#30

Devils’s claw hangs on
To my sock down the dry bank
Earth brittle as bone

See more progress on: Share in NaPoWriMo 2012

#28 - #29

28.
They stand in front
Of the door of the funeral home
They are there for another funeral
not the one I am there for
yet they gather in front of the door
I need to open
To go inside
and I feel invisible

29.

The night before the the last day of
Recording a poem a day
Is it possible
To make one
Tomorrow
Just so
For the last day of the month
Or would it be more
Interesting
To end with
The blank
Piece
Of
Paper
I will sleep on it

See more progress on: Share in NaPoWriMo 2012

#17 - #27

17.
The first word
is usually a throw away.
Out of the gate
too fast.
Disqualified for a foot fault.
Too easy.
Too shallow.
Unless it digs in and refuses to move
to the back of the line
or disappear on command.
Resists the backspace key.
Shows some gumption and settles in for a fight
for survival and keeps coming back.

18.
a poem destroyed
does it have an afterlife
of regret
or live in purgatory
wringing its hands
or plot for revenge
and a comeback
with a big reveal

19.
supported by a sea of salt
feeling more buoyant and ebullient
than ever
before
or ever
again

20.
a mad rush is what it is
a reel on fast forward
with no time
to catch
a breath
this life
it is what it is
a mad rush

21.
making a poem in a language
apart from one’s first
would be a luxury
a second life
to cherish
cuando hay esperanza

22.
a day in Kansas
holding our collective breath
as we watched what
the chasers saw
as they angled their
cameras just
so

23.
in the city
a puzzle gets solved
but no one
gets relief
as the story is one
that no one wants to hear

24.
it is an experiment
with no period
no comma
no signposts
no time to take a breath
because it needs to be
taken in
all at once
in one big gulp
of words

25.
my Wednesday
and I look back
and see the lack of punctuation
in my poems
what is that about?

26.
No doubt
a poem a day
will keep something away
But I don’t know what
except for good poetry
But there is something to be said
for the brute force of it
Getting right down to it
My ever-present internal judge locked safely away
for a month
I wonder what she would think of a year sentence.
Maybe let out for good behavior
when needed.

27.
This is not a poem I don’t think.
or maybe it is.
It’s a stomach churning
lurching feeling.
Jonesing for Los Angeles
Don’t now why but perhaps
it is like the yearning for
a boy who is only bad for you
but in some ways is good for you
but you only get confused when you
think about it. So you don’t think about it.
And just live through it.
Live with it.
And sometimes crush it
and stuff it
somewhere safe

See more progress on: Share in NaPoWriMo 2012

Numbers 14, 15 and 16

14.
It’s more dogged,
this process,
than inspiration.
That’s my theme song
for the month.
No rocking out to a shower
of shock and awe.
It’s just one. word. after. another.
One. word. then. the. next.
until. the. poem. ends.

15.
It was a morning of small moments.
A red cardinal perched on the lilac bush.
No lilacs yet, but bright green leaves made
a startling backdrop to the precise red.
I believe I could have meditated on that
vision for days.
But he flew away.
A squirrel balanced on the deck railing.
Paws together and on high alert even in repose.
Looking as if he wanted to catch a prayer before
flinging himself onto the tree.
A small rabbit planted itself in the long grass.
A neighbor cat glided along the driveway.
Three deer bounded across the street.
All the while, I walked through the house,
gathered up the small things that make a home,
a life
and arranged them in boxes.

16.
It slips in as I brush my teeth.
A thought.
I am reminded what someone told me once.
Your thoughts are not always your friends.
So.
It means that some thoughts are our friends.
And others are not.
Some are welcome
and some are not.
I suppose the welcome ones could also be unfriendly.
Right now, I would prefer to brush my teeth
without a thought.

See more progress on: Share in NaPoWriMo 2012

13 Poems on Friday the 13th in April

“Empty white paper,
a world of pure potential,
a world before creation,
this is the perfect moment for a poet.”
Poetry (2010)
Kim Yong-Tak

13 Poems on Friday the 13th in April

1.
Halfway through Poetry Month and nothing.
No poem each
day. Maybe next year?

Last year, a strong start and
a defeating end

And weak because
some were revisions,
not originals.

This year, after a slow start a strong end?

Maybe next year I’ll get it right.

So now it is time.

To begin.

Empty white paper. The perfect moment or something else?

NOTE: See last year’s attempts at http://simplyshorts.blogspot.com/

2.
It’s in between
the time it takes for
a butterfly to flap its wings
and revisions in your head,
a battle royale of second guessing
and darts tipped in a potion made
to paralyze one’s prey.
It’s in between that
a poem is lost

3.
Vested service or
ecclesiastical vestments.
Settled.
Fixed.
Absolute.
Except when they’re not.

4.
His big warm hand
covered mine the first time
It was comforting and electrifying at
the same time
A singular sensation
once
over in a second
or a millisecond
to be sure, fleeting
to be sure, never forgotten

5.
Once, I fell down the well and
immediately
regretted not listening to my mother.
I looked around.
Something resembling a giant
bunny was there. But he was no Mad Hatter.
And definitely no queen.
I felt in no danger in losing my head.
Soon a visiting priest gingerly climbed
down and
scooped me up.
No broken bones.
They said it was a miracle.
They said I was unconscious.
But I’m sure I was other-conscious.

6.
An intervention to an intervention to an intervention.
So confusing.
Was she on the wrong path, or were they?
Was she wearing rose-colored glasses when a microscope was needed
to see the fine details of reality?
Dreamkillers or voices of reason?
Are windmills tilting?
Or do we all ask too many wrong questions?

7.
A world before creation.
When it’s all possible and perfect
and exquisite and
then it’s not
an empty page anymore
and it’s not what was hovering
just beyond.
The words that speak truth and
soothe souls and make people
sigh or laugh or gasp or weep or
clap or love or

It’s not an empty page.
It is what it is.

8.
Spider dragline silk with
tensile strength of high-grade alloy steel
creates the outer rim of the web
prepared to capture and
allow natural death.

9.
They need to be somewhere beautiful
for just a moment
to be quiet
to be slightly sad
And wonder
when they crossed over
to join those
who are not essential

They gather in groups
in corridors
in cubicles

Then they make way
and
move aside

10.
Because of a boy
She roamed far from
her base far from
her center far from the truth
of her
And left no
markers
to find her way back

11.
Weeding my garden
can be no more tedious
than begging for words
from an unknown muse.

My back, however, remains
pain free

12.
Not yet waving the white flag
of defeat
but resolute that
next April
I will begin
on the first day to write
and scale any wall no matter
how tall
to cast
the first word

13.
What will come tomorrow?
Surely this exercise of 13 has
primed the muse
and tomorrow
some semblance of
poetry
will show its face.

See more progress on: Share in NaPoWriMo 2012

“Empty white paper,

a world of pure potential,

a world before creation,

this is the perfect moment for a poet.”
Poetry (2010)
Kim Yong-Tak

Sunday's Poem -- Late

The black and white cat
Drinks from a white porcelain cup
Her pink tongue
The only sliver of color
In the clear water
She then goes to sit among the
Red and yellow tulips
The only black and white
Among the color

Posted with BloghuB for Windows Phone 7

More poetry

The Party
By Sandra -Thomas

Nice enough party
Nice enough champagne
So nice
Terrific
Wonderful
To see you again
We should
Have lunch
Have dinner
Get together again soon
(Your new home looks great)
Thank you
Lovely

Sorry

So sorry
Have to walk the dog
Get some air
Go for a smoke (does one do that anymore?)
Get more champagne
Be right back
Back in a minute
Won't be long
Make yourselves
At home
Posted with BloghuB for Windows Phone 7

No poetry today.
by Sandra Linville-Thomas

Dry as a bone.

Words swimming in my head
but none are able to come to shore.
None can gain purchase.

None of these words can arrange
themselves to make a poem.

There seems to be no way to help
them gather themselves, to help the words
come together
in any new way
to find a way toward something new to say.

What hasn't been done before.

Or said before.
Perhaps tomorrow.