For day 28 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "What really happened."
you wouldn't believe--what
really happened--it was the
stuff of Hallmark, magical
memories served up steaming with
a mug of hot cocoa, the edges of
the page glistering with those
sparkly bits that decorate
shop windows, turn the page, turn
the page until we read our, our
finally, our
happily ever after
snap a picture, quick, before
it's gone
28 November 2010
Canvas
For day 27 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "Blame the ______."
blame the way the sun
crept in at the window, boiling
gold, covering the canvas, the
pane, from top to bottom
too soon, too bright for the
eyes still longing for sleep,
the hands fumbling for
coffee, the feet stumbling
into shoes, this lassitude
(and nothing else)
making her tongue wordless
blame the way the sun
crept in at the window, boiling
gold, covering the canvas, the
pane, from top to bottom
too soon, too bright for the
eyes still longing for sleep,
the hands fumbling for
coffee, the feet stumbling
into shoes, this lassitude
(and nothing else)
making her tongue wordless
Stairwells
For day 26 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "on the run" poem.
down the stairwell again
and out the door, bang
with a slap upon the
sidewalk, the school run
then the bank (open at eight),
the post office, grocery (pepper,
milk, bread, bones for soup),
drugstore for baby medicine to
lower a fever, bandages for a skinned
knee, the stationers for several
cards, the cherries covered in
chocolate
on the run to beat the bus,
collect the mail, call the social
worker, laundry then, and dinner and
done
down the stairwell again
and out the door, bang
with a slap upon the
sidewalk, the school run
then the bank (open at eight),
the post office, grocery (pepper,
milk, bread, bones for soup),
drugstore for baby medicine to
lower a fever, bandages for a skinned
knee, the stationers for several
cards, the cherries covered in
chocolate
on the run to beat the bus,
collect the mail, call the social
worker, laundry then, and dinner and
done
Bad Animal
Day 25 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "animal" poem.
teeth bared to tear
another
ivory-sharp-poison-
tipped,
man--is a
bad animal indeed
burrowing into the
gloom and shade
best suited to
such deeds as he
relishes
teeth bared to tear
another
ivory-sharp-poison-
tipped,
man--is a
bad animal indeed
burrowing into the
gloom and shade
best suited to
such deeds as he
relishes
Quilt
For day 24 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "spaces" poem.
between quilt and fitted sheet is
the best space
before the yolk of the sun
has broken from the shell
of the sky. dark, yes, quiet,
no--the radio hums thickly,
male, male, with a touch of
female to tell the traffic
....
lazy hand slaps it quiet, for
a space
until a cry, the final alarm,
brings soles to carpet and then
on and on through all the day,
tangled-thick, trying
between quilt and fitted sheet is
the best space
before the yolk of the sun
has broken from the shell
of the sky. dark, yes, quiet,
no--the radio hums thickly,
male, male, with a touch of
female to tell the traffic
....
lazy hand slaps it quiet, for
a space
until a cry, the final alarm,
brings soles to carpet and then
on and on through all the day,
tangled-thick, trying
Bird's Custard
For day 23 of the PAD challenge. An "anti-form" poem.
custard, so, coalesced in the
pot, stir, stir so it does not
congeal (wrist heat-seared) the Birds's for the
pudding, the delicious lack of
form puddling down onto the
old country roses, pale gold sweet, the
holiday taste wrought from
powder and a little milk, strange
chemistry to make memories
amongst the sultanas, the spices,
dried currants, citron too
custard, so, coalesced in the
pot, stir, stir so it does not
congeal (wrist heat-seared) the Birds's for the
pudding, the delicious lack of
form puddling down onto the
old country roses, pale gold sweet, the
holiday taste wrought from
powder and a little milk, strange
chemistry to make memories
amongst the sultanas, the spices,
dried currants, citron too
25 November 2010
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
For day 22 of the PAD challenge. Poem that "takes a stand."
and here we see the natal
star to guide their way, some
thousands of years elapsed and--
still we wait for him--how
hard for her, alone, in a strange
country, and she so young
in a desert land, so far from
mother, sister, aunt, a number on a form, to
be registered, and still he is
remembered, in thought and word and
deed, though spat upon, reviled,
the star still shines
and here we see the natal
star to guide their way, some
thousands of years elapsed and--
still we wait for him--how
hard for her, alone, in a strange
country, and she so young
in a desert land, so far from
mother, sister, aunt, a number on a form, to
be registered, and still he is
remembered, in thought and word and
deed, though spat upon, reviled,
the star still shines
Garland
For day 21 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: A "permission" poem.
Yes, in as many words as that,
the forms, filled in triplicate,
tucked neatly away. Where? You
do not need to know--perhaps in
the dead files, the contracts cancelled
by those who cannot fly
and she recalls the file cabinets,
row upon row, their metallic ranks, some sticking, some
so loose they would bruise your
shin and catch upon your stockings, the
fine dust from the carbons coats her
hands, the telex shudders as the
yellow tape, now perforated, chugs,
chugs the message through to
Budapest, behind the wall, received
on the other end as she
and the other (so junior) assistants
re-apply blood lipsticks in a nineteen-thirties
washroom, heavy-mirrored, honey-gold color of
the furnishings outside so warm as to
suffocate as the Borden woman
swings down the hall, her bronzed
offspring (late of some Grecian islands) performing
oh-so-perfunctory filing
and tuneless whistling fills the air,
and there's a job, he says, for you
in California, whenever you want it
Yes, in as many words as that,
the forms, filled in triplicate,
tucked neatly away. Where? You
do not need to know--perhaps in
the dead files, the contracts cancelled
by those who cannot fly
and she recalls the file cabinets,
row upon row, their metallic ranks, some sticking, some
so loose they would bruise your
shin and catch upon your stockings, the
fine dust from the carbons coats her
hands, the telex shudders as the
yellow tape, now perforated, chugs,
chugs the message through to
Budapest, behind the wall, received
on the other end as she
and the other (so junior) assistants
re-apply blood lipsticks in a nineteen-thirties
washroom, heavy-mirrored, honey-gold color of
the furnishings outside so warm as to
suffocate as the Borden woman
swings down the hall, her bronzed
offspring (late of some Grecian islands) performing
oh-so-perfunctory filing
and tuneless whistling fills the air,
and there's a job, he says, for you
in California, whenever you want it
21 November 2010
Wrong Turn
For day 20 of the PAD challenge. A "right" or "wrong" poem.
no right or wrong turns with you, map in
hand, marshalling the troops,
loading the luggage
heading for the flat middle of
the country, carpeted with
corn and soybeans, we
stop for lunch at the Flying J,
fingering pink packets of saccharin and
staunching bleeds of ketchup with a
quick swipe of a napkin, heading
off the mess before it spreads
too far, then back into the car,
even right in your wrong-ness,
the happy mistake, the accidental
short-cut, bringing us back to that quiet cul-de-sac
no right or wrong turns with you, map in
hand, marshalling the troops,
loading the luggage
heading for the flat middle of
the country, carpeted with
corn and soybeans, we
stop for lunch at the Flying J,
fingering pink packets of saccharin and
staunching bleeds of ketchup with a
quick swipe of a napkin, heading
off the mess before it spreads
too far, then back into the car,
even right in your wrong-ness,
the happy mistake, the accidental
short-cut, bringing us back to that quiet cul-de-sac
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