Anti-Biotic

In my old age,

my luminous doom

transforms

into the bacterial helpers

of a digestive system

no longer attacked by antibiotics.

The dark skirts of my anti-angel

swish and menace only in memory

now transformed into polished

prose agates and newly-sprouted seeds.

A stone on the river bed

has traveled further,

but my monsoon days are returned,

scented with sweet rain and dust.

The white fire of the stars

greets my eyes new as eggs,

a childhood postponed

turns tinker toys into houses.

My luminous doom,

light as moths now,

sturdy as hand-worn tools,

vanished into something sharp

and piercing as winter sunlight.

Note: My birthday poem. My 30th poem this month! I've impressed myself, and that feels very cool!

Recommended Reading

I have read the skins of alders,

deciphered the scattered
Braille of lichen,the hieroglyphics
of insects long flown,

perused lost tracks of fungi
and their tendriled scouts.

sunk into the springy mats of mosses,

as secret as pubic hair.

Blots, stripes, splotches, spots,

no square inch the same as another,

yet all joined in one skin.

Reading, as rising to perch,

one noisy jay

chides my ignorance.

Can't write from the prompt today--only have a few minutes of internet access, so have pulled another from my knapsack and whittled away on it for awhile. I like this one!

To the Digital Historian who Filmed the Music Camp Full of Old Women

She sees--

she sees and she sees and she sees,

and makes it digital,

what a terrible word for love...

digital.

She sees and she sees, and she sees,

and suddenly

we see, we see and we see and we see,

and then we are more than we were,

suddenly we're all so human,

so human, and yet,

so beautiful,

how can we be human

and beautiful?

Because she sees

and she sees...

and we are, aren't we?

Note: today's prompt was to write about intuition. This poem was written to a loving photographer.

Dakota

Note: today's prompt was to write an acrostic poem, using a word or phrase as the first letters of each line of the poem. You can see mine in the title. This is not a good poem, but the best I can do today.

Dogs keep us human.

Any day of the month, they're kinder than we are.

Knowledge of time combined with a fine sense

of when to keep silence

tells me I have much to learn

about living and loving.

Oregon Sun

I wonder who uses the sun

when it has been taken

from the soggy shelves

of Oregon skies.

Is it left on a plateau

somewhere in the recesses

of the stratosphere?

Maybe some unruly student

left it lying open,

face-down and dogeared

where it is of no use to anyone?

Or perhaps it is on hold

for someone else at the library,

more likely a population of elses,

waiting damply in the murk.

Note: our prompt today was to resurrect a poem and edit it. I've done that here, an old poem from an old notebook. Still not quite satisfied with it, but it will do for now.

Homeless

Note: Today's prompt is First Things First. There was more, but this is my first things first.

I crouch on the cold edge

of the bright blue dumpster,

the same high school blue

that looked so good with the gold stripe

on the boys' football uniforms.

My boy, my prom night gift,

is solemn this October morning,

fingers entwined in the red plastic mesh

of our overflowing shopping cart,

half covered with muddy black plastic,

protecting a damp heap of charity clothes

and army surplus.

The alley's first shaft of sunlight

makes my cracked fingers look

as if I've just been fingerprinted.

A sleek brown rat dashes up

from the stinking metal box,

fearless, it scrabbles

across my knuckles and down

to the oily pavement, disappearing

into the sewer grate.

Teetering, I gasp, and my boy,

his lip adorned with a worm of green snot,

shoots his wide eyes up at me,

where I cling like an overgrown squirrel

on the rim of the container.

Still refusing to commit myself

to the slippery innards of the dumpster,

I reach one hand toward the tattered

foil packets that spill crumbled

remains of baked potatoes.

Breakfast, or maybe it is lunch time already,

I don't want to know.

I want the taste of the mealy potato,

and maybe the pleasure

of smooth butter on my tongue

before I continue my rounds for the day.

I almost duck down when I hear a car drive

into the alley, but my eyes flash to my boy,

who turns and touches his forehead

to the cold blue of the dumpster.

My unwilling eyes are drawn to the sheer boxy shape

of the squinting white movement.

Through the glass, and through the ghost

of my own image reflected on the windshield,

I meet the stare of my best friend from high school.

For one tiny moment,

as she glides by in her metal capsule,

I see a flash of brake lights,

before the vehicle lumbers

into the bank parking lot

around the corner.

Night Work

The beep, beep of backing

pours through the open window--

marbles pocking the panel of sleep--

while the rumble of machinery

drums in like the elephants' hajj.

"Night work", the sign said,

letters spelled out in puny full moons,

the dates from Independence

to the first school holiday,

winking, the joke on sleep.

Note: today's prompt was to find a phrase on Phrase Finder (http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/k.html) and write from that. I love that site, and this prompt, but today was nearly 12 hours of work, so I've pulled another from my knapsack.

Pelicans

Note: today's prompt was to combine a speaker and an event that don't ordinarily go together. I sure couldn't beat the example given http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2008/04/24, but this one is equally tongue-in-cheek...or is that fish in pouch?

They cruise the gleaming green glass

cases of the fishmonger,

the wares inside attractively displayed--

a fan of lace framing the silvery scales

of fresh fish still swimming.

It smells good here--a little briny, a dash

of iodine, salt, and ozone. None of that dead stuff

for these discerning shoppers.

It's just a little dive, really,

providing something to fill pouch and belly,

maybe some sushi to take home to the young'uns,

or to stop and eat on the fly.

Sometimes they settle down for a closer look,

perhaps complaining of long commutes,

or squawking about the diminished size of the catch,

about the curl that doesn't last,

or the friend whose belly couldn't.

A Day Past Full

That old cheddar moon

just a nibble short of a wheel

you waited a bit too long tonight

as we kayaked a slow, thirsty river

smooth as tile

so quiet we stopped talking

forgot to paddle

forgot to breathe

as the rusty calls of geese

echoed on the black water.

Note: Today's prompt gave us a choice of 12 lovely words to use in a poem. I used 'rust' from that list.

Doyle

He passes cans over the scanner,

one, two, three for a dollar.

A soft loaf to one side,

crackers pushed to the other.

Polite, quiet, a nice looking man,

his smooth dark hair brushed,

waist trim, the kind of man

who would look about this same age

when he's in his seventies.

He announces the total, a small smile,

not quite meeting my eye.

While he waits for my check writing,

does he think about how he will do it?

Sometimes he loses minutes imagining

how long it will be before his wife finds out,

what his kids will say at school,

whether it might hurt more than living.

The tiniest pause until he notices

I've finished writing.

A second more for the receipt to print

as he checks again the steps he'll take,

like a tongue poking a missing tooth.

"Thanks," he says, "would you like help out?"

More groceries on the conveyer,

who will find him?

One, two, three for a dollar,

Will it hurt?

"Plastic or paper?" he asks.

Note: Today's prompt was to write about perfectionism and/or flaws, and this is what came to me. This poem is based on an obituary and photo of a man I recognized from the grocery store. I didn't know him, but his death shocked me. Like so many deaths like this, I always wonder why.

Poseidon Adventure

When you went under,

I took a deep breath

determined to last

as long as you did.

I could dive to the bottom

of our murky lake,

fingers seeking the mossy

clams nestled in the silt.

When I stayed too long,

sparks flashed in my vision,

I'd swallow and fight the charm

of breathing in the green.

You, in your sturdy suit,

and me in mine, we in our sturdy

bodies, made for birth, farming,

and saving what needed it.

Our world loved Twiggy,

but we did the real work,

modestly dressed in shame,

insulated and alone.

Safe as kitchens, study as barns,

suited up, Shelley and I

held our breaths, and went about

saving this watery world.

Note: Today's prompt was to write about a hero. I chose this poem because Shelley Winters portrayed a heroic woman at a time when women, especially "sturdy" women, were not seen as heroes. I believe that most heroes are as ordinary as one can imagine, and that women in our culture are almost always heroes.

Over the Hill

Note: Today's prompt was to write a poem based in the French word eclater, which is interpreted as kind of a light bulb moment. This poem came from an artistic endeavor I participate in each year, called The She Project www.sheproject.com. This wonderful event provides a prompt to each participant, and participants have only 2 hours to prepare a piece of visual art in response to that prompt. Last year, my prompt was "she was over the hill". I must admit that I wasn't very happy about that prompt at first, and then I surprised myself with what came out of it, both as visual art and as a poem. I am suffering from too much work right now, so I have pulled a poem from my knapsack for today.

She was over the hill

and into the woods

where silence

took her pack

gave her peace

and bird song

She was over the hill

the longest hill

of forgiveness

of letting go

of letting be

of being

quite comfortably

over the hill

She was over the hill

and paces down

the other side

when she looked

and saw

everything

every

thing

she had ever

ever

ever

wanted

waiting

waiting

patient

with

bird song

Spring Promises

Note: Today's prompt was to write a poem about the cat family. Here is my offering, created while on a walk with my dogs.

Spring Promises

at bedtime, the open window

at midnight, the yowling tabbies

at dawn, chirps, caws, whistles

tonight, earplugs

Day's Night

The asphalt-black storm comes whistling

like a sailor on leave.

I wake to a sound like flocks of birds

salsa-dancing on the roof.

The rain comes to a boil in the street

while gutters vomit stone gray soup.

Crumpled leaves of last year's blackberries

hide sodden and ashamed behind the wood pile.

I pull out a yellow legal pad, bright as headlights,

uncap a pen with a pop like a tiny champagne bottle.

Nightcrawlers slink across the pavement

like pink and gray bird intestines.

In the sky, clouds like moldy cauliflower

are stitched with gold threads.

I stare at my reflection in the TV screen,

kitchen lights behind me, writing the bright world.

Note: Today's prompt was to write about an element, i.e., fire, earth, etc. This poem seemed elemental to me--we have earth, we have air, we have fire, we have water. I'm not sure this poem is finished yet-what do you think?

Jergens Lotion

I remember riding in the car,

dad driving, mom shotgun,

me in back, windows open,

hair blowing,

smelling Jergens lotion.

My mom had Jergens

at home, but I don't remember

ever smelling it there.

I remember dense green rows

of corn whizzing past,

the smell of Jergens lotion.

Brown stalks beheaded,

a snail crawl in the car

hunting for pheasants,

the scent of gun oil,

smelling Jergens lotion.

Drive-in theatre,

speaker hanging on the glass,

popcorn smells weaving

car doors slamming,

kids screaming,

the smell of Jergens lotion.

Maybe I didn't need any lotion

when I was a kid, I never had my own,

but I always knew

that when I grew up

to be a grown woman,

I'd use Jergens lotion.

Note: today's prompt was to write about a smell and a memory. I'm not done with this poem, but the day is nearly over, so I'll come back to this one.

Bugs

I love bugs!

Crawly bugs,

quickie bugs,

big bugs and small,

fuzzy bugs

and bald bugs,

I love them all!

I love to see their legs

all in a double row,

skittering, jittering,

they creepy, crawly go!

I love bugs!

Swarming bugs,

Martian bugs,

hidden under rocks,

nosy bugs,

lousy bugs,

bugs in my socks!

I love to see their spots,

so different for each one,

carapace and buggy eyes,

reflecting in the sun!

I love bugs!

Buzzing bugs,

humming bugs,

bad bugs that chew,

spotted bugs,

striped bugs,

purple bugs and blue!

Note: Today's prompt was (basically) to write a song. Here's one for the kid in all of us!

It Is Only Life and Death

(Note: Today's prompt was to write a Cleave poem. This is a form new to me, in which the poem can be read in any/all of 3 parts. The first column is a discrete poem, the second column is a discrete poem, and the whole is a third integrated poem. This was challenging! I've put the second column in bold so that it is easier to read all 3 poems. Usually, I think the lines would run together, but that doesn't work on this site.)

I wouldn't mind living at the cemetery,

it is almost always very quiet,

there's usually a beautiful view,

whenever you pause.

I wouldn't want to be dead there--

That seems too permanent somehow,

but living there would be

like being surrounded with love--

peaceful, full of life, really--

consider the careful chiseling of birth and death,

smell the newly-mown grass,

bright flowers freshly cut,

note the mementos fading in the sun,

the sky full or sometimes empty,

it feels good knowing there's still room for me

somewhere on this precious planet.

The Poetry Workshop

My brain freezes up

like a trick knee.

I read the prompts again,

muttering similes,

flat, uninspired,

lobotomized.

Five hundred dollars,

not including the room shared

with a woman who rises

at four a.m. and demands

silence at eight p.m.,

who sighs like a mattress

being whacked.

Two hundred miles in a bus

that stops every fourteen miles,

where yet another man

whose Right Guard ran out

along with his last wife,

embarks, guttering off the seats

like a badly thrown bowling ball.

The shaggy poet, one of the few

who actually files tax returns,

strews prompts like the pope

bestows blessings, while my brain

freezes up like a fifties Amana

on a humid day.

Note: today's prompt was to use a line of another poet's work to start a poem of your own. Eleven specific lines were provided, and the above poem may give you some idea of my reaction to them, not one of which appear above.

Bare-Breasted Women

They were eating cherries

in Barcelona

on the day my grandma died.

She left me her apricot tree,

a closet full of rag rugs,

and a black and white photo

of her with a palm tree

coming out of her head.

She promised me her Victrola,

but my mom's cousin

took it, and then somehow

another cousin bought it,

and the last I knew,

my mom's cousin's daughter

had it, and that was goodbye

RCA Victor for me.

In Sierra Leone,

they were still selling people,

at least that is what National Geographic

said, with a full color spread

of a market, and some bare-breasted

women, which were okay to look at

in National Geographic,

but not to see anywhere else.

I haven't eaten a decent apricot in decades,

not since we sold the place.

Now the trees I climbed are 40 feet tall,

and the rag rugs are reverting.

I don't know about Barcelona's cherries,

but the palm tree is still coming

out of Grandma's head, and bare-breasted

women are everywhere.

Note: today's prompt was to write a few nonsense sentences, like "The raindrops tap out a cry for help." Come up with a message and assign it to something unlikely. Revise and make a poem. I came up with the first line, and the rest just happened!

Choices

prom night proposal

my incredulous response--

the road less taken

Note: today's prompt was to write about a choice you didn't make. This one fit into a haiku.

The Spirit of Place Mats

The spirit of place mats,

left on the table,

day after day

meal upon meal....

the curry so hot

it dropped off the fork

into a pool of neon

yellow lava

the little rivulet of magenta

Syrah--a point too vehemently

made on election night

the splotch of cream cheese

from the New York bagels

Tom went out to get on the Sunday

morning the dog got loose,

and ran into the highway

grinning like an idiot,

the screech of brakes, panting,

the cursing driver,

hearts all beating

like rock and roll drums.

The dot of blue ink

from the morning Sudoku,

leached through the fragile

newsprint, the faulty pen,

the faulty logic--

given up after the indelible

error in the middle box.

The spirit of place mats

left on the table

day after day

meal upon meal,

slowly losing their memories

to washer, sunlight and rain.

Note: todays prompt was to write about a celebration. This is a poem about celebrating the quotidian, the commonplace, even the stains!

Fly Away Home

I wish I could be a bird--

no clothes to wash or iron,

my vehicle a fast flap

or a slow updraft.

I could grab fresh spawning sushi

in frightful talons, jam slippery

mouse livers into my gullet,

no cooking, no waste.

In winter, no frost or sooty chimney--

I'd fly my own airline

to watery lands where octopus

stow away, limp in warm salt.

I'd roost above campfires,

startle hikers with my passing shadow,

strum the winds with winged fringe,

a marionette of the spirits.

My music, the migrating geese,

long silences, and the pulse of surf.

Note: today's prompt was to choose 12 words from a list of about 24 (I used flap, winter, strum, octopus, marionette, jam, limp, campfire, startle, chimney, talon and fringe), include something that tastes terrible (liver), include something from a previous poem that didn't pan out (long silences and the pulse of surf), and include a sound that makes me happy (music, geese, silence and surf--okay, so I used 4!).

Why Didn't We Make It Darling?

you were so sweet
(sweet as a green lemon)

you acted so gentle
(gentle as a pressure washer)

we were so close
(close as the Ring Nebulae)

our time together was delightful
(delightful as a root canal)

our relationship was so healthy
(healthy as buttered croissants)

why didn't we make it, darling?

Note: today's prompt was to think of your current love, your current obsession or the one who got away. Now come up with five or more unusual metaphors for the object of your affection/obsession Choose your favorite of the bunch and write a poem celebrating (or trashing) your love

doggod

she snorts, she bows,
her eyes greet mine
she wags--
in exchange for food
she teaches

Note: today's prompt was to write a tanka about love. Tanka is a traditional Japanese form, similar in some ways to haiku. Tanka are always 5 lines.

The Scream

The boy in the University of Georgia t-shirt
has irises like you see in an Alfred Hitchcock movie--
the ones like dark half-moons setting
into rosy cheeks.

As far as I can see, he doesn't have any cavities
in his lower jaw, and his upper teeth will not need
the services of an orthodontist.

His posture reveals the possibility of a future
in the military, shoulders squared,
perhaps even slightly flexed.

He has a towel or sweater
in a lovely shade of butter yellow in his lap,
which nicely sets off his clipped, auburn hair.

His shirt has red writing outlined in black,
and is complemented by the gray upholstery
of the vehicle whose back seat he seems eager to vacate.

All this almost completely opposite the creature
whose head has entered the open window
in close proximity to the young man.

This, presumably 4-legged, animal
has large, buck teeth in its bottom jaw,
and it appears that the top teeth could use
a set of braces, not to mention a good cleaning.

The animal is not large, as it has had to lift
its head in order to insert it into the window.
The animal appears to be completely unclothed,
and will probably not have a future in the military.

The camera has distorted the image,
so that it is difficult to tell what this animal
might be, but the size and shape of the teeth
speak vegetarian to me.

Both animals, the boy and the ruminant,
seem to be singing together, one of those long,
extended notes so popular in opera.

An interesting photo, one that may come back
to haunt this young man in his manhood,
although I doubt very much the grazer will care,
or even receive a copy in the mail.



Note: today's prompt was to pick an image and write to that. I got this one from Google Images, by typing in the word "effluvia". This was the first one to come up. I've tried attaching the picture, but blogspot won't have any of that right now, so here is the URL: http://whiteoftheeye.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2007/03/5186web2-1.jpg. I hope I don't have to say that the above was written tongue-in-cheek...

The Bestselling Memoir

It is all true, of course.
Except the part about the kidnapping
which was only an exaggeration,
and actually could have happened
if I hadn't known we were only going
to Grandma's house.

It is all true, of course.
Except the part about the train wreck--
that was only added for suspense,
and besides, there was a train wreck
that year, wasn't there?
Maybe it is a metaphorical wreck...

It is all true, of course.
Except the part about the rape,
which is actually a part of the universal
female experience,
or at least the potential
female experience.

It is all true, of course.
Except the parts I embellished,
and the parts I left out
to protect the innocent,
or those who could easily be injured,
or those with damn good lawyers.

Note: Today's prompt was to get personal. Well, I didn't give my poem a name or personality exactly, but what could be more personal than memoir...right? Ha!

Hubbard Season

From up here,
the valley floor
resembles the warty skin
of those winter squash
that grow huge in the long autumns
of the Pacific Northwest.

The grass is beginning
to yellow now, the faint
parallel trails of plowed fields
still discernible,
yet blurred from rain
and distance.

Meyers Creek, not yet full
of its winter binge,
appears as a deep cleft
down the middle of the valley,
and its neighbors mirror
the fields harvested rows.

From here, I can see
where Uncle Henry's outhouse
burned down, a year ago
Halloween, thanks to a little help
from neighborhood ghosts.

I've walked these fields
more times than I can recall.
I can almost hear the crunch
of the dead and dying grasses and weeds.
The green of spurge, a chiaroscuro
of butterscotch and the scaly
clods of clay soil.

Down in the creekbed,
secret lives scurry
under the willows, leaving prints
no more permanent than the green
of the grass, and the ticking of minutes
spent on a high hill above the valley.


Note: this is what I saw in a poetry workshop, while looking closely at a 15-pound Hubbard Squash. It is submitted as day four of the RedWritePoetry celebration. Today's prompt--to bring the inside out or vice versa, seemed to fit this poem, since the skin of the squash sitting right in front of me became a view into a valley from a high peak.

What I'm Afraid Of

I wake
on the bathroom floor
pants around ankles
a bad smell
my dogs stand
in the doorway
wagging.

The New Politics

Any right wing pundit
can posit right wing policy,
turning radioactive waste piles
into rain water pipes,
publishing research work papers
on right wing porn.

We need a Revolutionary Workers Party
to promote a reduced workload program,
and a respectful workplace program,
for employees producing reliable wheel products
and roof wall panels.

I'm impressed by the Reconciliation Working Party
which publishes a regular white paper
on the Roman Warm Period,
which is uploaded to the Roman Web Place
and Rosamond's Web Page
using Repository Windows programs.

Best of all, the Refugee Working Party,
sponsored by the Rural Works Programme,
used recruitment and workforce planning
to improve the road to Wigan Pier,
install swings at Roger Williams Park,
and update Roberts Wrestling Page.

It takes a village, folks!

(Note: Day 2 of the ReadWritePoem celebration. Prompt was to go to AcronymAttic online and write a poem inspired by any of the RWP phrases. As you can see, I used quite a few of them!)

Seattle '73

Seattle, '73:
instead of rainy day blues,
it is 103.
I bake inside a cheap motel room
sans breeze and a/c,
as "Ain't Misbehavin" seeps
in through the slats of blinds
glinting in nickel-plated sunlight.

Piano jingle and teletype leads into the news--
the all Elvis news,
the newly-deceased Elvis news.

I surrender to memory:
his voice, like the inside of a windowless
padded room, stuffy, overheated,
slightly adenoidal.
His Brylcreem hair a topiary atop
a head full of boundary issues.
Girls screaming, throwing undies
rarely seen in his heyday.

Shocking to die old at his age.
My redemption?
Now I'm hotter than Elvis.

(Note: from a poetry prompt: take 5 titles at random from your iPod on shuffle. Mine were Seattle, Redemption, Rainy Day Blues, Surrender, Ain't Misbehavin')