Monday, October 31, 2011
Write while moving.
Maybe you'll walk.
Maybe you'll dance, at home or somewhere people dance.
Maybe you'll swing in a swing, jog around the block, work out, or
maybe you'll move around the living room, stretching, reaching, rolling, as you hold paper in one hand and pen in the other, allowing words to come out of your moving body, moving as they wish to move, from a place that is opened by the body's motion.
Or maybe, you'll move the furniture, or move your home. This week, make moving your modus operandi.
keywords: moving, poem, your name
Friday, October 28, 2011
and carried as luggage
in through the side door,
passing though a kitchen’s promise
during a dream of loud kisses
waking late to a yellowing day,
that smells like Saint Louis
always will: Baba and Zeda,
furniture with a generation
of living, layers of boiled coffee,
and now fresh-made waffles
in the house’s heart,
sun coming in,
dining room going out,
pantry storing downstairs,
laundry chute behind the walls,
and in the window, something
that doesn’t have a name:
that frames the light
into a design
I’ve never seen before
or since, the sign
of make it nice,
hold fast, make due,
rain or snow,
catch this prism of
I love you
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
I know your loss has brought despair; but listen: you have friends who care
And wish to see you through this time of grimmest sorrow.
Grief’s dimmed your eyes and turned you thinnish, but love like yours won’t ever finish.
Recouping joy does not diminish—diminish, rob or even borrow—
From yesterday's passions that today have soured to sorrow.
You must start living for tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.
Finally, a l l l e t t e r s f l y o f f
Monday, October 17, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
For this week's prompt, try a thought experiment around creative writing and eating. You could
- Try drafting a poem while hungry, before you eat a meal.
- Try drafting a poem immediately after a satisfying meal
- Skip a meal and write a poem
- Try more than one of these and juxtapose the poems, or weave them together somehow.
labels: eating, poem, your name
Saturday, October 8, 2011
I’ve got so much blue light
for the rain to fall through
that my insides feel like they’re outside
& not quite right
naked sinew sinker tight.
I’ve got so little summer left to shine
through the fog
that my pores feel closed & tight
shut down unable to alight
bare bone finger bite.
I’ve got so much straw left to rot
in the fields
that each singular haystack
yellowy black motionless pile
of my skinless plight
has no sand on the beach
nude ligament empty fight.
I’ve got so many chickens on Main Street
that the commercial neighbors can complain.
But realize folks, I do not keep roosters & their straw is fresh & clean.
They’ll eat the organic restaurant scraps left by people on their plates
& my chickens will not keep the 9 to 5ers up late.
They close their eyes when the sun sets over Half Moon Bay
& awake plenty early to make your breakfast eggs.
Friday, October 7, 2011
I’ve so many
good wishes from
saved in my home,
you’d think to see
diamonds and plums
bowls in each room.
Bowls by Ari
fill with pennies
and small apples
from our own tree.
fill my temple.
My luck’s ample.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Adults always tried to peer into our heads,
tinker with what went on in there,
control our tongues. Only one of them ever could.
We had to see Him regularly. For our own good.
We went unwillingly, quivering in the car,
to a house that was more than a house
in a neighborhood nicer than ours.
The side entrance was guarded by a woman in white.
Surrounded by faded Highlights and expired Time,
we waited in despair, dreading our turn in that oversized chair.
The lobby stunk of formaldehyde and the tiny flecks of bone
that He scraped off people’s skulls.
First some stranger’s kid went in, then a trembling sibling.
They’d come out pale, shoulders tense, faces strangely drooping.
Most were silent as they emerged, which was less distressing
than the gas and gabble of those who spoke.
Mother made odd promises: milkshakes to the docile.
At home, we were too big for these childish bribes,
but here in His harsh light – eyes pressed shut, fingers twitching –
we clutched stuffed talismen no longer needed in the dark.
For parents desperate to decipher the content of crania,
X-rays were not enough.
He pried open our jaws and slid in a mirror,
then played a tune on the edge of our molars.
The shrill music of metal against mandible
echoed insanely from within our ears.
We cried out, but it did no good.
We cried out. It was for our own good.
And it was. They were right, of course.
We chew, true, to this day. We even learned to floss.
And, while He never did extract the truth,
no priest at confession ever came so close to our secrets.
Monday, October 3, 2011
they say the stars of all the constellations
when compressed onto the body
become the chinese medicine points and meridians.
so i walk with galaxies under my skin -
and i've already been told
dinosaurs in my brain and bridges between.
every construct and metaphor, ever leaf and twig,
snout and slime mold, cloud and fever
clings to the depth of my fibriles and forms.
i've got so much life in me, if i grin
the songs of creation leak out, a small
glamour of sculptor and reaper
whisps into flight on sound waves
of delight and dread. the same things
that bring us death make us whole.
the same things that make me whole will make me dead.
today, cedar boughs (my lungs) heavy with cones (breath),
the wind of what-has-made-me (the thrillion conversations,
with young deer and neighbor, magnolia and moth),
like a galactic zephyr, roll through my blood
and start me thrumming. a tuning fork
for stars unseen and seen, i start glowing and know
what brings us death will make me whole.
the same things that make me whole will make me dead.
which leads me to believe: this poem will never
October 3, 2011
Image credit - thanks to Anonymous and their free fractal desktop image
Sunday, October 2, 2011
|(C) 2002-2011 Michele Pred|
For this week's prompt,
complete the phrase
"I’ve got so much ____."
Make this the topic and/or the title of your poem.
Alternative 1: Start with the phrase, "I've got too much ____."
Alternative 2: Substitute many for much.
Tags: poem, muchness, [your handle]