Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Poem in progress - All Daughters Go to Poseidon

The sky is a stupid mute without
the gnatting of her cessna engines.

Waves break.
Pebbles clack and clamber
along the shore,
filling the space
where we can no longer
talk to each other 
and sprinkling salt in the tea.



Posted for my August prompt at Real Toads.  I asked the toads to post a poem they haven't finished and solicit specific feedback from the garden.

I have been working on this one for a while, and it is still half baked.  The title "all daughter's go to Poseidon" is non negotiable, but the concept here is that the narrator is a hermit, living in a light house during a cataclysmic world ending event.  The hermit is waiting for someone to return, someone who took off for help in a tiny plane years ago.  

I am looking for some ideas on where to start the poem.  I don't think my beginning is the proper start.  However, I do think with the right "in"  this sucker will write itself out real quick.  So, now that you know the background story, thoughts on the best place to start?  thanks in advance for any help!!!!

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Because the engine was cold


Semi-conscious but
extricated
from the system
where man discovered
the thawing process can be dangerous


This is my first crack at an erasure poem for today's out of standard prompt, where I asked the real toads to cobble together a poem from their local news source, using the erasure method.  Below is the text of the article I selected


DULUTH, Minn. - A man is in critical condition after his car plunged off a cliff in Duluth Tuesday morning.
The Duluth Fire Department responded to reports of an accident just after 7a.m. on the 8700 block of Congdon Blvd after the car careened over a guardrail. When the arrived on the scene they found the vehicle had plunged approximately 50 - 75 feet, landing on the beach next to Lake Superior.
First responders say the male driver, the only person in the car, was semi-conscious but very cold.
The car was cold to the touch, indicating the vehicle had been there for some time. The temperature at the time of the rescue was -13 degrees.
Crews extricated the victim from the car and lifted him up the cliff with a rope system to a roadside ambulance. He was taken to St. Luke's Hospital, where the man is reported in critical condition.
Ken Greshowak discovered the accident Tuesday because it wasn't far from his home. Greshowak says he didn't know how long the victim had been in the crashed car, but suspected it had been several hours because the engine was cold.
Greshowak tells WDIO-TV the driver was wearing only a T-shirt, so he wrapped his coat around him and reassured him that help was on the way.
Fire officials say hypothermia starts to set in when your body reaches 95 degrees or lower.
When rescue officials respond to a scene involving a hypothermic victim, they assess the victim's body very carefully before doing anything else.
"We actually tend to leave them cold if they are moderately or severely hypothermic because the thawing process can be dangerous. Our biggest effort is not to move them until we have to, or we move them very gently," said Captain John Wisneski of the Duluth Fire Department.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Hill folk




Every tree on this hill
is a hanging tree,
no matter how much
slag they drop in the spring.
At night, the echoes of screaming
and hymnals can be heard
until sunrise,
when the cold fog
wraps itself to the dirty ground.

Come noon,
the fog lifts and is replaced
by smoke, far off and always near:
smoke from the chimneys of houses,
smoke from the mine,
smoke from some bonfire
deep in the hills-
carrying the scent of chemicals
and carbon-
too pungent to ignore
too thick to wash from the bed clothes.

Written for my out of standard prompt at real toads.  I asked the garden to conjure forth a poem about a place they have never been, nor would ever want to go.  When we talk to travel and escapades, we tend to romanticize them.  This was attempt to get some dialogue on the reverse.  Personally, I have always been a little unnerved by hilly places and hill people...namely places like deepest Kentucky, or West Virginia.  While I consider this one to be a work in progress, it sits whole for now.  

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Document of Discussion (13)


I wait until the other's leave
and then tell Barkeep Dave,
"It is now tomorrow. And it is my birthday."

"Happy Birthday," he chirps obligatorily.

In a whisper, I say to him,
"I have the same birthday
as Joan of Arc."

He nods.

I continue,
"I suspect that someday,
I too will catch on fire."

He looks worried.

"It's a metaphorical fire, of course,"
I drunkenly stammer.

He looks relieved.

I always forget
to explain
that the fire
is metaphorical.


As I celebrate my birthday, I realized I had failed to document this particular discussion which occurred a few years back.  Thought I would post...for me and no one else really.   The video clip is the best song (IMHO) of 2013.  Vival la

Thursday, January 2, 2014

(feel good) ghosts

image copyrighted, Isadora Gruye photography.






It lives in the cobwebs,
clinging to delicate tendrils
you can only see in harsh light.
It licks the spiders
and radiator steam
from your walls, 
and does not bother 
with the stray crumbs of brie
in between the floor boards.

It wants to shake your hand,
draw you a picture
and use your kleenex.
In the wee hours
when you wake too early
and forget to make coffee,
it shakes its head
and buries itself deep
under your down comforter.

It thinks 
you are a terrible ghost,
rising to alarm bells
of your own design. 

Written (a wee bit late) for Kerry's new year's prompt.  Our poems were to be about resolutions, and could be abstract.  that is what I opted for here......

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Damascus, I'm Yours


ash-Sham,
once those camera men leave,
you and me are gonna
sit on the street curb
and drink shitty beer
until the call to prayer
puts us to sleep.

Worry not over your stray cats,
your body bags,
or the sarin stains
along the hem of your skirt.
Our wagging atropine tongues,
our twitching fingers,
and our runny noses 
will not be stilled by
organophosphates alone. 


Image courtesy of Kathryn Dyche Dechairo, title unknown. 

This was written in response to the Real Toads Sunday challenge.  We were introduced to the artwork of Kathryn Dyche Dechairo and asked to use one of her pieces to inspire a poem.  This one had been festering for some time, and I had been hemming and hawing about writing it out in full.  When I saw Kathryn's piece of work of the hand, it acted as a catalyst, bringing forth the poem.  So thanks, Kathryn.  Oh also, goes without saying the poem is a work in progress, but y'all basically get what it's about right?  Viva la

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

The Penultimate Omelette (and the myth of rush hour)




Oh, he’ll see everything.
He’ll see the big board
with numbers scrawled out
by men with thick thumbs
stained ruddy pink
and at the very bottom
spelled out in glitter
and popsicle sticks,
the last dirty limerick
Ralph Waldo Emerson
ever wrote.

Oh, and he’ll have everything.
He’ll have the penultimate omelette
slapped together
by a line cook who 
pluralizes bacon.
He’ll have his breakfast
in the park
to show those pigeons
once and for all
that hollandaise sauce
is just egg gravy. 


Written for Out of Standard with Izy.  I asked the toads to share with us their favorite movie line and then write a poem using that dialogue with out referencing the movie or the character who said it.  

My favorite movie line comes from one of my top five favorite movies Dr. Strangelove.  "He'll see everything.  He'll see the big board!"  is uttered by a flummoxed George C. Scott when a Russian ambassador is allowed into the President of the USA's war room.  This movie contains many of my favorite movie lines of all time, including, "Gentlemen, there is no fighting in the war room."  And of course the very famous last line shouted by Peter Sellers, "Mein Fuhrer, I can walk!".

For this poem I evoked a concept I have been toying with for a while, the penultimate omelette, and the sort of character who gets to eat it.  That's right, most of my poetry is inspired by my intense hatred/ fascination of eggs.  Enjoy, my muddy buddies!