tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46814714605159539632024-03-21T21:48:48.140-05:00wysfoolpwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-53717385474571287122010-12-08T19:25:00.000-06:002010-12-08T19:25:56.390-06:00Considering Forms of Love<h3><span style="color: black;">Playground</span></h3><span style="color: black;">You're on your back,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> sweat on your belly drying like sand;</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> striped sheet,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> a smell of tidal marshes</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> and iron.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> The surge and ebb of him is still echoing</span>--<br />
<span style="color: black;"> in your pulse and trucks out on the highway,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> and the thwacking blades of that helicopter.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> It has been searching for an hour,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> or fifteen minutes, useless,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> like a dog chasing cars.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> His breath has turned slow,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> and you trace cracks in the ceiling</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> while they turn into branches and twigs</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> against a March sky and</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> you are watching clouds spin</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> above the merry-go-round</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> you pushed it fast</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> to catch and lean back, and back</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> until your hair brushes the dust</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> as you wind down from flying.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6KowXMJXXfjX4CWp5VTpxBkN_jz9s5VR-2LQs-9vcPBBnHmx8VrpEExnG2FsJOUtdhAGVuobgHxSkleDtNhxm_t6rjltZVJg48gvxRxSaLTk5GJJnYAACpn1vCS_Vj-_pvUS7uzrCCWq/s1600/dancer.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6KowXMJXXfjX4CWp5VTpxBkN_jz9s5VR-2LQs-9vcPBBnHmx8VrpEExnG2FsJOUtdhAGVuobgHxSkleDtNhxm_t6rjltZVJg48gvxRxSaLTk5GJJnYAACpn1vCS_Vj-_pvUS7uzrCCWq/s200/dancer.png" width="101" /></a></div><br />
<br />
WWP Prompt 31: Love<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote><a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2010/12/02/thursday-prompt-31-love/">They say, Eskimos have over a hundred different definitions for snow. We have only three designations for Love: Divine, Fraternal, and Erotic.This prompt is about different people and ways that we love them. We are not asking for names, but rather qualities, behaviors, and the things these people do for you that make you Love them. In essence we are looking for a wider based definition of Love. Is it a certain type of humor that draws you, an attitude or way of seeing things?</a></blockquote></div>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-9872483877335128512010-10-22T08:59:00.000-05:002010-10-22T08:59:57.592-05:00adiosOctober is ending, November's on its way.<br />
Dancing on the precipice is fine for spring and summer,<br />
but it's time to fold the motley and put it on its shelf.pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-91295553993727627512010-10-22T07:46:00.001-05:002010-10-22T07:53:18.412-05:00skinwalker's tossthis is a little choppy,<br />
but, hey, Halloween...<br />
<br />
<b>Skinwalker's Toss </b><br />
<br />
worn work boots, wing tips, stilettos, Birkenstocks,<br />
flip-flops, moccasins, Doc Marten, Converse, bare<br />
dog trailing a chain, cat, pigeon, owl, rat<br />
no matter the form of the foot it will falter.<br />
ecstasy or peace, the shapeshifter's chance<br />
<br />
on one street out of many in any small city,<br />
a building with a doorway in no way remarkable<br />
casts a lure of peace to any who can hear<br />
the screaming dark moon,<br />
like a wild cat in heat<br />
shrieking<br />
<br />
throw off your skin and come to your sister<br />
in the one form you belong to: none<br />
unity, unity, fleshless and free<br />
wild in the space between fragmented wholes<br />
<br />
but the door whispers sanctuary, sanctuary, home<br />
<br />
the future will hang like the last autumn fruit,<br />
out of reach, out of knowledge<br />
one last new skin could be destiny in flesh<br />
or the anguish and formless insanity<br />
who calls the winner when the coin doesn't fall?<br />
every dark of the moon<br />
the same choice returnspwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-39624043259258054452010-10-15T00:24:00.001-05:002010-10-15T00:42:41.944-05:00poem from a wordle: the Flock<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2SDwCuUxvfr_plPn_ElUJh4G4SLL_P_Pa6qpijet7ugS8RkZ04jY42mcA-O07_5qIpU9yTtvGdmV2WnjOuXKdmrwLXwdyGEd0dSRT2YsNH1loPdjjD0d6CKPeUivHIiVipQC4FL70N8SL/s1600/wordle_october-11-300x237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2SDwCuUxvfr_plPn_ElUJh4G4SLL_P_Pa6qpijet7ugS8RkZ04jY42mcA-O07_5qIpU9yTtvGdmV2WnjOuXKdmrwLXwdyGEd0dSRT2YsNH1loPdjjD0d6CKPeUivHIiVipQC4FL70N8SL/s200/wordle_october-11-300x237.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">the Flock</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
Before the bitter winter comes,<br />
the purple martins gather.<br />
No extract of coal could be more black<br />
than their glossy iridescent masses.<br />
<br />
They trade away winter in hook-neck gourds<br />
and staircase-less apartments<br />
for the southern kiss of warmer days,<br />
and the drooping mass of Spanish moss.<br />
<br />
Mosquitoes bred in muddy sloughs<br />
they pluck like cherries on the wing.<br />
Their passing, thick as shadow, <br />
is right and perfect on the sky <br />
as a cat on a porch, blue lines on a page,<br />
or a smile on a porcelain doll.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3-lsMfLpwosmXA3FslnnV9MqO014ysnp2d6JK6zP_zJpMddM0NFosNksJ30viNtFmOAAs3k562LpbdnQ76iC4htnc2rwkkO7fJ0aG_VoJlDHG_Eb3nEreJreyHwcrHttioTxrRSu59JW/s1600/4540753568_c3a0609714_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3-lsMfLpwosmXA3FslnnV9MqO014ysnp2d6JK6zP_zJpMddM0NFosNksJ30viNtFmOAAs3k562LpbdnQ76iC4htnc2rwkkO7fJ0aG_VoJlDHG_Eb3nEreJreyHwcrHttioTxrRSu59JW/s1600/4540753568_c3a0609714_o.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/10/monday-prompt-october-11/">October wordle</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-43528518938731881302010-10-13T06:22:00.001-05:002010-10-13T06:26:32.433-05:00animal poem for WWPIn answer to your question:<br />
Yes.<br />
I can, in fact bwaawk like a hen.<br />
<br />
( conversationally ) Bwaaawk, bwaaawk, bwaaawk.<br />
<br />
( with excitement ) BWaaaawk!<br />
<br />
( self-satisfied, or petulant, oddly the same )Bwawk. <br />
<br />
and ( because there are always such moments ) Bwaawk?<br />
<br />
It's a skill; it's a talent; it's an art.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For other animal visions, see<br />
WWP <a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2010/10/13/prompt-23-its-post-your-poems-day/">Trip to the Zoo</a>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-29444232565956924312010-10-12T21:51:00.000-05:002010-10-12T21:51:04.460-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhuYjNpuPA6c7EJWKN7rf_foiQDIwK1IzQ7U5kd94uDV_Ir7mJ7p3RXIgrR8qIS67yzlwwHkM93Ldq7d0CLdTf0Bi45DN7J5rlx6tCwAuKKphy70Fw6w_9MtnypxaafhKJUat24JU730T/s1600/wordle_october-11-300x237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhuYjNpuPA6c7EJWKN7rf_foiQDIwK1IzQ7U5kd94uDV_Ir7mJ7p3RXIgrR8qIS67yzlwwHkM93Ldq7d0CLdTf0Bi45DN7J5rlx6tCwAuKKphy70Fw6w_9MtnypxaafhKJUat24JU730T/s200/wordle_october-11-300x237.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #d0e0e3; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">raise </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #d0e0e3; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
high <br />
the poop<br />
deck, car<br />
penter;<br />
the wal<br />
rus <br />
wants<br />
to sail.<br />
<span style="color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="color: #45818e;">pluck</span> </span>up<br />
the <span style="color: #45818e;">droop</span><br style="color: #45818e;" /><span style="color: #45818e;">ing</span> <span style="color: #674ea7;">stair</span><br style="color: #674ea7;" /><span style="color: #674ea7;">case</span>;<br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">extract</span><br />
the <span style="color: #b45f06;">hook</span><br />
from alice,<br />
and let her<br />
swim away.<br />
her <span style="color: #38761d;">muddy</span><br />
<span style="color: #45818e;">gourd</span>'s <br />
gone <span style="color: #38761d;">bit</span><br style="color: #38761d;" /><span style="color: #38761d;">ter</span> and the red<br />
queen's <span style="color: #741b47;">pur</span><br style="color: #741b47;" /><span style="color: #741b47;">ple</span> in<br />
the face<br />
from <span style="color: #e69138;">glos</span><br style="color: #e69138;" /><span style="color: #e69138;">sy</span> <span style="color: #134f5c;">doll</span>s<br />
and <br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">kiss</span><br />
es</span><br style="background-color: #d0e0e3;" /></div>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-71869817057216302222010-10-11T13:30:00.001-05:002010-10-12T15:39:16.522-05:00Libran Workle in Progress<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1bpqfPP2KLtRk-LvaBafHPpCLxs9w4h5QdmGuhW1u06iwm259ffsV83oMFxCzC6142lsxw559-j1TFJlZU8QurlXHPt-YDsXz4BXiuIa0MNqiHDVHZHPWYcCWgz4Nju3JQ1BBDiZ2eSP/s400/100+wordle.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.rallentanda.blogspot.com/">100 words</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
I begin to doubt that this will work, but even if it doesn't I will have learned something. When the haibun prompt came up, it reminded me that I had intended to try some American Sentences. I didn't then. Now along comes what ought to be the perfect occasion.<br />
Of course, I haven't even read that many, but I have a hunch that mine are, not simply not good, but actually bad.<br />
<br />
Still, we lie on our backs and wave at the ceiling before we start to crawl, before we walk, before we run.<br />
About 1/3 of the way through the list: <br />
<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Refrigerator latch broke; pap inside's tepid, and a touch foetid.</li>
<li>La primavera: a warm embrace, but her storms have icy kisses.</li>
<li>A dust of butterflies wings wafts, delicate, past the trickle of tears.</li>
<li>A jet plane over the ocean lives by the beauty of fire and air.</li>
<li>A fleck of gold in his green eyes, sparked an alluring frisson of lust.</li>
<li>I escaped the lunch with a light heart and a handful of chocolate stars.</li>
<li>She snapped back, too warm to be a polite and well-modulated sheep.</li>
<li>The clasp at the nape of her neck was sea glass, cool as a sky blue rose</li>
<li>Make an I ching trigram called amazing joy out of windstorm thick leaves.</li>
<li>To stuff a fig, you must love, not the fruit, but drudgery: or murder.</li>
<li>The fuzzy dice on her dash were studded with hot pink diamantes</li>
<li>At the roast they served her a baked swan song sauced with hot gin-soaked cherries </li>
</ol><ol> </ol><ol></ol>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-33057670832566567712010-10-06T14:02:00.010-05:002010-10-07T15:14:51.652-05:00Quantum Charlie<h3>Quantum Charlie</h3>there was a TV show.<br />
a man's mind bounced around<br />
in past tenses, like a fly in a window,<br />
and settled each week into some<br />
different body's set of troubles,<br />
leaving suddenly just as things began<br />
to clarify, about to go right.<br />
<br />
Imagine:<br />
week after week<br />
with nothing but<br />
Bukowski's hangovers.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qydxUXrlX2IYVELK___CTcADCxKIOyAG0Z1YEBSm3PYDkgIDDfR1dNDyf_W-9mt7yuXBmb9kYh0L1PhKsjcAlUH43SWZa_JK7dttzUujv9WsKjJKneDxHK0nPwUVhk475dPRwP6KOlIj/s1600/big+tent+sm.jpg" /></a></div>MONDAY PROMPT / October 4 <br />
<br />
<blockquote><br />
<div style="padding-left: 150px;">www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 108</div><div style="padding-left: 150px;">Question And Answer</div><div style="padding-left: 150px;">he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer<br />
night, running the blade of the knife<br />
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking<br />
of all the letters he had received<br />
telling him that<br />
the way he lived and wrote about<br />
that--<br />
it had kept them going when<br />
all seemed<br />
truly<br />
hopeless.</div><div style="padding-left: 150px;">Charles Bukowski</div></blockquote>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-70035904455735443532010-10-06T13:40:00.000-05:002010-10-06T13:40:16.773-05:00Exercise #1<span style="color: black;">One thing that came to me along with my husband was a book of essays, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Vibration-Cooking-Travel-Notes-Geechee/dp/B000NQJQNS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1286386604&sr=1-1">Vibration Cooking</a>. While it does in fact contain recipes, it is in reality a book about people making joy and home from the ingredients at hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">The directions were clear enough, but not restrictive.<br />
<span style="color: white;">.........................</span>To question would require an act of imagination, or<br />
<span style="color: white;">.........................</span>the mind of a ten-year-old.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br />
But adaptable. There was no saying: I don't have that<br />
and closing the book on the whole enterprise.<br />
And why not be open to interpretation?</span><br />
<div style="padding-left: 90px;"><span style="color: black;">This was not neurosurgery,<br />
or baking,<br />
or contract law.</span></div><br />
<span style="color: black;">Locking the door behind me,</span><br />
<div style="padding-left: 90px;"><span style="color: black;">I stepped out into October, with the crows cursing the gray cat, <br />
acorns clicking onto the sidewalk, dogs making exuberant remarks <br />
about squirrels and personal property, and juvenile rodents devouring <br />
the red ripe kernels of pomegranate-like magnolias</span></div><br />
<span style="color: black;">and began to</span><br />
<div style="padding-left: 90px;"><span style="color: black;"><strong><em>Walk At Least 5 Minutes Every Day</em></strong></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqGukYtcgNtUtyjSeXXq9ols5lfPzcPf8qpXdwZ8bMSlAmWfk7C-8aBUGxDA15kjSiJg0yUayPxZn374C8_aqTLII70UO32uK3JKInd3UZalwrzgaygo3dDjPC91vcn1p56GBtYhdc6Xc/s1600/wewritepoems-banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqGukYtcgNtUtyjSeXXq9ols5lfPzcPf8qpXdwZ8bMSlAmWfk7C-8aBUGxDA15kjSiJg0yUayPxZn374C8_aqTLII70UO32uK3JKInd3UZalwrzgaygo3dDjPC91vcn1p56GBtYhdc6Xc/s1600/wewritepoems-banner.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<h2 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2010/09/30/thursday-prompt-22-whats-for-dinner/" rel="bookmark">Thursday Prompt #22 What’s for Dinner?</a></span></h2>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-61348795734470710532010-10-01T07:37:00.010-05:002010-10-01T08:52:05.771-05:00HOLDING IN HER HAND AN APPLE... I want your money and<br />
your life she said stepping outside<br />
her trite and truly off-the-rack<br />
painted by the numbers linear life.<br />
none of that namby-pamby wishy-<br />
washy, flip-flop, either/or, either.<br />
I want it all she said, leveraging<br />
with the addition of an air guitar.<br />
beautiful, I'll be the goldfoil angel<br />
wearing diamonds like glass beads,<br />
crashing masked balls bare-faced,<br />
cursing infants for their own good.<br />
and I wonder why didn't I do this <br />
years ago<br />
<br />
____ ____ ____<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
You can see the genesis of this <a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/09/monday-promptseptember-27/">here</a>. <br />
And if you're wondering how this poem came about...<br />
<br />
I liked the story with Jill’s prompt so much that I decided to steal it.<br />
As a black-hearted highwayman. <br />
I stole the tree-fort tree and picked an apple from it.<br />
Stuffed her leverage in my pocket, while I was at it. My childhood was Disney-Grimm, so all the bad fairy curses turn out to have positive outcomes. And because the good fairies are indistinguishable from angels, and Jill seems like such an angellic imp, I just decked her in sequins and gold lame, and stole her off the top of the (now a fir) tree. <br />
<br />
But, because I am only pretending, I put everything (and everyone) back the way I found it when I was through playing bandits.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XpNu4pr82MrQmgyJhicHuKVqNmmljeDSb0PhMXyL56OsvWEHFSjpgdUPXWzPZoc1zRwrKhGd-ZwBa-HRvvsWlRVqlVY-pmYmvPpgHcK48Dz7QX0ep10A_yG29OoTi_Sf51BhKrlP9lyB/s1600/big+tent.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">big tent poetry</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-9941455790764487692010-09-29T00:29:00.003-05:002010-09-29T21:54:45.158-05:00gold<h3><span style="color: black;">the girl with dreams in place of a heart</span></h3><span style="color: black;">she liked books about horses<br />
and often concocted<br />
epic adventures for a girl just her age<br />
with golden palomino ponies,<br />
glossy black stallions and blue roans.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">always, in imagination,<br />
there would be triumph<br />
blue rosettes, golden trophy cups,<br />
racing silks like motley,<br />
purple as mardi gras.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">when the plots began<br />
to hinge on human males<br />
imagination drew romance:<br />
something old, something blue<br />
white satin, lace,<br />
and a golden ring.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1219773049"><img border="0" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHaaEF6GtanUN7samqArOpMTYL9Hy_Uy8Tb3oguGswwlxXmAnJrFQewqC6ISO-oui14TdNYUN3JSZWd0amSt1VrOdVSk1_5NT_0cRw4JggK9xamBZ4WcnzwDS-pkc6tkneBwA84ghaHBAy/s200/wewritepoems-banner.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2010/09/29/prompt-21-its-post-your-poems-day/">Prompt#21</a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Drop in and visit WWP. See how many ways there are to interpret a prompt.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-22385059791992304082010-09-26T13:07:00.001-05:002010-09-26T13:07:58.574-05:00whimsy's progress Note: this looks better at the <a href="http://wysfool.wordpress.com/">Wordpress location</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Whimsy: "a product of Capricious Fancy"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
tuesday: my whimsy<br />
is on backorder<br />
<br />
an e-mail from the company<br />
(with frown-y faces I discovered,<br />
images displayed just this time)<br />
declared with rueful glee<br />
they'd gotten orders<br />
past imagination<br />
responding to their ad suggesting<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">WHIMSY: It's<br />
a bad, bad thing</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>__ back atcha layta, they said<br />
<br />
<br />
wednesday<br />
my whimsy<br />
is en route<br />
<br />
an e-mail from the company<br />
took forever to download and open<br />
perhaps due to the embedded flash <br />
showering the page with pink and pastel purple<br />
pixels of ecstatic joyous symbolic confetti<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">a cache of whimsies was uncovered<br />
by a team of steadfast warehouse workers<br />
a room entirely filled with boxes<br />
labelled ( by mistake) OFF-Color</div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;">a party has ensued, but the whimsy's in the mail</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>__ back atcha layta<br />
<br />
thursday<br />
dear Frances,<br />
I just got the official notification that my whimsy has been shipped.<br />
Guess we under estimated them, or over estimated the amount of<br />
alcohol mislabeled in the back rooms of that warehouse,<br />
which I now know is in, of all places, Buffalo. When you were in<br />
school there, were there warehouses of off-color whimsy around?<br />
Perhaps shipped in from Kodak in Rochester? I would have<br />
put money on China, but there is a logic to Buffalo.<br />
is atcha layta a suburb?<br />
<br />
<br />
friday<br />
an e- from UPS<br />
no bells and whistles<br />
charts the progress<br />
of my whimsy<br />
in six-hour increments<br />
by longitude and latitude<br />
the package, when it comes,<br />
is described as oversized, but<br />
weighing >6 (?)<br />
It may be expected on the<br />
front porch no signature required<br />
TODAY between noon<br />
and six pm<br />
(cst)<br />
<br />
<br />
Saturday<br />
my whimsy arrived<br />
3:17 pm according to it's tracking label<br />
does anyone have access to a crowbar?<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEise2BPAxiJXS0JqECJX1U_MvExx9ueULjOWTw16cflMLW_ZNk3IJWLftO7CD4GYQ3X8hUFTzB0O77b_v5EOaSnLgLwWCYIAMOLtJBlCuKTWNJZVwEndAOsq8jW7D4m5Amvky9NhEpSU6nL/s200/writers-island-logo220e284a2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2010/09/25/prompt-22-for-2010-whimsy/</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEise2BPAxiJXS0JqECJX1U_MvExx9ueULjOWTw16cflMLW_ZNk3IJWLftO7CD4GYQ3X8hUFTzB0O77b_v5EOaSnLgLwWCYIAMOLtJBlCuKTWNJZVwEndAOsq8jW7D4m5Amvky9NhEpSU6nL/s1600/writers-island-logo220e284a2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-6918091262315780092010-09-24T04:18:00.006-05:002010-09-25T21:40:23.207-05:00Roc, Roc (who's there?)Big Tent Poetry wants <a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/09/monday-prompt-september-2/">a haibun with a mythological character</a><br />
<br />
I am sure many of you will have produced beautifully crafted haibun. You will have included the requisite flying horses or fairies gracefully while describing some place in such a way my mouth will water while I read.<br />
I could not write a haiku if my life depended on it, and not a good one even if it would save me AND make me wealthy. As to the narrative, well, I am not bad at beginning, but there is a reason I call myself Poet Wysfool and not Novelist Wysfool.<br />
If you can’t recognize it in all the verbiage, this is an apology for what follows. My only excuse is that it's a rough draft. a very puny excuse.<br />
___________________________________________________<br />
(something of a post script here: I've been reading some<br />
interesting interpretations of the prompt, and feel a little<br />
more comfortable trying the form. I'm not certain that it<br />
says what I want, but if you're interested when you finish,<br />
my attempt at haibun is at<br />
<a href="http://wp.me/p13b8u-20">haibun. or not haibun </a>)<br />
___________________________________________________ <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
One who has an irrational fear of heights, or a rational fear of extraordinarily large birds, would be advised to avoid the Outrider Mountain Peak Experience. I am one of the later, but no one warned me beforehand that the only access to the workshop, the only transportation to the peak, would have to be just such avians. Rocs.<br />
<br />
Outrider Mountain is impressive, as old, eroded mountains may still be. It is the first appreciable elevation one encounters traveling east across the plateau from the central basin. Miles of rolling eastern prairie run up against the ridge of Outrider like carpet at a wall. One turns off the highway a few miles before the road turns upward to cross the barrier by way of a low shoulder.<br />
<br />
At this junction there is a gas station with attached restaurant and shop.<br />
The Roc’s Roaster sells a great variety of unfortunate useless things in addition to the usual sodas and sandwiches, and also--as attested to by large peeling signs for miles in advance--fifteen flavors of roasted RocNuts. These are, in fact, small brown bags of peanuts. The place is depressing to say the most complimentary thing that comes to mind, and I wish to god that I had stayed there.<br />
<br />
[here would follow description of the winding dirt and gravel road that skirts the mountain for miles, the boulders that fall with frequency, occasionally landing on some farmer’s tractor or cow.<br />
[then we would discuss the landing site and the process of strapping into the harness by which the birds carry you, and the deeply unsettling sensation of rising one thousand feet into the air under with nothing between you and oblivion but the wings and badly maintained feet of two foul tempered birds.]<br />
<br />
The Rocs and their handler spoke to one another in a rough and unhuman language, but it was obvious to me that they were discussing my weight at some length, and it seemed for a while that the birds would refuse me passage, though I am only guessing: at no time did the birds or their attendant speak to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I at last staggered to my feet after landing, the larger of the birds muttered something and the woman who was assisting me out of my strapping laughed heartily. When she pointed me in the direction of my cabin, she handed me a wooden disk. It was red with the number 2000 in yellow.<br />
“Baldy says you’re heavier than you look, " she said, as if it were an explanation. "Seems to think you must have some triceratops in your family. That’s your diet.”<br />
<br />
<br />
__________________________________________________________________________pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-89947637691908353912010-09-21T16:35:00.001-05:002010-09-22T00:45:28.923-05:00Observation Regarding Rules<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2010/09/16/thursday-prompt-20-exceptions-to-the-rule/">Thursday Prompt #20</a> Exceptions To The Rule</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">September 16, 2010 — staff@wwp</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Exceptions To The Rule</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">We have all heard of the old adage: Rules are made to be broken. Was there a time in your experience when you broke the rules, a particular rule? Why did you do that and what was the outcome? Are there certain indiviudals for whom you always make exceptions? Are there areas in your life where there are never allowances for exceptions? Which rules would you like to break, and which exceptions would you wish to see carved in stone? You might want to take some time to do a free write on any, or all of these questions, or simply on the general concept of the prompt. See what poem you can “cook” from these ingredients! We’ll see you Wednesday to find out the results.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(while loves and losses, abstractly,</div><div style="text-align: right;">are fruit for the mill</div><div style="text-align: right;">grist for the fodder</div><div style="text-align: right;">available to any and all</div><div style="text-align: right;">the particulars of my transgressions,</div><div style="text-align: right;">and their lessons, are my own not to tell.)</div><b>Observation Regarding Rules</b><br />
<br />
two points of view<br />
if each wants the peach at hand,<br />
the one who eats it, eats it<br />
no contest<br />
<br />
say: the peach is just beyond<br />
it is the possible, the potential,<br />
the foreseeable future<br />
agree on it, or slug it out<br />
either choice is the first rule of your society<br />
<br />
the rest of the rules<br />
smooth the stones,<br />
save wear and tear on the knuckles,<br />
give social interaction a place to hang it's hat<br />
rules are agreed-upon, changeable, breakable, repairable<br />
rules create the gamepwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-39853775513730240302010-09-19T20:17:00.002-05:002010-09-19T20:19:10.123-05:00blue love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM0f3KE_L6FlW6MdQ0O8IRldARfPRYoplRlpTF8061tcaf3bG0SvTX32goFqa-IoJAY7Mxb9hGtg-JXOtOduC5QFX_oPehoRhc4t-zg6WD2sifcXfrCcjBN48xiea-3UhBrsIyCDQ2uDw/s1600/fisherman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM0f3KE_L6FlW6MdQ0O8IRldARfPRYoplRlpTF8061tcaf3bG0SvTX32goFqa-IoJAY7Mxb9hGtg-JXOtOduC5QFX_oPehoRhc4t-zg6WD2sifcXfrCcjBN48xiea-3UhBrsIyCDQ2uDw/s1600/fisherman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM0f3KE_L6FlW6MdQ0O8IRldARfPRYoplRlpTF8061tcaf3bG0SvTX32goFqa-IoJAY7Mxb9hGtg-JXOtOduC5QFX_oPehoRhc4t-zg6WD2sifcXfrCcjBN48xiea-3UhBrsIyCDQ2uDw/s1600/fisherman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM0f3KE_L6FlW6MdQ0O8IRldARfPRYoplRlpTF8061tcaf3bG0SvTX32goFqa-IoJAY7Mxb9hGtg-JXOtOduC5QFX_oPehoRhc4t-zg6WD2sifcXfrCcjBN48xiea-3UhBrsIyCDQ2uDw/s320/fisherman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This painting, <a href="http://www.kosturanov.com/paintings">Fisherman</a>, is the week's subject from <a href="http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2010/09/18/prompt-21-for-2010-fisherman/">the Writer's Island</a>. There is a lot of blue in it. There are a lot of blues. I do not know which colors go with which words, but their names are beautiful enough to be a poem on their own. I didn't go far from that. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>blue love</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<br />
you settle in his arms<br />
as a rowboat rests above<br />
the names of blue<br />
cerulean, periwinkle, ultramarine.<br />
<br />
his fingers on your forehead<br />
on your cheek<br />
call your skin magnolia, lotus blossom, rose <br />
his breath upon your eyelids calls you<br />
midnight, royal, cornflower, pacific, summer sky.<br />
<br />
sparks along your nerves<br />
are neon<br />
fires inside your chest<br />
are steel<br />
you swim in depths of indigo<br />
and memory of him<br />
will never be without<br />
a taste of blue.pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-56596575694799488882010-09-17T09:28:00.036-05:002010-09-17T10:09:49.375-05:00poem from a "wordle"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_431414422" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZ1kbiZEWqYxYSQO6yssX_EEvgpsXfFM6ciyaShYqvjY7UY3bPT7TDbToedGruQK3kqP8T_dqOyyzVGvvyIX3_asKz-V19TXakxU-CS7x4kXPdR7E1agLz3BLID1s0Rp0kc1uk0xJ0SbY/s200/wordle_september-131-e1283260829907.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/09/come-one-come-all-september-17/">Big Tent Poetry</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<b>the funeral home looked like gone with the wind</b> <br />
<br />
the last niece arrived late for the viewing.<br />
she skirted the swarm of ghouls milling<br />
at the door. camouflaged in dusty dull<br />
black carapaces, the females mimed at<br />
humanity with tears and scraps of laces.<br />
once past the canopy, an unctuous guide<br />
in graphite chanted her through hushed<br />
doors and past the crush of zombies, <br />
messily strewing the dead man's wake<br />
with the remains of his backbone and <br />
his embellished balls. The debris of a <br />
half-eaten child in miniature mourning<br />
answered to the fates of the bereaved. <br />
her uncle was already on the loading<br />
dock, fortunate.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(when I copied the words, half-eaten and child ended up together. I could not resist)pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-59779164755479353742010-09-14T14:00:00.000-05:002010-09-14T14:00:20.236-05:00the woman who was an old maple tree “<i> 'Cause everything is never as it seems</i> ”<br />
line from the song "fireflies" by someone called Owl City<br />
for <a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2010/09/09/thursday-prompt-19-begin-with-music/">WeWritePoems</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>the woman who was an old maple tree</b><br />
<br />
her hair below the line of gray is black<br />
a painted matte without the gloss of coal<br />
and sparse as winter grass<br />
her arms are thin<br />
almost emaciated<br />
lacking strength,<br />
she who was lithe<br />
enough to thread her body<br />
through a wedding ring<br />
can’t bend to pick up pins or pennies<br />
her chest within its narrow ribs<br />
is round and hard<br />
a wooden cage with welded cooper’s bands<br />
her breathing comes in gasps<br />
as thin as window glass<br />
she thought of the immaculate<br />
when her womb began to swell<br />
but knows the pain<br />
is wrong for blessing<br />
still bears it for remembrance<br />
like the black that lacks the gloss of coal.pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-51618513094469214972010-09-14T00:18:00.002-05:002010-09-14T00:20:10.435-05:00Life Sign<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSiPfUgb9vtkfZ3YLphdZdzAFB5uXKBRg8KT102QELAAL0CFNQPYNL0UyjlqtoK5N8isWV7vhN-1Ncdar6oIt6TVw_tjgJKmOb7ntgJ9q9BldBR8sdW9QfiakkapD5urMhDEd5Eexos4O/s1600/Life+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSiPfUgb9vtkfZ3YLphdZdzAFB5uXKBRg8KT102QELAAL0CFNQPYNL0UyjlqtoK5N8isWV7vhN-1Ncdar6oIt6TVw_tjgJKmOb7ntgJ9q9BldBR8sdW9QfiakkapD5urMhDEd5Eexos4O/s400/Life+Sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-27828126349051944332010-09-13T01:21:00.008-05:002010-09-13T21:47:48.758-05:00words, scrambled<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoE_9JNT4yB96fWjCWPBX0keBPcGo5GKAfLWqJTu1TYHoOsU2LUkOeNlTS0jnKdU_JYdfI9slc0J-Lb6p1dQJqxiM0OGi-amBQrxWyXPY7MBXNOjKt3ocHAaKsgw3prVNH-xUvLuoWvbmq/s1600/wordle_september-131-e1283260829907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoE_9JNT4yB96fWjCWPBX0keBPcGo5GKAfLWqJTu1TYHoOsU2LUkOeNlTS0jnKdU_JYdfI9slc0J-Lb6p1dQJqxiM0OGi-amBQrxWyXPY7MBXNOjKt3ocHAaKsgw3prVNH-xUvLuoWvbmq/s320/wordle_september-131-e1283260829907.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h1><br />
</h1><div class="meta"><div class="date">Monday Prompt/<br />
September 13, 2010</div>By <a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/author/big-tent-poetry/" title="Posts by Big Tent Poetry">Big Tent Poetry</a> </div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
Life is just a temporary fix--<br />
What goes over the fence last.<br />
Life is the half-eaten debris<br />
of Sunday dinner stuffed into<br />
tupperware. Embellish to your<br />
heart’s content, it is still leftovers.<br />
Life is the hem of your skirt caught<br />
by your heel. Life is the evidence<br />
of things you wish hadn’t been seen.<br />
Life will dock your dickory, yes.<br />
It’ll swarm, life will, in your walls<br />
where the winter is warm, troubling<br />
but life is sweet as a jumprope chant<br />
and supple as a child. Life is <br />
all about heart...and backbone.pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-6358663424772599492010-09-07T13:32:00.001-05:002010-09-08T00:28:08.632-05:00what I wish I'd said<b>I remember you </b><br />
<br />
friends, pals, buddies, chums<br />
there were plenty<br />
lovers, fewer<br />
dates, none<br />
you said come over<br />
I’ll make dinner. poured some wine put on some jazz<br />
prepping for the omelets sliced the tip off of your finger.<br />
just enough to make a mess.<br />
I believe I was embarassed for you.<br />
Not knowing what to do, I pretended nothing had happened.<br />
You were a nice guy.<br />
I should have fainted for you.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4RMlLDGGYvW4FSS7jdDf0Opfe88tog9OllRPeVtHg_MYT8zAjjNRtANE7Xv8VDfff3paVEH1Zlqirvzdv7e2Z009Sv2wWqmIsJ0vyemmNExA7cX0LjdOxF27dPJ9RcS4J5xfGK3QnX5h/s1600/big+tent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4RMlLDGGYvW4FSS7jdDf0Opfe88tog9OllRPeVtHg_MYT8zAjjNRtANE7Xv8VDfff3paVEH1Zlqirvzdv7e2Z009Sv2wWqmIsJ0vyemmNExA7cX0LjdOxF27dPJ9RcS4J5xfGK3QnX5h/s320/big+tent.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption"><h1><a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/09/monday-prompt-september-6/"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">MONDAY PROMPT/ September 6</span></a></h1></td></tr>
</tbody></table>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-43559471545339403482010-09-05T01:58:00.001-05:002010-09-08T00:23:51.917-05:00dreamneed to know: <br />
<br />
I took a nap this afternoon<br />
here is my dream:<br />
<br />
I am in a story that seems<br />
strange to me<br />
about a country<br />
far away across the sea<br />
and by a sea<br />
<br />
there’s never any rain<br />
and nothing grows<br />
not even lichens<br />
on the rocks <br />
the people there<br />
care for birds.<br />
they keep the rocky rookeries<br />
for herds<br />
of smoke gray <br />
crested sea birds<br />
and in the long winters they burn <br />
bricks of dry and ancient bird shit.<br />
when the nights roll gray the clock around<br />
under coverlets of woven down, they lie<br />
to sleep on neat and warming ash heaps<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqGukYtcgNtUtyjSeXXq9ols5lfPzcPf8qpXdwZ8bMSlAmWfk7C-8aBUGxDA15kjSiJg0yUayPxZn374C8_aqTLII70UO32uK3JKInd3UZalwrzgaygo3dDjPC91vcn1p56GBtYhdc6Xc/s320/wewritepoems-banner.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/">wwp </a></div><h2 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thursday Prompt #18, Need to Know Basis</span></h2></td></tr>
</tbody></table>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-90018116280946340312010-09-02T08:44:00.018-05:002010-09-03T11:14:32.853-05:00FetchWith someone else in mind<br />
I thought of you<br />
<br />
stalking Rochelle around the Fair grounds,<br />
infiltrating families, separating couples.<br />
<br />
You never touched, not salt skin or clothing,<br />
one of the fluid mass.<br />
<br />
Appearing accidental, you were beyond every projection.<br />
Such intense nonchalance.<br />
<br />
Did you intend fear?<br />
delight?<br />
<br />
I was amazed to find you behind the face<br />
of my quondam friend.<br />
<br />
The glint of blue neon off a parked car:<br />
you met my eye.<br />
<br />
<br />
Note: I heard the word "fetch" from a crowded hallway. Although the word does not appear here, I had it in mind in it's sense of ghost or apparition.<br />
<br />
.<br />
again, fetch<br />
<br />
<b>Hypocrypha</b><br />
<br />
Was that your horn<br />
that tapped<br />
on my ear?<br />
<br />
It woke me from a sound dream<br />
I was at peace; now I want an argument--<br />
you, me, and Revelations.<br />
<br />
Was that your skin<br />
cast off<br />
on the floor?<br />
<br />
When will you stop stepping out of it<br />
to prove a prophecy<br />
and hurry god?<br />
<br />
Was that your fetch<br />
that prayed<br />
on white knees?<br />
<br />
Will you be watching your performance<br />
when god taps you<br />
hypocrite? <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3-lsMfLpwosmXA3FslnnV9MqO014ysnp2d6JK6zP_zJpMddM0NFosNksJ30viNtFmOAAs3k562LpbdnQ76iC4htnc2rwkkO7fJ0aG_VoJlDHG_Eb3nEreJreyHwcrHttioTxrRSu59JW/s1600/4540753568_c3a0609714_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="117" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3-lsMfLpwosmXA3FslnnV9MqO014ysnp2d6JK6zP_zJpMddM0NFosNksJ30viNtFmOAAs3k562LpbdnQ76iC4htnc2rwkkO7fJ0aG_VoJlDHG_Eb3nEreJreyHwcrHttioTxrRSu59JW/s200/4540753568_c3a0609714_o.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/08/monday-prompt-august-30/">prompt: eavesdrop and steal</a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2021097154"> </a>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4681471460515953963.post-67766178094502276702010-09-01T02:11:00.000-05:002010-09-01T02:11:11.863-05:00I tried to write today.<b>I tried to write today.</b><br />
<br />
I wrote drinking watery draft<br />
from the prominence of<br />
half-stuffed vinyl bar stools<br />
at a glossless black top bar.<br />
<br />
I attempted to write the one about the Wagnerian blond<br />
in red fishnet stockings<br />
knocking down the grocery aisle rounder array of cans<br />
Campbell’s in red and white.<br />
<br />
Also, there was the one<br />
about shouldering open the swinging doors <br />
into that restaurant kitchen--<br />
two sorts of asylum there: the safe and the chaos.<br />
<br />
<br />
I forget what else, <br />
but I must have tried fourteen variations, <br />
and not one shows any signs of working.<br />
Like bipartisan governments,<br />
and exclusivity without vows, <br />
some things <br />
lack the traits to be taken<br />
seriously. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZWxeXkEElitVmVcrrdLNn8UhCINcedtiD-lJdxqw4agOJtzRmA-iuM-4DMiz-eVwnsO3XUJPRWkvoMBRlY0UXgYFnv-0NAffqyZ1PBFov21qBKal7rJWNowT1wuaZUvjaNLAPovyfBSK/s1600/wagnerian2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZWxeXkEElitVmVcrrdLNn8UhCINcedtiD-lJdxqw4agOJtzRmA-iuM-4DMiz-eVwnsO3XUJPRWkvoMBRlY0UXgYFnv-0NAffqyZ1PBFov21qBKal7rJWNowT1wuaZUvjaNLAPovyfBSK/s320/wagnerian2.jpg" /></a></div>pwfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758601121130482200noreply@blogger.com8