Thursday, May 5, 2011

Me and poems and whatnot

If you've come here via some poetry-related link...well, I don't have an ending for that sentence. Like everything else here, this post is a work in progress.

I've used this site whenever I've done a poem-a-day run. I often do the challenges in April and November at Poetic Asides. (I did the April 2011 one, but I'm having trouble posting my poems; maybe I'll go back in and post them when I'm using a better browser.)

Anyway, this stuff is pretty rough, in general. I've had poems published in several places, and I'll try and get those links up here.

And now...back to my day job. Cheers.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

The finish, for now

Yeah, I'm running late. I'm in New Orleans, at JazzFest, overloaded with images, underloaded with energy.

Unsure of how to create the last poem of April (well, more or less), I pulled a random tarot card. Seven of wands.

The Day Before May Day
Before me, a serf wields a flowering stick,
half carrot, half bone. He does not look at me,
but at the ground next to my right foot. Between us,
more wands rise from a precipice. His world
is mostly sky. What feeds the branch he holds?
What is his purpose? Is he ready
to fight impediments, or
is he the impediment?
Maybe he’s yanked out an adolescent tree,
nipped it in bud. If so,
he’s got much work ahead.
They keep coming.
You are never the youngest for long.
I give up. go to the magic book
provided by U.S. Games.
“It is a card of valor.” “Six against one.”
No, I will pretend, against evidence,
they are an advancing morris side, ready
for a stick dance. They rise from death
up to this windy precipice
and though he meets them with fear,
they will teach him the old moves,
if not the old secrets.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Prompt: "And Suddenly..."

And Suddenly My Yogurt Bit Back

Down below the part that’s healthy, the ectoplasm
where industrious bacteria feed and fuck,
there lies the prize, the bliss-rising fruit
of the cacao bean, that dessert for the virtuous,
ambrosia for the fauxhemian saint. Yesterday,
some full-grown coworker asked me
“What is macrame?” The cutoff date: 1965.
Born later, and you missed everything.
Still, these tall kids in the office, with their
earbuds and tramp stamps and superior hair,
they’re buying the same stuff as me
these days, the organic-guaranteed brand
with the mellow brown cows on the cup. They’re
sucking up the same mind-altering sweet bugs,
stirring and stirring until the nutraceutical goo
is engulfed by the good stuff.
Chocolate Underground, baby. Dig it.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Run on, brave sentence, run on....

This is a quickie. I had to work to get the meter more or less right, and in the process I've left some lazy language in there ("bright" needs to be swapped out). But it meets the Brewer prompt, which is "end of the line."

The Neverending Fender Solo

What matters isn’t that he plays it loud.
What matters isn’t speed. What matters is
the way, when all seems done, he comes around
to find a lagniappe, a hidden clover
bearing four leaves, deep buried among threes;
as if God gave him elemental breath
attenuated, never labored, bright;
as if each of us dreamed of being trapped,
our streetcar barreling down Lombard Street,
with switchback after switchback bringing thrills,
or fatalism, fear, raw ecstasy,
and when it seemed we’d hit the water’s edge,
that trolley would create another track
stretching before us, unbelievable,
longer than any one of us could breathe.

font problems

I need to sit down one of these days and figure out why the fonts in this blog are so wonky.

Seems like the only time I sit down, when I'm not at work, is to write poetry.

Oh, right. And to watch Law & Order. And eat macaroni and cheese.

Anyway, if anyone reading this can offer me advice on the fonts, have at it.

(And no, this isn't intended as a poem, even though the layout kinda makes it look that way.)

Never too late for hope

Hope, Northeast D.C. Style

Hubcap hung from a tree
catches sunlight, headlights,
blends the blinding
and the beautiful.

Monday, April 26, 2010

More than five times


The first time,
I was four. Mom took me on a walk,
and just over the District Line
we found a tree shedding sweet
The second time,
I had a yen for the three-cent sinker
in the fishing aisle of
Youngblood’s Hardware. That, and
the bright green filament line.
The third time
I gave, letting Lena Walters
see my answer to the question
“How many candles fell
in Miss Havisham’s rotting parlor?
The fourth time,
it was a kiss, under the rampant horse
in Washington Park
with someone else’s
The fifth time was yesterday.
Or maybe there were six.
It’s hard to remember, to number
such sins.