a student drawing — my photo
I wish I had a tree house –
Glister twister smister
Open close shut
Even steven cretin
Box train car
Live dive rive
Crave shave cream
Sing stream listen
Over up down
Winder slender slander
Brush smush lush
Down over under
Six ways ‘round
Time slime chime
Nothing roughing sloughing
Felon felonious felony
– I’d climb up to sit in a quiet corner
and sing all the songs I could think of.
I ran across this list of interesting triplets in some old writing and thought I’d put it to good use by adding a bit of a frame.
Though I’m no Frida Kahlo,
against my better judgment,
I invoked my Diego
one August Friday night at eleven forty-three.
On Saturday morning I spent two hours of my life
standing in a sweaty, chatty line to change
my cable service to digital.
Suddenly you were before me –
Eddie, Charlie, David, Garrett, Armando, Jeff, Joe, etc. –
in the guise of one man, a bassist in the band.
I was next in line to update my cable service,
and you wanted to engage me?
I turned and stepped forward
to fill out the requisite forms as
a horned toad ran
over the toe of my shoe,
each step a rumbling thunder
across the desert sky
harbinger of death.
In the afternoon of Sunday
Will Smith got jiggy wid
some aliens on my newly
digitized television service
HBO? Or was it Cinemax?
And I couldn’t help but wonder
if my reaction to your visage
was silvered adequately in bullets of
boredom and disinterest to
keep you at bay.
Werewolf with a beat.
To know where some of this comes from you’ll have to check out the semi-structure provided by today’s NaPoWriMo prompt here. From where I sit, this is a remarkably, terrifyingly revealing poem. Read from it what you will. This was a toughie. ~LD
my very own sylvester scared-y cat
At the crack of a car door closing
I’m off – no cars belong here –
I slink along the wall
that curves into my blue cavern
where there are places to hide
and I know I’m safe
From my perch I hear strange voices
Laughing, talking, singing.
I watch shadows move,
twisted and grotesque,
bent as they are against
cold, white squares of floor
The dusky scent of smoke
invading my space
and rousing me, tempting me
the red smell of flesh
forcing me from the edge of the bed
to the edge of danger and possibly snacks.
The river rushes between steep banks
Of pebble and mud, without a word of thanks
to the hips of the bridge that spans its width,
A single step over the joist, and she is over the water’s flanks.
The joists are solid under the flooring beneath her feet,
Though the wooden struts strain and moan in windy sleet,
what’s behind grows dim in the veil of ice
each step only forward, toward the voice of a future she’s yet to meet.
I talk to myself in both languages.
The musky, chile flavor of Spanish
Seems simple of sound
But, de repente, estoy enchilada
With the unexpected heat
Of words that never
appeared on a vocabulary test.
Hablo sola en los dos idiomas
The milky sweet scent of my native English
– with its nearly inexplicable vowels –
fills all the corners of my home
from the folds of the curtains to
the creases of clothes in the closet
y ni modo I must live with it, living without.
The silky, smooth, liso Spanish
runs comfortably, if not easily,
under my fingertips and over my tongue,
and the seersucker texture of English
me sale facil, if not comfortably
over my tongue and under my fingertips.
Asi que, if I must talk to myself,
Que sea en los dos idiomas
Para que the day tastes
and suene completo.
If I could open on the sunrise
bathing the mountain silhouette,
I’d be mahogany auburn, embracing allies.
If I could open on the sunset
Behind the city skyline
I’d be oak, singing a golden evening duet
But I’ve not the rich man’s spine,
just a middle class stiff.
Though plain, I’m sturdy white pine.
If you will paint me a colorful whiff
for those who knock in flood or drought,
I’ll never do less than if
I were a wealthy man’s door, facing south.
A much better incarnation of the idea from a few days ago. =)
Drizzling temptingly up from the east
you rise in traditional silver,
while an ocean of desert wind sloshes
against the house,
splashing windows and dashing doors.
A mere reflection of light,
you tease men into strange beliefs –
offense to the brain, lycanthrope, end of days,
or mere bad luck –
you hold no such sway over me.
But then, here I am,
ninety degree neck
waiting to pass – tiniest of shadows –
between you and the source
we all look to as life.
And still you drip, tantalizingly slow –
night gradient black-to-silver velvet behind you –
and I wait to see your perfect shine
tarnish away to coppery
I’m no viking, but I saw a couple of potential kennings here — but it could be wishful thinking. Happy moon watching one and all!
the evident passions
beneath your wings
under your hooves
and between your claws.
Familiar forms tacked together,
you belie the dreams
from which you emerge
sweaty and damp
with frightened rage
and joyous wonder.
Colored in shades that shout
Of sun, heat, and sun again
you fade briefly
only to rise again
on the strength of
Home is a place
with a solid wood door
– painted purple or maybe dark green –
that opens into a space
adequate for those who
seek love and peace.
Home is a place
with a kitchen window
inhabited by colorful bottles
and hanging strings of broken glass
throwing playful rainbows
over and into every dish.
Home is a place
where sunflowers and marigolds
thrive and grow, alongside
the aloe and herbs.
A lime tree tosses its shade
by the barbecue.
Home is a place
of haven and quiet joy
that is sometimes loud
in the growing strength
and building waves
of vital energy.
meh. I’ll try again tomorrow. ‘-)
The bow was shaped in a rush,
But there was time
to cure a bit of sinew for the string,
test the weight against youthful biceps,
and the aim of ancient eyes.
The fletching slightly skewed from hurry,
still she’s flown far, the little unexpected arrow,
and swift like the wind
under the sparrow’s wing.
Though the quick, green bow dried and broke,
Life’s longing lights her path
as it lengthens.
I wrote the title for this about two years ago and have been thinking on it ever since. I like the result, though the alliteration in the last stanza may be too heavy for the rest of the poem. I used Kahlil Gibran’s “On Children” from _The Prophet_ for inspiration. You can find it here, if you’re interested.
P.S. Thanks for all the reads, visits, views and comments! I can’t believe I’m up to 129 follows! ~LD