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Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect set forth a colorful challenge for this week's Monday Poetry Stretch. And while I know she had nature-inspired poems in mind, my brain took a different turn. It does that sometimes.
Dressing in Black
The long skirt is black
and the soft velvet top
and two heels that I pack
with a lint brush I drop
in the bag for the night.
I eat a light snack
then I dress for the show
checking both front and back
in a mirror just so
to ensure everything's right.
In long skirts of black
next to black suits and ties,
queued in line not a pack
we breathe deep with soft sighs
for an entrance sans fright.
With a smile and a crack
of a joke to calm doubts
I move forward, not back,
with sweet songs and grand shouts
for each listener's delight.
It's been gray and cloudy and rainy here for so many days on end that I feel like I'm growing mold in my mind. That influenced where I went with the abecedarian poem I wrote for Tricia's Monday Poetry Stretch at The Miss Rumphius Effect. With so much water in the air around me, I had to put a bit of ebb and flow into the alphabetic effect.
Still Cloudy
Charcoal clouds crowd the sky,
covering blue and carrying drizzle.
Dull days drag on,
an endless effort to endure,
each day echoing every other.
Flat light makes for faint faith
that flooding will ease and
evaporate. Encircled by erosion,
an evil essence drenches the ego,
'til duty droops in dreary drudgery.
Can't the confounding cumulonimbi
cruise away? I crave contrails
curving across clear cerulean.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect gave us the following challenge for the Monday Poetry Stretch this week:
write a personal ad about your favorite animal or historical figure
So here's what I came up with. Check out the links afterward if you can't figure it out (or if you just want to see some cool pics!]
Wanted
looking, i am,
for just the right guy,
with colors like mine,
and who really can fly.
i hang by the lake
but would move to the marsh
if the right guy would ask
and be mellow, not harsh.
i surf on the breeze
and i'll give you a clue
how to find me up there:
i'm a shocking-bright blue.
a stick for a figure,
i'm perfect, you know
but i'm missing a mate.
life is too short, you know.
so find me and show off,
i like a good dance,
you know that you're lonely
now come take a chance!
picture 1
picture 2
picture 3
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect has asked us (more than once) to write an ottava rima poem and although I am past the "deadline" for last week's Monday Poetry Stretch, I was thinking about that.
And this month's project at Cafe Writing included a prompt to think about this quote:
I have the opportunity
Once more to right some wrongs,
To pray for peace, to plant a tree,
And sing more joyful songs.
~William Arthur Ward
then write a poem about one of those things. Enjoy!]
Wanted: Contralto Solos
I search, and hunt, and strive to find,
achieving only grievous hitches,
the alto solos which I've pined
for – gorgeous pieces – honest riches,
yet nothing shines, I'm like as blind
and suff'ring from a jokester's switches.
I dimly peer into the murk
and seek again contralto work.
The opera brings three kinds of roles:
the first are hags that seek to irk;
and next are evil women – trolls
who seek a sheath for poisoned dirk;
and finally lads off tending foals
or scheming how their jobs to shirk.
They feature itches, molls, or ditches,
playing witches, bitches, or britches.
Perhaps I should give up this grind,
and all the heartache that it brings.
Yet on the shelf must be the kind
of piece that I so want to sing,
that binds a heart and intertwines
all noble and uplifting things.
The poignant search continues long
for blissful, joyous alto songs.
[For the first Monday Poetry Stretch this year, Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect set us to write about our mother's kitchen. She'll round up everyone's (check them out) but here is mine. There were some details to the challenge and the hardest was to leave myself out of the poem!]
The New Kitchen
Was it just ten years ago
that the kitchen was new?
A new marriage, new house,
and the first dinner party
when she pulled the roast from one
of the pair of new turquoise wall-ovens.
She couldn't have imagined then
that she'd want more space and
a modern harvest-gold stove instead.
The demolition starts next week
but it seems like only yesterday...
The new dining table was set
at the end of the new living room.
Betty and Jake were already
having a drink with her new husband.
The new doorbell rang and while
Charlie joined the party at the bar,
Mary Lou brought her green bean salad
into the kitchen where the new countertops
sparkled with built-in glitter.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect set us to write a Terza Rima for this week's Monday Poetry Stretch. Check out her site at the end of the week to see what others came up with. As for me, I have never seen the following, but my Mom tells me that an Arkansas native told her about this.]
Hunting Season
The guns are all clean and alarm clocks are on,
to wake up too early and head right on out.
The long day will feel like a whole marathon.
Youngsters rise with a grumble and pout,
(the weatherman promised the day would be clear)
a quick bite and coffee and then they are out
and into the woods to go hunting for deer.
A few counties over it's turkeys they'll seek,
and many will hope that they forego the beer
as they take enough food to stay out for a week
to fend of the yawns and to keep them awake,
but contrarily too much will put them to sleep!
A few groups that gather to go out and make
a hunting trip into the woods for the day
are seeking for something else out by the lake.
They're looking for parasites locked on their prey.
Their shotguns are loaded and ready to go
after bunches of green amidst branches so gray.
They will aim at the branches and fire just so,
the dead branch will tumble and fall at their feet
so that then they can harvest the green mistletoe
and they'll package it up for a profit quite sweet.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect set a Monday Poetry Stretch to write batty poetry. As in real bats. Here's mine. Check her site at the end of the week to see what others might have come up with.]
Bats
In the darker, shallow end of the pool we
lounged in summer-heated liquid and watched
insects swarm around the lights at the deep end.
Bats darted and wheeled, flying bug zappers,
sometimes dipping low enough to sip
a chlorinated nightcap to chase their midnight snacks.
[I don't know if this is prose poetry or maybe something else, but it started out with a prompt from the Monday Poetry Stretch at The Miss Rumphius Effect (to use cup, gate, and sea) but it also seemed to satisfy the Totally Optionally Prompt to write about "discoveries." ]
Treasure
She found the once-white cup, chipped and dirty, dull red rust peaking through where the enamel gave way long ago. Full of dirt and dead leaves and sticks, and probably a bug or two, but its handle was still solid and it wanted to be found. From the hole at the base of the tree, she took it to the creek and washed away years of abandonment and promptly filled it with big, fat acorns that littered the path.
Her steps carried her away from the trees at a stately, measured pace. With her eyes closed she saw the aisle of the church, decorated with flowers to match those her sister had pinned in her hair. She replayed her movements, slow and careful, following the instructions to drop just one petal at a time from her basket. One by one the acorns fell, bouncing on the pavement, rolling to one side or the other, and one wobbled its way into a pothole in the street.
When her fingers brushed the bottom of the cup, she pulled out the last two acorns and rolled them around in her hand, like the silver Chinese balls that her grandmother kept in a red silk box on the shelf by her bed. They were awkward to hold and so big that she nearly dropped them.
The old wooden bridge, just wide enough for one car to cross at a time, had gaps where you could look through into the water below. She dropped one of the acorns through one of the holes and watched for the splash, but she couldn't see if it sank to the bottom or bobbled its way toward the sea.
Cup in one hand and the last acorn in the other, she skipped toward the big houses. The grand Victorians seemed palatial, but maybe not as nice as they might once have been. Like the cup, they were neglected, with weeds and bushes taking over, with paint peeling from the siding (where there was any left at all), and lopsided shutters hanging on out of habit. The wrought iron fencing was rusty and showed only a passing acquaintance with paint. The clanking rattle was tremendously satisfying as she raked the cup across the iron rails until she got to the empty space where the gate yawned permanently open, sagging deep into the soil of the yard.
She tucked the remaining acorn in her pocket and raced herself down the sidewalk to the beach where autumn's chill had finally chased away the summerfolk. The cup was perfect for digging in the dunes, and for carrying water to newly-minted moats, and moving a pile of mussel shells to the back of the castle.
Eventually she headed back home, to the secret place in her yard where she kept her treasures safe from the growups who would call them junk. She tucked the cup and acorn in next to the pieces of beach-glass and the yellow feather, beside the coin with a hole in the center and the green plastic turtle, inside the blue pottery saucer that was only chipped in one place.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect posed a Monday Poetry Stretch to write an acrostic poem about fall. I love the crisp air this time of year, even if I hate the falling leaves, pretty though they are.]
Chilly mornings make me
Roll over and hug the covers tight.
Icy toes hit the floor on the way to the
Shower to warm up. Nevertheless, I
Prefer this to turning on the furnace.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect presented a great Monday Poetry Stretch this week - to write using Climbing Rhyme (see her post for a description). I combined that with the Read Write Poem prompt to find something we didn't like about summer and came up with this.]
Summer Funk
Beautiful sky
I go by foot
I try to be
a healthy one
but, see! In spite
of sun bright and
day right I find
that I mind this
entwined bit of
bad smell shoved (not
beloved) – a stench!
need I mention?
Attention held
tight by spelled air
as swelled stink coils
'round and soils walk
and foils my proud
mood. The crowd veers
as loud shouts fall
and cast pall on
just all that I
see. So, sigh, first,
and cry (some), and
walk as planned, though
not grand, nor fine.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect challenged us this week to write a poem with the phrase "loose change." I had several thoughts, but this is the one that got finished first.]
Loose Change
I pluck the dark pennies
from the bright silver on the table.
I examine the artwork on each
and save the old
ones with wheat sheaves,
in black plastic film canisters
in a desk drawer,
dimly echoing Dad's pastimes
of numismatics and photography,
but his favorite coins are framed
and hang on the wall in the light.
[Tricia at the Miss Rumphius Effect put forth this week's Monday Poetry Stretch to write about the end of school or summer vacation. This took me back.]
Last Day
There is no learning today, just lessons on
containment
as teachers try to
contain
their classes, as students try to
contain
themselves. As the whole school vibrates with
barely-contained
excitement I wonder how long the water will stay
bottled-up
inside the full-to-bursting balloons.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect gave us a six-word poem prompt for this week's Monday Poetry Stretch. See her post here for a full description. Basically we had 6 words we had to use. I can't wait to check back there later this week to see what others came up with because the words could lead so many directions. The words are hole, friend, candle, ocean, snake and either bucket or scarecrow.]
With
Do you mean to stay there,
oh friend of mine,
a barricade across
my path into the world?
You might as well intend to empty
the ocean, using only a bucket with
a hole in it. A Sisyphean task, that.
Stop being a snake; stand
upright. Light your candle
from mine and pass it on.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect presented the following picture for this week's Monday Poetry Stretch. Here's what I came up with. Check out her site for others.]
Sand
Hot sand on top,
scorching bare feet,
but underneath
it is chilly and damp,
a soothing relief.
I build a castle
a fort
a mountain
a rocket
a person
a jungle
an elephant
a volcano
a fire truck
a giant ice cream sundae
I mold the sand
beneath my hand.
I pat the side
and watch the tide.
Sand on my arms
my legs
my back
my butt
my neck
my hair
and behind my ears
and in my pockets
[So I'm still around and thinking poetry, but I haven't been posting much while I first finished our tax returns, then prepared the house for Passover. Now that I have a weekend before me with no huge project hanging over me, I hope to catch up on a couple of prompts. This poem was inspired by both the Totally Optional Prompt "late spring" and Tricia's Monday Poetry Stretch to write about color (though this doesn't go straight at that challenge - rather a bit sideways). I will likely keep playing with this a little - I think I want to add some more interior rhymes to it, but I thought I'd share this at this stage anyway. (I read somewhere that "golden bells" is another name for forsythia, which had too many syllables for my taste today.)]
Late Spring Color
I turn my back
on the pale, pale green
of the maple tree
in spring.
I shun the bright,
white locust blooms
and the cloying scent
they bring.
Mere memories:
the tender, tiny
crocuses
in snowdrifts.
And yet a dream
the lilac scents
that'll welcome June
with heart lifts.
My late-spring days
are glowing now
with golden cups
of daffodils,
and shining sprays
to greet each morn
a dazzling row
of golden bells.
A brilliant yellow
halo meets
my winter-weary
eyes,
a hug of mellow
sun-like warmth,
a talisman in
disguise.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect put before us a kyrielle as the Monday Poetry Stretch. See the prompt for links on this form. Since Passover preparations are eating up most of my waking hours, here's what I came up with.]
Passover Kyrielle
We ask four questions on this night;
We eat and drink and then recite
the prayers that have come down to me.
We once were slaves, but now we're free.
We eat horseradish and flat bread.
Salt water stands for tears we shed.
Recline but think how we did flee.
We once were slaves and now we're free.
We drink four cups and dip food twice.
We think about the human price
paid by the closing of the Sea.
We once were slaves, though now we're free.
We gather both our kith and kin
and think of how things might have been
if Moses hadn't made his plea.
We once were slaves; we now are free.
Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect gave us the photo below for the Monday Poetry Stretch.
This photograph was taken by lijojohnson and is protected under a Creative Commons license. You may include this photo with your poem as long as you include this attribution on your blog.
When I saw this picture, the first thing I thought of was this:
I want it to be a soft green, not as blue-green as a robin's egg, but not as yellow-green as daffodil buds. Now, the only sample I could get is a little too yellow, but don't let whoever does it go to the other extreme and get it too blue. It should just be a sort of grayish-yellow-green. … Is that clear?
-- from Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948)
And then I got down to the business of poetry-writing.
Armor
Flashy, aren't you, in your high-end armor?
All safe and secure inside, padded and protected,
with articulated joints to cover the soft parts
and even multi-lens goggles to help you see better.
I'm glad you are safe, with this strategic advantage
over your enemies and their outmoded gear.
I've seen them in their basic black and basic brown.
No shine left in them and no way to upgrade.
While you are buzzing away out there,
safe inside your green-gold armor,
watch out for everything. You never know
who is watching you watch them.
Don't forget you stand out now, shiny
against the leaf, no longer invisible
on the wall, in clear sight on that fruit.
A perfect target for a heretofore unimagined foe.
[Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect gives us the clerihew for this week's Monday Poetry Stretch. I tried a few. I fear I must try harder for the desired "quip" at the end, but these will have to do this week.]
David Letterman
made a better man
than the average Midwest boy
whose crops are beans of soy.
TV's Mr. Rogers (Fred)
passed away (he's dead).
No host dresses better
than he did in his cardigan sweater.
[At The Miss Rumphius Effect, Tricia's Monday Poetry Stretch is to write a mask poem, in which the subject is the speaker. I sat quietly and this is what I heard.]
No Longer in the Catbird Seat
I remember when I was your favorite.
You picked me out at the store,
making sure that my fabric would
not clash with the rug.
I had pride-of-place in the living room.
But now I sit with my back to the window,
off to the side, at the end of the room,
and I watch you sit on the new
leather loveseat,
your new favorite.
[This week's Monday Poetry Stretch at The Miss Rumphius Effect was to write an apostrophe - a piece that directly addresses an absent person or a thing. Go see what the other folks came up with!]
Caged
I don't know how you do it,
how you keep me captive
for hour after eye-crossing hour,
helping me etch that vertical
line in my forehead ever deeper.
I don't know why I let you.
I don't like that line very much,
and I'm not too fond of you either.
Still,
I find satisfaction in all
those numbers, lined up
column after tidy column,
with totals and sub-totals.
Wrap a bow around it and
sound the trumpet fanfare!
Ta-da! The spreadsheet is done.
And good riddance, Excel,
until the next time.
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