Poetry Gong - Poem 17

Still Life: Umbrella Blown Inside Out

At night, the Perfect Rain becomes Rain that Lets the Farmer Sleep Deeply, knowing that the good work is done, and that tomorrow brings rest because the fields will be drinking deeply.
..............................- - - Chris Blanchard, Rock Spring Farm, Iowa


The wind whistles through chinks
in our armor. Not one of us can carry

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Every once in a while a poem arrives with no return address, no note from weary relatives saying, "Please take this poem in and give it a home," no luggage, no name tag. Nothing. It just shows up. And I guess it is to me to make sense of it.

Number 16: Scary Poetry Gong

The House Begs to Speak


Soffits grant permission,
gutters open the floor
pitched roof provides a platform.

Draped in black towels
days after Halloween
the children tumble
from heaving orange pumpkins
treats and wrappers caught
in their teeth, a low crackle
creeping between stained lips.

An empty apron slides
out the open front door
boney skeleton close behind.

Broom handle pokes,
prods words refusing to stand
at attention. No crowd
gathers under the chimney’s
panicked smoke. Neighbors
char dinner in backyards
knee-deep in soft root
vegetables and dripping leaves.

Glinting silver spatula curled
in long-stemmed hand—
a wicked knuckle microphone
shoved through cob-webbed window--
when will someone speak?
Bats hang right-side up
in anticipation. Witches
dressed as church-ladies
drop from the sky.
Snow begins to fall.

If the mailman leaves
a match, flames will lick
our faces, draw our tongues
out in the haunted open.

Lucky #13: Poetry Gong Bangs On

All Good War Stories Start With a Little Something Landing on the Ground


Leaves are falling in the backyard
yellow maples, green oaks,
sailing down like miniature paratroopers
storming our home.
Surrender! they cry, shaking off
limp parachutes, untangling themselves
from crossed lines. There are no patriots here.
Soon, the house is surrounded
one by one we file out
a legion of wrongdoers toting our sins
in backpacks and ruck sacks,
plush poodle purses and bulging messenger bags
heads lowered, princess pajama tops
and Spongebob sweatshirts pulled over
guilty faces. Father hides beneath the label
of last night’s microbrew. Mother wishes she had sprung


for the full length apron, settles
on a women’s rake--
tiny, preposterous.
Acorns pummel our heads,
brittle leaves crackle in the crisp autumn air.
Where is the hero throwing clichéd body
over the rest of us, taking one for the team?
Who will save the day? Let the history books show
it was not a fine wind blew the leaves away
but a firm slender hand, a rake, a dozen
tan lawn bags, purchased as an afterthought
while shopping for bowties, bread and beer.

Against Desiccation - Poetry Gong #11

Exoskeletons contain rigid and resistant components that fulfil a set of functional roles including protection, excretion, sensing, support, feeding and (for terrestrial organisms) acting as a barrier against desiccation. Exoskeletons have a role in defence from predators, support, and in providing a framework which musculature can attach to.


Skin turned inside out
eyeballs hanging from bloody wire
too gruesome for pancakes, too soft-bodied

to complete even a simple morning routine
though she is flat
as gluten thinned on a griddle.

Like an earthworm ravenous with rain
mothers step from kitchens
hands blistered and peeling

holding out casseroles to ghosts.
Find (dig) the family in the (a) hole
lost in the folds

of an incomplete exoskeleton
pliant, shriveling, gathering in upon
itself—an apron, an artifact, a defense

against burnt offerings, faulty cocoons
entrails refusing to exit. To join,
to crawl under, live among the tissue,

fossilize before the soft parts rot
requires a desire to change, a meeting
of cells, a declaration of kinship.

Enter in your own mouth, see skin
and eyes, hands and hollow bones
molt the unnecessary, feed on what remains.

NaPoWriMo #20 - Just Can't Get Enough of Those Prose Poems!

The Greatest Show in the World, or: The Wife Shares Her Deepest Fears

The truth is, I know you are the ringmaster. When the children and I pack up the wagon and head north for vacation, I know you pull the other family out of your hat. Dark-haired magician, you swing your red cape around that swarthy neck, doff your top hat, pull a rainbow bouquet of carnations out of thin air and take your rightful place under their big top. Step right up. You wouldn’t want to miss it. See the other woman’s bedroom set. Feel the real silk of her negligee. Mysterious. Surprising. I’m glad you’re all here. Let’s hear it for the amazing and talented mistress and her truly spectacular children. I know it’s hard to believe. Difficult, but not impossible. You’ve all heard of the man with another family. Difficult, but not impossible. Not as tricky as sawing the pretty assistant in half. Give me that saw. Is that a hand saw or a hack? Never mind the incredible disappearing family. They will return soon enough. Pay no attention to those 2.5 children behind the curtain. Keep your eyes on the other woman. Feast your eyes on the severed arms, waving hello. Waving hello, not dying. Step right up. You wouldn’t want to miss it.

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I have crossed to the other side--the prose poem side. It just feels right. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right, or if the form suits the subject, but it just feels right. This poem started to come in "regular" poem form, but then it seemed to morph into a prose poem. I welcome thoughts/comments/critique.

NaPoWriMo #7

Beautiful Objects, Out of Reach

The chandelier you can not draw without erasing
a hole in the center of lightbulb number two.

The tiniest frog in the bay.
Small is not always easy.

The glossy black water snake
slipping between thick strands of milfoil.

Heaven.

The memory of your first fish,
the simple quick tug. Then nothing.

The top of the mountain. There is always further
to go. The top of the last pine, for instance.

Heaven.
Even the gate.

The glorious heft of your father's shoulder
when you were three and he, half of now.

If you are lost, the key. If found,
the map with a red line leading away from home.

Heaven.
I hear it is beautiful.


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Today was a tough day, poetry-wise. I had many starts in my head, all tossed aside. Even a couple starts in the journal. Also tossed. Thought about posting something I wrote a coulpe weeks ago, still rough, but decided against it. Went for new. Glad I did. My mental muscles thank me.

Tomorrow my dad goes to the dr. to discuss possibilty of surgery for aneuryism. Talking to my mother last night, I had a brief moment of clarity--this is serious. The man has to decide his fate. I know our fate is ultimately in God's hands. I know. But they will be asking him to make a decision. It was all so clear for a moment, as if my mother was sending me a message. Then, just as quickly as the fog lifted, it settled back in. My make-it-all-better cloud settled in and I resumed thinking, well, he will just say no thanks. Don't cut me open and I will go on living. As if the time-bomb couldn't go off at any moment. And it could. But I csn't think of it.

Why mention all this? Well, for one thing, it's my blog! Ha. And for another, I think this is why I am having trouble writing today. I have never been one to write during times of crisis or unrest. I write for the beauty of words and the images and to create a word picture. For all that I write, not for catharsis or for meaning or for answers. So when I have this "thing" looming that is heavy and awful and demands answers, my muse says, sorry, dude. Not my problem. Thus, the list poem.

I Am No Genie

I don't know about prose poems. I have never been a fan. I like the brevity of poetry, the slim lines, the paring down of weighty, worthless words, the sharp images. Of course, I like Mary Oliver's prose poems. I feel like I am getting more of her wisdom, the more words there are.

But still, I am not a fan. I had a prose poem I wrote last Fall for an on-line poetry course, but even that, looking back on it and considering it for posting, left me cold. Sorry, poem. I love you, but, I'm just not that into you. That said, I did try to write a new one. It meanders. I have the urge to cut, cut, cut. And, not only that, no matter how I try, it doesn't show up properly on my blog. The line ends are all wrong! But, for now, I will let it fly. Fly little poem with seventeen million wings. Don't get bogged down...

I Am No Genie

A genie dressed in green silk robes slid out of my oven on a flaming gingham potholder. Paralyzed by the intoxicating aroma of chicken divan, the girl magician stood immobile on the edge of a wooden spoon. Before my very eyes, she dove into the casserole, offered herself up for an early evening feast.

Because they would not understand inadequacy, mommy-guilt or mommy testing her new bottle of acting tears, I tell my children the story of the flying kitchen genie.

But, alas, I am no genie, and it is just me, the mommy, perched atop my flat-top stove
waving a ladle at the radio, that harbinger of today’s disaster. The radio, squat, blue boom box that just informed me I have been feeding my family poison peanut butter,
a little Salmonella spread to go with their fluff and crustless bread.

You try and try to do right by your family, fill them full of vitamins and minerals,
steam the broccoli, deep six the fryer, broil the free-range chicken. Weekly, daily, minute by sticky minute, you send healthy lunches and sugar free snacks. Cushion the goods, nestle them among paper napkin love notes, written in Permanent marker.

All this, only to have an invisible voice looming behind an invisible finger pointing directly at you, chastising, accusing, sealing your family’s doom more airtight than Goldfish in Ziploc. Their fate, their gastrointestinal distress lies in your sticky hands.

It wasn’t like I bought it from some mustached door-to-door salesman. I went to the market, to market, to market, on a Monday like every other good mother. My steady hand passed over crunchy, full fat, most salt, tossed low-salt, low-fat right into the cart.

Oh, I try and try, and now, children, I think I will pull my hair high into a ponytail, drape a veil over my face, nod my head once, wrinkle my nose, and order some organic peanut spread on-line. Presto magic-o. Abracadabra. A-la peanut butter sandwiches!