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National Poetry Month: 4 days worth of Poem-A-Day challenge

My participation in the Poetic Asides Poem A Day Challenge has been fun, but for the most part I feel somewhat uninspired. I must correct. Still engagement with words is uplifting. April is a busy month with T-ball, AP exams, school play, reviewing for the Delmarva Qrtly...

prompt 12: complete the line: So we decided
I like these prompts, and stuck with the first thing that came to me wee head this morning--early--8:00ish (normally I post late at night)


So we decided to keep fucking and ignore the storm
With the windows crying like hurt flappers
As the wind blew the curtains back like lashes
As drops peppered our hot skin. And fresh spring
Rolled out on the ends of your nipples
And hung on the ends of your hair
So that it felt, and so it became,
that you were the ringing cloth twisted
into the hot mouth of a starving man,
the water speeding his lips and mouth,
his body clenching and thrusting to consume
what it needs most, your skin, your taste, your water.

Prompt 11: object poems

Attic Clutter

Their love can be counted in their attic discards,
the boxes and boxes, and cartons of mothy clothes,
receipts rolled and rubberbanded
old lamps that lay like sleeping birds against the chimney stone,
toys and puzzles in bags, the crates of Christmas pasts,
seasonal bags of orange, green, and pink decorations
that gang up on the attic landing, eager orphans
srowding the door. Oh their love is cluttered
as the attic, as the garage, the basement, the closets,
so full a collapse is imminent,
so many are the tokens of their affections.

Prompt 10: poem about Friday...yes a dull prompt, but alas I feel not up to the task...of being inventive

Friday Night Traveling

Friday clips along,
and with the wind blowing striated clouds by my window,
it feels like you’re on a ship

and ahead where the water wheels end
there’ll be rum and dancing,
smoke curling out of long pipes

like weary beer faces
hanging in a beer garden in Munich.
Of this I can promise you, ropes will run up,

somebody’s lacing up for a voyage tonight,
and whether the vessel is a bottle,
ship, or dress, the old heart and head

will fill with galleons, and coins.
All the rope in the world couldn’t hold you back
especially with the moon high, the air fat and warm.

Prompt 9:Memory poem. This isn't a memory per say, but a memory of a reoccuring dream. Something I've written about before.

It is a small matter

Sitting on the down edge of a see-saw
my flats in the long cool grass,
how the skin prickles and bristles when the grass
brushes across,

the summer dress crumpled around my thighs.

There is a voice on the air, my mother, and the radio
and the smoke from my father’s pipe curling, curling, curling

then comes rumble

and water,
the sluicing slate of earth and tide

hours later would I awake in the arms of my father.

I thought I was on the beach,

but I was on a roof, the world a white noise
of water, water, water.


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