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Two-for-Tuesday


Day 7. Two-for-Tuesday prompt: 1. Write a days of the week poem, 2. Write a days of the weak poem.
I wrote three.



Each day is a gift

Sunday was topped with a bow
shiny silver paper inviting
reflection and hope.

Monday was behind the back
a quick surprise no time to wrap
while there were things to do.

Tuesday was a gift card
used without much thought
for practical household goods.

Wednesday was a flower
presented matter-of-factly
a small token of affection.

Thursday was a promise
more like an I-owe-you
remember patience is a virtue.

Friday was a red dress
slipped over silky skin revealing
at last it’s time to dance.

Saturday was slippers
friendly fuzzy fare
a lovely snuggle shared.



Rainy days and Mondays

On Monday, it rained and I thought
that’s what Mondays do best
as I shook the beaded droplets
from my new red boots,
the ones with the twill at the back,
and shivered my shoulders
into my black Mister Rogers sweater,
the one that’s unravelling slowly
after so many rainy days.



Weakdays

On the weakdays,
I wake up tired from
the tweets of surprise that
surprise me still because
how can you be surprised after
all this time and all our tears that
people are prey and pawns and
me too and me too and me too?

In praise


Day 6. Prompt: write a praise poem


In praise of sunny days
the scent of lavender
growing leggy in the field

Accolades for coffee cups
containing notes of chocolate
brimming with elixir

Glory to the voices
lifted in sorrow or in song
telling us their truths

Applause for opened doors
small simple kindnesses
and noticing each other

Dogs at the end of the world


Day 5. Prompt: write a self-destruct poem.


My dogs don’t care about the tweets.

Instead they sleep, the warmth of
their soft bodies curled and coiled
or stretched into impossibly long lines,
heads resting on carpets or blankets,
but ready always for the promise of treats
if we should even think of approaching the kitchen
during nap time.

To them the TV news is sound,
the blathering of self-important humans
with their fingers on the buttons reduced
to white noise. To static.

They don’t know war, or countries,
or creed, or intersectionality.
They have no gods or devils,
although, when awake,
they do take the utmost pleasure
in the crunch of dried leaves under their feet
and the magic of mud puddles.

At the end of the world, they sleep,
dreaming of squirrels slow enough to catch,
running through the wet grass,
long hikes in the deep woods,
and chickens in the pot.

Whosoever said nothing


Day 4. Prompt: Title your poem Whosoever (blank). Then fill in the blank.


Whosoever said nothing…

When we told you what happened,
what was done against our will…

When you saw it for yourselves,
and turned away…

When you told the jokes,
or laughed along…

When you didn’t notice (or pretended not to see)
our wet eyes and red cheeks and sunken shoulders…

When you said nothing and you go to sleep at night,
expecting peace…

May you dream only of us,
struggling in the dark to find our way
through the fortress of emptiness
that your silence built for us.

 

Disguises


Day 2. Prompt: Write a disguise poem. I wrote two short ones today.


Gloves

I walk into the warmth
of this, my older age,
peeling off the scarf layers
of protection I’ve worn out
in the cold.
I’d forgotten what I look like
stripped down to naked skin
and I don’t recall
choosing those layers
that never did fit me
like a glove.



Walls

Aren’t we all just blood and guts
hiding from painful stares
behind walls carefully constructed
from similarities and whatever it is
we imagine belonging looks like?

 

Coffee and kisses


Day 1. Prompt: Write a new day poem. 



Well we got it wrong again,
another day in ashes,
silent glares and angry flashes,
so little said, so much to say,
our fears and flaws won,
and we lost the day.

So we sit, alone again,
watching our different views
of the same old evening news,
waiting for the sun to rise
on our second, and third,
and three thousandth tries.

But when you ask if I believe
we stand a chance to get it right
no matter how we spent the night,
I will remind you of the dawn,
of the coffee and the kisses,
and the dewdrops on the lawn.

Bring it, November!

Getting ready for poem a day in November! Okay, so there’s no such thing as ready. There is only calm before storm, or calm within storm. Still, I’m looking forward to this coming month even more than I usually look forward to the Wednesday prompts. I realized this morning that I’ve been trying to force myself into a novel writing frenzy, while also planning to do PAD. Then I noticed that only one of these things actually made me feel good feelings, happy light feelings of the sort I’ve found in short supply in 2017 (you too?). You’d think at my age it wouldn’t take so long or be so painful to figure out what I actually like! But there it is, and a day early, which is a bonus. So while I may not be great, I can occasionally achieve pretty good, and there’s only one way to get better, right? Let’s do this.

2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Guidelines

Three words

I believe you, she said,

and in that moment

the universe stretched,

atoms rearranging,

exhaling open

spaces just for me,

breathing room.

It’s amazing just

how long I went

without speaking

a word of this

to anyone, and how

those three simple

words began

urgently to heal

my unseen bruises

and stitch laces

across the lacerations

I’d sheltered

like children

for so long.

Oh say, can you see

Oh say, can you see

over here, look at me.

I’m a flag at half-mast,

a broadcast, a warning,

mourning every morning,

noon, and night.

Rights, wrongs, and songs

for the dead

play in your head

as I sag toward land

and you kneel, or you stand

there hating, berating,

deprecating life itself.

Put me back on the shelf

and listen with intention,

dissention was the point

of this joint from the start.

Open your heart, pay attention

and start learning,

we’re all yearning to be free,

now stop looking at me.

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