Fire Alone Can Not Burn: a marriage

will spontaneously combust
similar to the lone man on a mattress
discovered in ashes one bright afternoon, after eating
(apparently) leftovers packed by the skinny waitress

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.

When Your Father is a Fireman, You Can't Avoid the Ashes: Poetry Gong #7

Once there was a fire and I walked
into it, head first, feet following

my eyes, skimming the white
hot coals, looking for a way

in. Once, despite her burning
weight my father carried

a screaming girl into a hot building.
Those inside hushed, removed their eyes

out of respect for the embalmed.
Only one man asked if the chicken
barbecue was any good that afternoon.

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Whew! Under the wire! And here is what is so good about poetry gong: if I didn't have an invisible deadline, I would have never written this poem. Now, I'm not saying it's a great poem. But it is a poem. And this string of words would have never had the pleasure (!) of being introduced if I didn't have a little pressure.

Oh sure, I wrote two other poems today. One in the morning in the course of my write-five-minutes-before-I-get-out-of-bed-writing, and one while the kids and hubby played after lunch (I can barely bring myself to admit we were at McDonalds...) In fact, I considered going straight to bed tonight without posting.

Yes, dear reader, I was going to blow the whole thing off. Write a witty piece tomorrow about how I wrote two poems so, technically, I haven't failed, don't have to go back to the beginning of the gong. Make a bunch of excuses about being out all day, falling asleep with my son after reading to him... But, I didn't. I picked a poem out of Mark Strand's Man and Camel, I read for inspiration, and I wrote a poem. And I'm glad.

NaPoWriMo #30 - Oh Yeah!

Spreading Like Wildfire: Notes From a Fireman’s Daughter

Fire is nature’s housekeeper. Smokey the Bear says so, and he is one of the most honest men in my life, so I believe him. I invite fire into my home. The whole family is in need of some serious keeping. Dear neighbor, Hello! We will be conducting a controlled burn here at our place. Mind the drapes. Mind the children. Mind your business or we’ll scorch you, too. Hot head. Hot spot. Is that any relation to the G-spot? What is it with all these children now-a-days (mind the children, I tell you), playing with matches, setting fires when they should be setting goals, setting the table, keeping house, gosh darn it. Fire is nature’s housekeeper. Maybe the children know something we don’t.

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Not one of my strongest poems this month, but it has potential. And it's fitting that it's about fire, as my dad, having surgery tomorrow, is a 60-some year veteran fireman.

I have thoroughly enjoyed NaPoWriMo. I plan to try and keep it up, maybe for a year. We'll see. Who knows what tomorrow may bring.