Broadway Kearney Trochee

Crystal Hot Sauce

Urban Curry

Bloody Mary

Hunan

            Cuisine

Happy Donut

Public Parking

Little Szechuan

Open

            For Lease

Garden of Eden

North Beach Movie

Dancers Discount

Secret

            Boutique

"North Beach Film Shoot," by Matt Jones

hyperpresent

Words open into libraries.
My cognition leaps easily.
How do fingertips apprehend
this instant fractal teleport?

IMUNURI Prompt: ON EDGE

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/weird-news/daredevil-performs-cliff-edge-handstand-2468736

Cusp
Edge
Limen

Sit on the edge of your seat or stand between rooms in the doorway. Write a poem.

Or write something edgy.
A goes-between.

Or invent a form on edge.

In permaculture, the edge is where things mingle: new admixtures or amalgamations. Greater diversity brings greater resilience.


Prompt words: on edge, poem, moniker

"Yosemite On Edge" - Wikimedia Commons

holding the cup and sensing its future breaking, a time fractal of holding and love in three parts that is also infinity and also nothing/the initiating perturbation from the quantum plenum

0 (which is also a infinity and nothing, the pearl of possibility breaking open from the quantum plenum)
imagine this is in the middle and everything comes out from here the decentered/center. there is a call for an article about love but that just gives me a mental hiccup

a mental hiccup spiral ing out from there a mental hiccup starting again there is no love in all those words could there be, an academic article about love? there could be no love, could there, in things where i have to cite others to have a thought- what if instead each citation were a mycelial tendril? what if i were touching, grooming, photophilically tenderly mycelially like a mycorrhizal networkly reaching out and praising through who i was whoing? i feel quelled by the need to get a job, by how i might be inspected online and found too weird creative or wanting -- that is the danger with names, with wanting to be transparent but really being broken shards of broken cups that can't carry water anymore

i can sense the future breaking of this ceramic (temporary wholeness) in my hand, in this way i am also touching the big bang and also nuclear fission/fusion i always get confused which one, wait should i look that up on wikipedia or keep typing? if this is the igniting wick of a word explosion, i should continue making smoke, burning up my body in the transmutation to prayers. somehow it all blows to nothing, to cosmic grit, to the the dark, immersive, generous 97% dark energy of all creation, the gentle, sweet, generative depths from which all arises and returns - but wait, i can't s/end this in a tidy way, the great making and the great unmaking are already simultaneously arising, erasing each other, just as the leaves here are curling and coiling in on themselves, sucking back their chloroplasts chlorophyll, that's what autumn really is: not green. what's left over when the life coils back into the mother trunk; this is not really fractal enough but me thinking that makes it more so, where will we end // end/begin // begin? just as the initial perturbation in the complex multiverse flex and fold-sing-being. let me be a bee traveling in space-time, on the currents of galactic wind and pollinate constellations to form a kind of dark energy honey in the hives of all creation, just so, at the zero point, returning to the end to rill out again, a flower flexi-folding, in bursts of unspeakable color before words and after, just so, just so, just so BURST

Fractal self

Scent of Orange

since…sun/set

call to prayer fade out

on shores south of here

old ring in my ear left behind…

seated back on chair in Crete

silent cup before me

night/time

feet still…in sandals

lantern now to light

speech less

color gone grays

ahh…somehow

orange blossom scent carried here

 (though no breeze)

ENVELOPED

 in orange blossom scent carried here

 (though no breeze)

held in air

nostrils sway for more

tongue tastes 

last sun/set’s orange

light gone to fragrance

ahh…somehow

orange blossom scent carried here…

Tai-chi Haiku

Palm on puma head

Hold self in mirror image

Step out into world

IMUNURI Prompt: The infinite coastline

Fractal edges are infinitely expanding, minutely detailed: watch this video on the infinite coastline.

http://www.abc.net.au/catalyst/stories/3697842.htm

Write a fractal poem. Delve in and find the expanding poem within one fragment of a poem. Sense or form the iterating shape echoing across scales.

tags: poet's moniker, poem, infinite-coastline

Museum list poem

List poem found on museum wall simultaneous to Daniel posting prompt for listpoem. From Asian Art Museum show "Gorgeous"

My Mountain List

Summit 

dragon flies 

raccoon with young’ un at drinking fountain

Juniper Trail 

breeze

no water campsite

drought ended spring

fly buzz louder than ears ringing

oak scent

Wind Rock Caves

graffiti

names gone by

dates passed up

parched couple

guy asks me

“Come to carve your name?”

the rains come

i will
come back
to myself

    iguana
    skylark
    ichthyosaur

after years
of grieving

    cloudbank
    green sap rising
    granite butte



i need a river or pond
to see myself
says the cloud
so finally

she opens

to make mirror



the rains come

IMUNURI Prompt: List Poem

Write a list poem.

Art by Lauren Ari

List or catalog poem are simply that: poems formatted as a list. The form is quite open-ended and could be a numbered sequence, an ordering of events, an arbitrary string of images, or a series of parallel or un-parallel entries.

Examples:

"Jubilate Agno, Fragment B, [For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry]" by Christopher Smart, 1722 - 1771
 

"How Do I Love Thee (Sonnet 43" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861

"Howl" by Allen Ginsberg, 1926–1997

"Yes" by Denise Duhame b.1971

As well as "The Twelve Days of Christmas," "Dr. Seuss's ABC's," and the intro verse to "Blue Suede Shoes."

One for the money,
Two for the show.
Three to get ready,
then go, cat, go!



Keywords: your handle, poem, listpoem

Random Time Travel - from object to slogans to titles

snapped shut oxygen deprived

snapped open/ flint struck flame tall

zippoed either way

close shave that crow stunt

stolen covers

left little boy open to bad dreams

at watch for jumpers 

his brain leaps to 

more graven falls

out drummed below

 film crew skeletons atop double decker bus

celluloid carnivores

crank cameras out of time

no better than chained bear walkers

tight roping

bicycle passenger locked in app

sidecar-ing 

wearing

high leather laced boots

red and yellow

stickers on

master locked

messenger bag

announce

“Leave the clothes off animals”!

“This aint the Summer of Love!”

big wheels

pedaling smelling salts

************************************

Future Poem Titles

zippoed either way

out drummed below

tight roping

pedaling smelling salts

OVERTURNED - Mediteranean memory bowls

 

Forged copper ~ Rachel Levy 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: Time Travel in Photos

Time Machine: ON

Step inside. Your travels begin now. Look out the window at the various strange goings-on in years gone by.

When an image sparks words, jot them. Jot more. Arrange, add, edit and rework.

Write a poem in the next two weeks inspired by a photo in this stream, or find another old photos archive such as the Library of Congress's.

When you post your poem, poet the image or a link to it as well so other time travelers can see where you've been.

Keywords: Label your post with your handle, the word "poem," and the phrase "time travel."

Happy timetrails!

bluebird canyon, laguna, july 31, 72014

no birds are not dinosaurs
anymore the same way you and i
have two lungs
each
gills given up the ghost
in this sunny valley mid morning
where hummingbirds
a little like flying reptiles
that sparkle come to the hibiscus
so outrageous even the wind
only ruffles skirts
it's a party in a steep walled canyon
where light seeps then colors
now raucous joined by rooster
crying baby truck and avian cacaphony
squee squee  hrrr hrrr huh hrrr
and didgeridoo of unnamed
but not nameless flying reptile
progeny. i used to wonder what our
children would do but now i know
the wind will come down this canyon
whistling in millenia milennia from now
when humans are stories, so changed
by the loping ramble of evolvosaurus
that our daughters' daughters' daughters
etc will be lithe on wing, a flicker
of flight, perhaps the hibiscus still
will offer their pink satellite fabrics
open
to our daughters' d d d d d etc.
who will be green
and flying
and someone else will wonder
are these pteradactyls?

A Visitor

welcome mat

woven or rubber

door may be open 

door may be closed

matters not

step through or up against

feet square 

key under 

“come on in”

“come to stay?”

Heart and Soul

So you can play, and play for hours,
linking moves as in a swing dance,
an improvisation that sounds
like a song you've heard more than once—
though culture has put that song down.

You risk disparaging glances
as you start to boom-de-ah-dah.
Say you haven't tickled them since
grad school back in Arizona—
your fingers find their old power,

madly snap appoggiaturas;
fancified melodic forays
ring the teeth of the rusty saw.
Boogie-woogie on yesterday's
abandon, bouncing every ounce

of self-aware grown up away.
A can of worms: "Oh, do you play?"

IMUNURI Prompt: Answer to Question

 
For this week's writing, start with an answer
and end with a question.

keywords: poem, your handle, question 

Is desire a trump card?

Deep thoughts

The dying art of letter writing

Today, I recieved a letter in the mail from an old friend.
A New Mexican who loves the stark and barren romance
of the landscape that envelops her.
The look of her hand-written script was as pleasing and artfully disheveled
as I remember her to be.

My eyes joyfully followed the line of letters and bold, punctuating marks
in their fervent effort to describe.
I could tell that she relished each stroke of that drugstore ballpoint pen.
The pressure, release and glide of it's crown
translating her mood as sensitively as an artist's sable-haired brush.

I wondered whether she realized, or cared
that every tenth word or so was illegible.
Causing the eye to stop and tumble over them.
Words that looked like balls of tangled thread.
Others like hastily written musical notations.
Or ancient Japanese calligraphy by the "Wild Sisters of Zen."

I was surprised by the intensity of my gratitude
for the drop of water or tear or tea that bled the ink
and curled the corner of the page.

This simple hand-written note.
Like a relic, a keepsake, a remembrance.
A true oddity among the daily scroll
of digital salutations.

The sage-scented sheet extended out like an invitation to a handshake.
A tactile way to bridge a distance seperating two friends.
A way to touch.

IMUNURI Prompt: Post-It Poem

Okay, so writing a poem without writing it down is an unexpected challenge for many.

Let's try a nearer-fetched experiment with writerly media, namely:

Post-It Poems

Draft poems on post-it notes, or write them and transfer final versions to post-it.

Here at IMUNURI, post your post-it poetry as text or upload a scan or photo of your post-it poem.

Bonus points for posting the poem somewhere before taking the picture.

keywords: your monicker, poem, post-it

IMUNURI Prompt: Write Without Paper

In the next two weeks, try this writing technique:
instead of putting implement to paper to write, then revisiting what you've written to revise,
write an entire poem in your memory.

It will help to recite the poem to yourself as you write it, to commit lines to memory before you add new lines.

You might also write stanza by stanza if that's easier, completing each before jotting it down and moving on to the next.

What choices will you make to help you compose a poem in your memory before writing it on paper?

TAGS: your name, poem, memorize

Dead calm

Dead Calm

Parle de ses doigts a fusil

(speak of your trigger fingers)

billboards

shapes/sizes

shoes/color

        walks

haircuts/bangs

lengths gone

over the lines

longer thans

vanishing horizons

gulf streams

obsessions

ceaselessness

la langue qui s’enlarge

(the tongue that grows)

la faim sans vide

(the bottomless hunger)

a mime in a rowboat

dead calm

Dolce accelerando

By the time I get to North Beach, my skin is sliding against my skin

It’s late spring and hot, and the only thing I need is gelato—

Kahlua with dark chocolate chunks and chocolate-covered almonds—

so cold—milk coffee caramel thick, licked in the shade so slow.

I scrape the bottom, and I get up to walk back downtown.

I decide to have a cookie, too. I am so

vanquished that later I also gulp a peach

and feel that falling compulsion I know

from bodysurfing at Sandy Beach.

In salt surge and sugar siphon,

I stand and stroke while each wave

eats me up, foraging,

back-bending creature,

pushing the verge,

pushed below

one large

urge.

Craig Damlo

IMUNURI Prompt: MoodTempo

Check out this list of musical
"mood markings with a tempo connotation."
You can scroll up or down for more inspiration
from musical terms and directions.
Choose a term from this page as your poem's title
or part of the title;
then write the poem.

Examples:
With Fire: Allegro con brio


Playfully: Scherzo leggiero

Stately: Maestoso

keywords: your monicker, poem, moodtempo

Gathering Herd

Mint-breathed Creature saga continued

a pasture

to invite others to

enjoy & gather in

may lead to a mint-breathed creature

crossed with  a four legged labordite (hairless, thin skinned, large brained)

& then who will greet the world in their aftermath

ENTER

Le Bagondelle (only commonality four legged)

quick witted & drama driven

with a passion for red poppies

Mint-breathed creature’s love had no reserve &

Mate held back no touch (such luxurious long curly hair Baggie wore)

Ah what a spoiled childhood Le Bagondelle indulged...

The limeronnet

There once was a bottlenose whale

who had wings thrice as long as her tail.

She could break from the sea

quite effortlessly

and sail through the heavenly veil

while scouting the waves for sea kale.

Her home in the firmament

became semi-permanent—

she only splashed down to avail

herself of some calm in a gale.

But in the clear weather

she stretched out her leather

and flew where the air was so rarefied

(leaving dozens of pilots quite terrified).

by Ashley McFarland AKA copperarabian

Imunuri Prompt: futurtopia - birdrels and squirds

ebirdseed's Pteradactyl Squirrel

What would it be like to be half one species, half another? In some futur-topian hybrid (hybird?) universe, either due to apocalypse or creative diversification, some poets and writers imagine a world of mixture. Squirrels and birds... wings and hooves (unicorn and pegasus, anyone)? Either through inventing a hybrid poetic form, or by writing a poem of a species hybrid, imagine the future ...

Feed the Birds T-shirt Design

tags: squird, poem, [poet's moniker];

Drought

Much too early

In the Spring of 2014

Native wild bulbs were blooming in full

Unwinding from their underground Winter spools 

On the hillsides above the creek.

Along sidewalk gardens

The Daffodils 

Planted only for the pleasure of the eye,

Were plump.

Their split yellow buds deepened in color.

Reminding me of Canaries bringing a warning 

Of dangers near at hand.

Late Fall, 2013

In dry, hot California,

Peoples minds turned to water.

We dreamed of rivers and creeks.

Those impartial carriers of sustenance

Or poisons introduced

By our ancient fantasy of dominion

And the injury of merely 

Standing aside as an onlooker 

Or a newsagent 

Who broadcasts reason

While well-mannered rhetoric

Masks destruction.

Mid Winter 2013, 

Brought the record drought we all feared.

Unprecedented since 1929.

Our dreams brought us images of

Women singing for rain.

Their bodies merging with 

Alders and Salmon in the shallow creek.

We knew that our lives were 

Completely dependent

On those northwest winds lifting off the ocean

Just forty miles away.

Eventually I saw them 

Pushing and forming the hint of a cloud

Reflected in a pool along a brook

Where a fallen tree had stilled the flow of water

Creating a mirror for the sky.

Late Winter, 2014

Real rains came on the cusp of our despair.

Gradually.

Constantly.

Adding weight and expanse to the sponge of soils.

Settling into underground streams that ran joyful

Like sleeping snakes awakened from long hibernation.

Set free to play their sinuous games once again.

Anchored in service to an inexact compass.

Elastic.

Adaptable.

Unforeseeable in it's shifting.

Δ

“Sailor’s delight, maybe,” she snides,

“but those clouds are menacing weird.”

We lose west a couple seconds,

and our internal clocks spin wild

as though we’ve driven since midnight

instead of since noon, and the sound

of breakers becomes Atlantic—

and we’ve gone back several decades.

“Like a storm’s coming in.” She checks

the rearview, the speedometer.

“Maybe it’s apocalyptic,”

said absently as infrared.

“Maybe those clouds,” she extends rock-

and-roll fingers, “are the heralds

of The STORM of ARMAGEDDON!”

We drive a while, pass a schoolyard.

“Probably just the regular kind.”