,
    we were both still children.

    -JR Simmang

  19. Michelle Hed says:

    Life

    Leaping, loving, living
    in your arms and out
    filling my lungs with life, with
    every step I take.

  20. writinglife16 says:

    “Castle Building.”

    We decided to build a castle.
    Yes, a castle.
    In the front yard.
    We got paper and crayons.
    Drew a picture of our castle.
    “We’re building a castle.”
    Granny laughed and Mama shook her head.
    Went outside and got started.
    We started digging.
    And digging and digging.
    Dragged the water hose to the front.
    We stopped to get lemonade.
    Granny laughed some more
    and Mama shook her head.
    We kept digging and using the water.
    We went to get more lemonade.
    Granny snorted and Mama screamed.
    “Why are you covered in mud?”
    We told her, every good castle has a moat.

  21. SKYSCRAPERS

    Two towers stood in graceful stance
    as inspiration at a glance
    to all who genuinely believed
    that anything could be achieved.

    By making aspirations real,
    these buildings made of stone and steel
    were beacons for the world to see
    the inner strength of our esprit.

    The engineering marvels born,
    to die one sunny, blue-skied morn,
    created dreams that touched the skies
    misunderstood by spiteful eyes.

    Those cowards, in a fit of pique,
    had wrongly judged our nation weak.
    The giants fell at quite a cost,
    but freedom never once was lost.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  22. Sanctuary

    I.
    Not a moment or twenty of them, not a single
    room or one of those heavy old buildings
    sloping against the sky and gulls.

    II.
    I could measure out the feeling,
    in the minutes before coffee, a first cup,
    but I am not a storyteller. And the other girls still sleep.

    III.
    Their somnolence velvets the air
    on the stairs and hangs like lights
    from my rafters. My little room, and the largeness of small moments:

    IV.
    Don’t hearts always break for the big ones,
    how they’re always found wanting?
    Graduation at the Cistern, a dance on some boat,
    grand kisses behind the flowerboxes,
    but our lips are always dry.
    I want nothing but small sips I’ll pantomime all day.

    V.
    Not difficult to know which I prefer:
    the beauty of morning and mug,
    routine over residue.

    VI.
    Coziness can mean more than carpe diem.
    Never just a moment, or a place.
    Only a small, reaching calm that could be joy.

  23. Sara McNulty says:

    Cabin at the Ocean

    I see a log cabin,
    sturdy, sitting on top
    of a hill, wildflowers
    poking up pink and yellow.
    You climb a sand dune
    leading from the sea to arrive
    at the front door. Knots
    of dark wood complement
    lighter shades, glowing
    in summer sun. Outside
    the cabin, a screened-in
    patio, equipped with rocking
    chairs, books, and lanterns
    in case a significant storm
    blows in. I see myself
    in this log cabin, gazing
    down at the blues
    of the ocean. These are
    the building blocks
    of my dream.

  24. priyajane says:

    Building
    Building is really about starting from wherever you are
    Once you have decided to inhale—-
    Chlorophyll will reach you
    Oxygen will nourish you
    Your nucleus will teach you
    Electrons will surround you
    Carbon will connect you-
    DNA will hound you
    Hydrogen will guide you
    And quarks will shine on you
    ‘Tis as fundamental as that—

  25. Bruce Niedt says:

    Hannah’s “Twitter poem” inspired me to try one myself:

    Hubris

    my words
    are taller
    than yours
    a tower of
    metaphors
    steel- frame
    syntax glints
    in the sun

    well
    at least
    when they
    crumble
    you’ll have
    farther
    to fall

  26. A Building Poem

    A skilled carpenter,
    thrilled to build
    a home that fulfilled
    his sweetheart’s dreams.
    He began building,
    totally yielding
    to her every whim.
    It became a tower
    of power reaching
    high to the sky.
    He finished with a sigh.
    Inside, he tried to reside
    but he was tied to his bride
    whom he could no longer abide
    so he left and she cried.
    There were too many rooms,
    then the fumes,
    the flames and the blames.
    The building’s gone now.
    Life resumes.
    A flower blooms.

  27. BUILDING GONE

    He still feels it through his boots –
    three stories standing
    after the rest of the building fell down.
    After earthquake – no stairway
    anymore. They’d hammered a hole
    into brick wall from the factory
    next door, for him to crawl
    behind his dog, searching for
    survivors. His boots shook with every
    aftershock through rubble.
    His dog disappeared under
    a hanging ceiling – chunks of concrete
    suspended on chickenwire –
    and came back with that look of
    “alive!” in her eyes. Years later
    he still keeps those boots,
    leather stiff as brick-wall; cement-
    dust worked into seams and laces.
    Not to wear, but to feel
    a quiver up through earth, through
    all the stories of a building
    no longer standing.

  28. PressOn says:

    WRECKAGE

    They’re tearing down the old ballpark.
    They’re tearing out the dugouts;
    they’re tearing up the playing field where
    there used to be ball games;
    they’re tearing out the bleacher seats, where
    there were rows and rows of white pine, and
    they’re tearing down the grandstand and all the memories where
    their parents and grandparents used to cheer
    there.
    They ought to be ashamed;
    they say they’ll build a sports complex somewhere else.
    They don’t seem to know about the soul of the land.
    They need to be forgiven, for
    they don’t know what they’re doing out
    there.

  29. JWLaviguer says:

    Building

    Anticipation
    and excitement
    are one and the same
    she can wait no longer
    heart pounding in her chest
    as he holds her hands in his
    pressing her against the wall
    she turns her head
    exposing her throat to him
    he leans close and breathes her in
    their hearts beat in rhythm
    as he tastes her skin
    she pulls him closer and whimpers
    too long has it been
    building

    JW Laviguer

  30. At first, I thought you were talking about the “will” of a person….then it turned out to be a little boy. I’m not sure if you meant it that way, but I loved it. Quite playful!

    And here’s my interpretation…

    a million steps
    across the room
    twenty bottles
    of water
    watching the clock
    watching the door
    a few minutes more

    a thousand scenarios
    in my head
    lines I’m not sure
    will knock ‘em dead

    heart beating to
    the rhythm
    of my steps
    carpet stained
    by coffee spilled
    by hands that
    won’t rest

    and i talk
    some more
    to myself
    building confidence
    convincing the ego
    to go, go, go
    for
    i
    am
    the
    best

  31. De Jackson says:

    Less Structured Castles

    Hold her
    when the wind
    blows and the pull of blue
    is loud and strong and
    full of liquid truth.

    Spin her
    a web of silken song,
    play its strands
    for a lonely moon
    waiting.

    Ask her
    why she wakes
    at 3am to the
    thump
    of her own heart.

    Give her
    some quiet place
    to start a tiny
    garden, watch
    hope bloom.

    Bid her
    room to breathe
    and leave her
    to her ink.

    Take
    her hand, some sea
    and salt and sand
    and build her a tower;
    babble something into her ear
    that she might actually long
    to keep.

  32. Hannah says:

    I wrote my first twitter poem of 140 characters…it was a challenge. ;)

    http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2014/01/29/building-a-universe/

    Thank you, Robert…excellent interview!!

  33. PKP says:

    Wedding Night

    Oh!
    she said
    close he leaned
    eyes gleaming over her
    heart pounding pulsing through-out
    heat steaming the room walls whirling
    faster, dizzying, rising, filling-feeling ere unknown
    waves suspended about to crash in maddening crescendo

    or

    Wedding Night – In Reverse

    waves suspended about to crash in maddening crescendo
    faster, dizzying, rising, filling-feeling ere unknown
    heat steaming the room walls whirling
    heart pounding pulsing through-out
    eyes gleaming over her
    close he leaned
    she said
    Oh!

  34. lionetravail says:

    The Most Terrible Poverty

    It began innocently enough, I suppose:
    good fences, after all, are supposed to make good neighbors.
    But what keeps “outside” out also keeps “inside” in,
    and awful, silent loneliness can oppress as the loudest din.

    If he who is without sin is to cast the first stone,
    why are those who lack compassion the first to cast it?
    No matter-
    enough to say it was cast,
    because someone seems to always be ready to cast that first stone.

    Would it surprise you that
    he at whom it was cast picked it up
    and pondered its weight,
    its size,
    its obdurate purpose
    and set it in front of him as a tiny piece of shelter?

    Day by day, decade by decade,
    many stones were cast.
    Each was pondered and then placed on top, or to the side,
    of the one before it.
    In time, mighty castles might have envied such a wall,
    could they but experience emotions as strongly as its builder.

    Eventually, the wall was high enough that nothing cast could penetrate,
    and only the gentle patter of stones hitting it was audible,
    and this was easily ignored.

    It was safe behind this awesome wall.
    No harm could breach it to touch he at its heart.
    But neither could the warmth of sunlight, nor
    the caress of a summer breeze, nor
    the voices of those who might have cared about him.

    One day, he realized just how alone he was-
    secure in his protection,
    suddenly insecure in his solitude,
    behind the wall made of the slung stones of his outrageously unfair fortune.

    Only then, at the end, he understood:
    To be unassailable, one must be unapproachable.
    To be unapproachable, one must be apart.
    To be apart is to be alone.

    And loneliness can kill.

  35. Jane Shlensky says:

    Upright

    From flat of his back,
    he curls into a sit
    and concentrates on
    tipping to his knees.

    It’s right
    that he should kneel,
    should crawl,
    until his feet
    are under him.

    It takes some skill
    to flatten soles
    against a floor
    and balance them.
    He clings to rails
    to chairs, to hopes.

    He lately won’t accept
    my hands, but scopes
    the room for verticals,
    his jaw squared off
    like it’s a fight,
    like I made gravity
    a blight.

    I stay the course
    applauding, glad
    he’s strong and independent,
    free;
    he’s building skills
    that help him walk,
    to send him soon
    away from me.

    • PressOn says:

      I imagine this could refer to a child or an injured adult. I don’t think it matters; the image is strong in either case, and the ending could be ominous or inevitable, depending on how the reader reads. I’m especially drawn to your line, “like I made gravity / a blight..” Nice job.

  36. Luis Enrique says:

    About the thing

    It happened
    It was a May heat
    That did it?
    Trips back, forth
    Got foot to move, then fingers
    Mind’s are pretty things

    also published @ http://wp.me/p2CQD-cE

  37. laurie kolp says:

    Unanswered Questions

    one reason at a time
    I build my case,
    question why
    winter kills

    but the answer
    remains a mystery–
    you don’t deserve
    this wanting season.

  38. bclay says:

    “The great peril of our existence lies in the
    fact that our diet consists entirely of souls.”

    Hunting the “Illusaq”

    The animal skins are howling
    stretched over sleds of their bones,
    so cold we have to stop often to break
    away the snow covering the eyes of our dogs.

    Winter came too early chasing
    away the caribou weeks before they
    normally dissapear herding calves south,
    we have lost their tracks and dung for our fires

    Another three long days he said,
    the shaman talked to the ancestors
    last night they were so bright in the sky,
    were joyous we are returning to sacred waters.

    There is only food for seven days,
    and the wolves are one nights behind.
    and when we arrive we will have to hunt the
    “Illusaq”, cuting him into the pieces for our homes.

  39. priyajane says:

    Building Again

    I duct taped my broken heart
    Moistened it with tears
    Sprinkled some salt
    And sealed it in dirt
    Sun warmed it up
    With air and care
    The moon and stars
    Then built a stair
    New dreams they blew
    Some seedlings threw
    And breath by breath
    A garden grew!!—-

  40. annell says:

    He Was a Building Man
    My studio
    Like a love letter
    Began with a
    Few scratches
    On a piece of
    Blue paper
    Ideas took form

    A contractor was found
    Someone mentioned
    A man named Glen
    I called
    He told me about his dog
    Where he was from
    How much he loved
    His wife
    I knew he would
    Understand
    He could do this job

    The crew arrived
    A band of willing
    Young men
    Strong and skilled
    Poured the foundation
    Began to stack the
    Adobe bricks
    Made by hand
    Dried in the sun

    At last he said
    You may come in
    A sacred space
    A place of my own
    Created by a
    Man named Glen
    Who’s gone now
    But not forgotten

    In gratitude
    I think of him still
    Building the studio
    Where I spend my days
    Thanks to a man
    Named Glen

  41. PressOn says:

    Robert, I read your interview and Laurie’s, and enjoyed them both. Given how accomplished you both are, it always surprises me a little to learn that you began with some feelings of doubt, or at least, trepidation when starting out. I guess it’s the same for everybody, but I tend to forget that.

  42. PressOn says:

    ENDURANCE

    Of little things is grandeur built:
    nothing fancy, nothing gilt,
    but nonetheless, what’s great persists
    forevermore, and will not wilt.

    Mighty castles fade to mists;
    Gibraltar someday will be schists,
    but love, eternal to the hilt,
    will still be grand when Venus lists.

  43. Nancy Posey says:

    Nesting

    Not the cuckoo bird alone will steal
    the nest of other birds, laying eggs
    cunningly camouflaged, nature’s magic.
    Other birds discover snug, safe nests.
    Screech owls, barn swallows, bluebirds
    move into homes hammered into trees
    then left by woodpeckers. A solitary
    sandpiper will raise its brood in nests
    abandoned by a thrush or blackbird.

    I too was quite content, moving all
    I owned into cozy spaces inhabited
    still by the lingering ghosts of lives
    lived before me. Someone else hung
    the coat hooks, chose the chimes
    for the doorbell’s song. In attics,
    I find remnants so inconsequential
    to others they were left behind,
    overlooked or quite ignored, no use
    to me: a hat still aromatic, the scent
    of Aqua Velva one I remember well,
    keys to cars now rusting in fields,
    newspapers, crackling into dust.

    Now, though, I visit the site each day,
    appraising the progress, the skeleton
    of the house emerging, handiwork
    of carpenters, hammer, level, nails.
    Walking through rooms’ invisible
    walls, I recite like a liturgy, This
    is the living room, the fireplace there,
    the door opening out to the hall.
    There will hang the stairs, leading
    to the rooms where we’ll dream
    in spaces not occupied by other
    souls, flown South so long ago.

  44. laurie kolp says:

    Hey, Robert. I’m interviewed at PoetsArtists, too… and I mention you and Poetic Asides… http://www.poetsandartists.com/laurie-kolp/

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