poetry 2017 / 093

Third Fight

I don't remember

what our fight was about

dissatisfaction with the relationship

stagnation over the proximity

or the fact I was away all week

fingerbanging the girls from the art school

(or so you believed).

I recall we were in the park

(or maybe the cemetery)

a bench, anyway,

with you in your winter coat and scarf

and me in my motorcycle leathers.

You walked off,

home to your mother's

or to your friend Jude's.

I went back to Wolverhampton

where the parties went on all night

and smoked a joint on the tower block roof.

poetry 2017 / 092

Almost Anonymous

Miss Scarlett

in the kitchen with the dagger.

Let's face it,

it would save so much time

except in my scenario Miss Scarlett

is not the killer but the victim,

and her name isn't Scarlett, is it?

You know who it is,

and I'd slip the blade horizontally

through your left armpit

until it pierced your cold, black heart

and even then you'd go on living,

your Facebook page a shrine

still posting horoscopes from the grave

along with Bejewelled requests

and chain memes:

'Ten places you loved and one you hated,'

and it still wouldn't include Hell

though no doubt you'd be running the place in weeks,

and being passive aggressive towards Satan

and yes, Julie, I do mean you.

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 / 090

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something that happens again and again (kind of like NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo). It could be the setting of the sun, or your Aunt Georgia telling the same story at Thanksgiving every single year. It could be the swallows returning to Capistrano or how, without fail, you will lock your keys in the car whenever you go to the beach.

Through the Crescent

They know the houses where the dogs live.

Every day, pulling at the leads to get to the collie's house,

the black lab's house; the shepherd's house.

Later it's the Jack Russel's house, the spaniel's, the Doberman's

and that little dog behind the gate that barks unseen.

Pull, pull

bark, bark,

pull, pull,

bark, bark.

The third dog is blind and deaf.

He doesn't care about where they live

just what scents they've left behind.

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 / 088

Today, I’d like to challenge you to take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. For example, if your favorite poem is this verse of Emily Dickinson’s, you might choose the word “stones” or “spectre.” After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem.

Benwell Boys

Our mam was still alive

when we were a skinhead;

bleached jeans, polished Docs

buzz cut over a tee shirt

(and no jumper – they was for southerners).

We listened to the bands what made us pop

Ska and Punk and some of the Glam gurus

Ziggy Stardust and Alice

and we hung around Granger Street

playing coins-against-the-wall

and wasting tens on the Asteroids machine

in the warmth of the chippy.

I never went a bundle on the racist shit

but them lads from Gateshead

were the scum of the earth in our books

we'd be belting down the back streets

looking for a bin to hide in.

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 / 086

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem using Skeltonic verse. Don’t worry, there are no skeletons involved. Rather, Skeltonic verse gets its name from John Skelton, a fifteenth-century English poet who pioneered the use of short stanzas with irregular meter, but two strong stresses per line (otherwise know as “dipodic” or “two-footed” verse). The lines rhyme, but there’s not a rhyme scheme per se. The poet simply rhymes against one word until he or she gets bored and moves on to another. Here is a good explainer of the form, from which I have borrowed this excellent example:

Existential Guinea-pig

Existential Guinea-pig

in a cage, not too big

waiting for a music gig

that never comes. Fig.

Not that he can play a note

but what he wrote

would float your boat

arranged for quote

string and voice unquote

contents devote,

beloved sounds

in squeaks and bounds.

Beloved clowns

in rainbow gowns

surround the towns

and charge a measly forty pounds

to watch them jig

to Existential Guinea Pig.

poetry 2017 / 085

Many poems explore the sight or sound or feel of things, and Proust famously wrote about the memories evoked by smell, but today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores your sense of taste! This could be a poem about food, or wine, or even the oddly metallic sensation of a snowflake on your tongue.

Throwdown

Blood fills my mouth

sudden, unexpected,

the sharp tang of iron

sweet; sugar in a cup of mead

when I was five years old;

the tang of parsnip wine

when we got back from Midnight Mass

with my mother in her best fur coat

and the promise of Christmas on the morrow.

The grating of one tooth out of alignment

sandpaper on rough enamel.

I can feel the chip with my tongue.

Too late for a guard

(She should have kept her mouth shut)

Penny cracking me across the face

and a quick trip to the A&E for stitches.

You can still see the scar.

The razor blade that caressed my skin

when I was at my weakest

felt like blood tastes.

Thin, metallic, something only noticed

when out of context.

How often do you think about blood

in the course of a normal day?

Don't take my word for it,

I'm anything but.

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 / 082

Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist? The object or site of study could be anything from a “World’s Best Grandpa” coffee mug to a Pizza Hut, from a Pokemon poster to a cellphone.

Maus

Screws and buttons

a long wire to connect to--?

Obviously a machine of some sort.

A robot's hand?

One of the early designs;

late twenty first century?

But why, then, no appendages?

Not an android's hand, then, but

ergonomically pleasing to fit a hand

but one with only three fingers.

Were they less evolved that us?

Or more so – Our five digits

must seem an excess to these proto-humans

who must have counted in base six

(one, two, three, four, five, one-zero)

and why a window on the underside?

What a strange civilisation they must have had

and so short-lived. Hardly any time

between Mesozoic era

and the abrupt end of the Cenozoic

Almost a half-life.

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 / 080

In 1958, the philosopher/critic Gaston Bachelard wrote a book called The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces – the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.

Stands for Comfort

Mother's wardrobe was filled with furs

but there was no back way into Narnia

no matter how hard I looked.

A darkness filled with musk

the softness of pelts

the scent of my mother.

I could almost imagine she was holding me close

her voice murmuring comfort,

still alive.

But she was long dead

and I was no Son of Adam or Daughter of Eve

to claim a throne at Caer Paravel,

Just a lonely White Witch

in the darkness of a wardrobe

and the scent of old musk.

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 / 078

Today, I challenge you to write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art. But I’d also like to challenge you to base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts.

Manuscript of a Young Monk Buried Outside the Abbey Walls

Friar Donal is a fool

to think two hours' illumination

is a vengeful punishment

when I can light all the candles

and draw whatever I like

Let's see how he likes it

with an illustrated psalter.

His eyesight is so bad

he'll think I've drawn jousting snails

and miss the phallus topped by testes

with the faces of the elders.

Bugger them all, for I'm out of madder

and the box of gold leaf is unlocked.

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 (un-numbered)

Our prompt for Day Twenty-Three comes to us from Gloria Gonsalves, who challenges us to write a double elevenie. What’s that? Well, an elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is. There are some good examples in the link above.

A double elevenie would have two stanzas of five lines each, and twenty-two words in all.

Spoor

fox's scent

found by dogs

rolled and frolicked in

bathtime

shampoo

makes misery

foul fruity smells

why are we punished?

towels

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 / 075

In honor of Earth Day, I’d like to challenge you to write a georgic. The original georgic poem was written by Virgil, and while it was ostensibly a practical and instructional guide regarding agricultural concerns, it also offers political commentary on the use of land in the wake of war. The georgic was revived by British poets in the eighteenth century, when the use of land was changing both due to the increased use of enlightenment farming techniques and due to political realignments such as the union of England, Scotland, and Wales.

Your Georgic could be a simple set of instructions on how to grow or care for something, but it could also incorporate larger themes as to how land should be used (or not used), or for what purposes.

Relax

Research;

the comfort and safety

of an internet browser

behind a virtual private network

order online for discreet service,

delivery in a plain brown parcel.

Growing mediums of composted soil,

Coco Coir or hydroponics –

adequate lighting for maximum yield

choose your bulbs carefully.

Germinate seeds in rooting plugs,

seed trays or paper towels,

with the second pair of true leaves

transfer into growing medium.

Grow on, water well without soaking,

plenty of light for eight hours a day,

add nitrogen to encourage growth.

Check the leaf shoots for buds or pollen sacs

and remove plants with pollen.

At half full size adjust the daylight

twelve hours on, twelve hours off,

watch the growth spurt for six weeks.

Slow down the nitrogen;

Phosphorous and Potassium

are good for developing flowers.

After four to six weeks the buds should be ready

look for the white hairs to turn inward--

some might turn yellow--

harvest the buds and hang upside down.

After two weeks, hang in mason jars;

check to avoid dampness

cure for another two weeks to several months

longer makes smoother.

Relax.