poetry 2017 / 091

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “The (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “The Poets,” “The Good Guys,” “The Bad Guys,” “The Last Thing She Said,” and so on.

Last Slap (I)

The time you slapped me

so hard my cheek split open on my tooth

was the last time I ever let you.

I walked out that day

and even though you told the police

I was a 'missing person'

I was easy to find

at the local hospital.

Last Slap (II)

I pulled the punches, the kicks.

I was told to hurt you

but I didn't really want to

and you cried anyway.

Consensual non-consent

anything goes, so long as it doesn't damage

or leave a lasting mark.

I think I was more shaken than you,

though the last smack

made you yelp

and to be honest,

my hand stung, too.

poetry 2017 / 089

For today’s prompt, write a metric poem. Most of the world uses the metric system to measure things out; not so much in the States. But there are meters and liters, and the occasional millimeters. Also, poetry uses metrics (the study of meter in poetry). And metrics, in a general sense, can measure various things by a common denominator–even inches and/or teaspoons.

Travel Metrics

a photograph

of my long dead mother

faded into seventies amber

like the walls of my father's house.

Taken when I was...ten?

Sent off, processed, printed,

sent back by second class mail

(transport, weather and strikes permitting)

admired

stuck in a album

left in a drawer until my father died,

stored in a cardboard box in my sister's cellar.

During a clearout

she scans it, emails it;

a packet of data sent by a path

calculated by router metrics

for path length, bandwidth, load and hop count,

path cost, delay, MTU, reliability and communications cost.

I receive it seconds later.

poetry 2017 / 087

For today’s prompt, write a poem about a smell. Similar to Day 6’s prompt about writing a poem about a sound, today’s prompt involves thinking about the various good and bad smells that fill the world. Pick one smell (or a variety, I suppose), and write a poem.

Catherine 1979

She wore patchouli

and a ragged hippie skirt

drinking lager by the pint

and telling stories of her youth.

She was all of seventeen

and I loved her passionately

albeit briefly,

like the flourescent stars

on her bedroom roof.

Thirty years have passed

and more

but the scent still makes me smile

and wonder what happened

to my darling Clementine.

poetry 2017 / 084

For today’s prompt, use at least 3 of the following 6 words in your poem (using a word or two in your title is fine); for extra credit, try using all 6:

• pest
• crack
• ramble
• hiccup
• wince
• festoon

Sometimes

Sunlight in the window attest
to rainbows jumping from scattered prisms

hung on nylon strings and plucked

in off-key melodies dancing upon the crack

of an eye.

She sleeps fitfully, a scramble

amongst dreams that leap and twist like a mandrake

on a hot griddle. The frogs don't care

but move their feet among the sausages

and mushrooms

wondering why they came.

Tadpoles have no conscience. They hiccup
from memory to prescience. Mayfly larvae prown

the depths. A wince of pain

hungry mouths beget hunger

while water spider watches close; fies

of embarrassment – blushes festoon

the rough walls of her life.

It matters little.

When everybody dies.

poetry 2017 / 083

For today’s prompt, write a regret poem. Most people regret some action they’ve taken over the years, whether it’s saying the wrong thing, making the wrong choice, or putting off something for a tomorrow that never comes. Write about your own regrets, or the regrets of others

Regret

I wish I hadn't hurt you

I wish I hadn't let you down.

When you were trying to retain my love

I was hoping you'd reject it.

We didn't understand

relationships.

We were both too young to say

for sure.

The taunting of the other boys

became too much--

I didn't want to be that way.

You were proud to be the person you were

but I could never be the same.

Perhaps we could be happy

if I hadn't been a coward.

I should have seen my self from your eyes

(at least the one you still retained.)

I still have that piece of art you gave to me

I'll never let it go again.

Wherever you go

a piece of me will follow –

a shadow of my past

desecrated ground will sprout again.

poetry 2017 / 081

Here are the twoprompts for today:

Write a love poem. The poem could be about lovers, but also the love of family, love between friends, or even loving your job, chocolate, or music. Or…
Write an anti-love poem. Maybe you’re a hater; that’s fine. We’ve got the anti-love poem prompt for you.

Pinterest

I used to keep a picture of you

in my wallet, among my credit cards

and loyalty tickets.

I never realised how appropriate it was

to have you next to my organ donation

until you extracted my heart

and chewed it up

like a broken timing belt in a speeding car

waiting for the wreck to happen.

Your image faded with time,

years passing with the loss of reds, of blues

until only the yellows were left

a voodoo doll to your jaundiced heart.

poetry 2017 / 079

For today’s prompt,write a faith poem. For some people, faith means religion. For others, faith means trusting in science and mathematics. Still others, think George Michael’s “Faith” just as some immediately conjure up Faith Hill. Regardless of where you put your faith (or don’t), today’s poem gives you an opportunity to express yourself.

Sticks and Stones

I'll never understand

the casual cruelty

with which you put me down.

Your voice is like a shard of glass

in a velvet glove.

The bruises on my legs will fade,

my arm will heal

but I'll never be the same

after those jibes.

They say that words can't hurt,

that they mean nothing 'less I let them

but they've never heard you say

how weak I am.

All that I have left is faith

you love me

and hope you will repent;

that perfect lie still beckons with

the taste of fear

another birth of pain and blood

and broken bones

but will you stay

and love me

or will panic still prevail

upon these empty rooms

and fears.

And will I cry

into a hollow void

or die a lonely death.

Please just stay.

poetry 2017 / 077

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Last (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Last Starfighter,” “Last Unicorn,” “Last Day of Summer,” “Last Cookie in the Cookie Jar,” and so on.

Last Carl

Shouting in the street

the neighbour, drunk,

shouting at his daughter.

We go out

offer safety to her

and her mother, her kids.

I stand, impassive, waiting

while DK phones the police.

He can shout if he likes

but if he hits her I'll step in.

He's bigger than me

but I'm not afraid.

His drunk friend comes,

leads him away.

Peaceful street.

Four police cars arrive.

poetry 2017 / 076

For today’s prompt,write a fable poem. A fable is a story that conveys a moral, usuallytold with animal characters.

The Dog and the Walnut Tree

A monkey and a lion cub

were arguing one day

about the need for belly rubs

and whatever game to play.

“It's delightful in the shining sun”

said lion to the chimp

“Why don't we see who's fast to run?

And which of us will limp?”

“Better still,” replied the chimp,

“Why don't we climb a tree?

“Award a prize for dexterous imp

I bet you cant beat me.”

“A tree like this?” said little cub

and lifted up a stick.

“Don't be stupid, that's a stub,

“You're really rather thick.”

“Am I?” said the carnivore

and proceeded to explain.

“There really isn't nothing more

than delicious monkey brain.”

The moral of this loss of life

is really rather glum.

the thickest stick to beat a wife

has a general rule of thumb.

poetry 2017 / 03

For today’s prompt, pick an object (any object), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “Toothbrush,” “Rake,” “Pilot G2 Premium Gel Roller Pen,” or any number of other objective titles. Have fun with it.

Kimono

Pure white

the purity of thought

cleanliness of mind,

of body.

Grip, flow

use his momentum against him

let his strength move through you

and around you

when he is gone only you will remain.

The correct lever can move a mountain.

Be the lever.

poetry 2017 / 072

For today’s prompt, write a task poem. The task can be some glorious duty, or it can be a seemingly small and insignificant job. Or the poem can take someone to task. It’s your task to figure it out and write it.

Osteospermum

Bright flowers

almost artificial in the trolley

outside the supermarket.

I buy two, take them home

a delicate operation to dig

two holes with a trowel,

add compost, bonemeal

puddle them in.

Bright spots of colour

counterbalancing black tulips.

Poetry 2017 / 069

For today’s prompt, write a memory poem. Pick a memory, any memory. It can be a significant event, but sometimes there are beautiful insignificant moments (that ironically are very significant–quite the paradox). Mine your memories to come up with something good today.

A View to Rowney Green

The loft at my father's house

had no ladder

just a dressing table and bookcase

followed by a chin-up

and a foothold on the picture rail.

The room was vast,

warm from the east-west windows

and an acre of glassfibre matting.

Dead flies crowded the windowsills

their dying breaths looking out over the fields

they would never visit.

House spiders roamed among the mortar dust

spinning webs across the steps between joists

and shunning the dips of lathe and plaster

of bedroom ceiling ankle traps.

Old copies of Popular Gardening,

my childhood farm and doll's house,

the metal trunk of my mother's wedding dress

and funeral veil. My sisters African doll,

her dress grimy with unshod tears,

still able to groan out Mama

when tilted on her back.

The open window

and the drop to the pavement below,

emptying the attic space for the house to be sold,

the redemption of childhood

under the hammer.

poetry 2017 / 068

Here are the two prompts for today:
    Write a life poem. The poem could be about the miracle of life, the complexity of life, the game of Life, or anything else that means life for you. Or…
    Write a death poem. For most organisms, life leads to death. So this should be as full of possibility as the life poem.

Jester

I'm pretty sure I killed the dog.

All these years, and that last breath

still haunts me.

Wrapped in his favourite blanket,

the hole dug at the edge of the field

where he used to chase rabbits

I gave his broken, road-torn body

one last hug.

I heard his breath.

I'm sure it was just my pushing the last air from his lungs,

the broken ribs scraping his sternum,

the tiny spirit leaping to the sky

but years later,

years later,

I worry that I buried him alive,

and the tears return anew.

poetry 2017 / 066

For today’s prompt,write a dance poem. The poem can be about the process of dancing or just somehow incorporate or reference dancing in the poem. There are so many styles of dance out there and even more occasions for dancing: school dances, daddy-daughter dances, wedding dances, people who dance when they are happy, people who dance when they are sad, people who dance in large groups, and those who dance alone. And, of course, there are so who just won’t dance for anything.

Open Casket

She would have loved this,

dancing without repression,

the music loud and rhythmic

bass pounding and the air

hot and sticky with sweat.

Half-naked women,

shirtless men,latinesque beats

against a candlelit darkness;

whirling away the hour

until her coffin slides into the fire.

poetry 2017 / 063

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) System,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “Weather System,” “Solar System,” “Writing System,” “Ecological System,” or any number of other takes on systems.

Triangle System

I'm not saying it's a pyramid scheme,

I'm just saying it seems suspect

that your redemption depends

on how many people you recruit.

And exactly how many

does it take to get into Heaven?

You never made that clear.

What I do understand

is the monetary tithe,

the restrictions on liberty,

and the vetting of who I talk to

and who I date.

Isn't it in the constitution

that we are all equal?

Or is it just that some

or more equal than others?

poetry 2017 / 062

For today’s prompt, write a “one time” poem. This poem could be about a once in a lifetime experience. Or it could be about something a person wants to try just one time (good or bad). Or take it where you will–as always.

 

Summer 1982

She tasted of cream and caramel toffee

under a polka dot tablecloth

and white cotton napkins.

Putty under my experience

she was the younger woman

and the one and only time I ever cheated.

She cheated too; her boyfriend

a college buddy. I can't remember him

but she still lingers in my memory

and on my tongue.

poetry 2017 / 060

For today’s prompt, pick a popular saying and make that the title of your poem; then, write your poem. Some possible titles might include: “Blood Is Thicker Than Water,” “You Can’t Judge a Book By Its Cover,” “More Than You Can Shake a Stick At,” and so many others. Click here if you want more ideas.

He Wouldn't Hurt a Fly

E.W. Jackson, bishop of the

Christian News Service and

the Exodus Faith Ministries

claims birth defects are due to mother's sins

(but not the father's, obviously)

and that Yoga leads to Satanism

but he wouldn't hurt a fly.

His assertion, as a Christian man,

the University of California

(with its queer and Bi and Transfolk students)

is Ungodly and Sinful

but he wouldn't hurt a fly.

“Sin never gets enough,” he says,

“There’s no end to this. It has no end.

There will always be something more,

something more,

something more

because what they’re really looking for

is they’re looking for

looking for

acceptance in society

and Christians will never ever,

never, never,

never, ever give it to them.”

But he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Poetry 2017 / 058

 For today’s prompt, write a family poem. It could be about your family, someone else’s family, a big family, a small family. It could be about one person in the family or a group picture. Your call. Just write that poem

Elizabeth (1953-2014)

We bickered for years, my sisters and I.

Though the eldest thought we were beneath

her notice and contempt

as was our father who smoked all his life.

“I'm not exposing my children to that,” she said

and it broke his heart.

When he died she went to the house

put post-it notes on everything of value.

The antique furniture, the silverware,

our mother's jewellery. The residue of smoke

didn't seem to bother her then.

She fought to cut my younger sister

out of everything she was due. I said no.

She took her third and we never saw her again,

just the obituary from her husband when she died.

Poetry 2017 / 056

For today’s prompt, write a guilty poem. The poem can be written from the perspective of someone who is (or feels) guilty, or it can be about someone (or something) else that’s guilty. But guilty of what? Cheating on a test? Or a spouse? Or a diet? Only you know, and only your poem can reveal the truth.

Heavy Burden

I wasn't there when you died.

Couldn't face it.

I wish I had, now,

but fifteen was an impressionable age

and my last memory of you

is you lying on the floor in the recovery position,

my sisters copy of First Aid at Work

open at the relevant page.

I remember her tear-stained face,

your red hair obscuring yours,

the nylon housecoat over your dress.

I waited at the bottom of the drive for the ambulance,

my father's panic as he pulled in past me,

the kindness of the paramedic.

It was a Friday

and I'd bought you a gift home from school;

a woodwork project I'd spent three months on.

I didn't visit the hospital,

didn't see you comatose, stuffed full of tubes.

I knew you were dead in all but name

even if it wasn't until the following Tuesday

(when I had my first O level exam)

that Dad gave consent for the machines to turn off.

I wasn't there when you died.

Couldn't face it.

revision 2017 / 055(a)

Write a sonnet.

Meadow Fields, 1976

Nothing to do on a Saturday night

but hang in the park as the summer light fades

Mike's got a moustache that looks pretty tight;

passes for adult when wearing his shades.

Footballers setting out bottles for posts

Girls crash the ciggies while dishing the dirt

send catcalls to muscle bound boys as they boast

of their prowess in bed in lieu of a flirt.

The stoners lie down with the midges and grass

while players buy food from the shop on the green.

St. Lawrence's bells call the faithful to mass

The girls pull out mirrors and lippy to preen.

At the edge of the playing field, passing the time

a boy gives men blow jobs for barely a dime.