I’m Half Crazy, part deux

Hours 11, 12 and 13 had to be created on paper, at church, after checking the prompts on my phone. I tried to post from my phone, but as I suspected, technology (or lack of therein) revolted.

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Hour 8: Write a poem with the phrase “we need” reoccurring throughout it. Repeat the phrase at least five times in the poem.

Inventory on an Empty Page, Written in Indigo Ink

We need a sign,
a sage, some semblance
of stage to soliloquy
our last songs.

We need a crowd,
a cloud of witnesses
to call us lost
and find us home.

We need a word to etch,
to stretch us into more;
a less
-on learned, kerned close.

We need a heartbeat,
ready feet stomped
loose
into unfamiliar shoes.

We need a mad
-dash joy to temper
all this violence.

We need a still
small voice to break the sigh
-lence.

Hour 9. Write for 5 minutes nonstop. Then edit for 15.

Streams (of Consciousness)

I have been clacking black
spor
-adic(t)
-ally all the live long day,
trying to find a way to spill my
self to page without throwing in
the (white) towel. I have indulged
in a third cup of coffee and a quiet room;
fed myself a bagel and a handful of phrase.

I’ve coughed. I’ve played.

I’ve splayed my fingers loose
and wondered if they’d wander off
on their own
(they tried, but got a bit lost.)

I’ve tossed 16 lines out the window
and fed them to the mocking birds
taunting me from their leafy places.
I’ve left traces of myself all over this house

– an empty cup here, a dang
-ling participle there. I’ve stared
at these walls
(which, by the way, need painting),
and walled myself upstairs in hopes
of just.one.more.moment alone.

I’ve stoned my own path. I’ve tripped and fallen.
I’ve stalled for time. I’ve rhymed, and un.
I’ve had fun. I’ve watched the sun
s t r e t c h    across the sky
and asked it not to set too soon.
I’ve longed for moon. I’ve swooned
at someone else’s lines and bided
my time and staggered my own sway.

I’ve dipped a toe in
and tasted the day.

 

Hour 10: Poem with the title “Autobiography of a Face.”

Autobiography Of A Face

Even as the cartography
of her skin
begins to fade, he maps
the constellationesque nature
of the thousand starred miles
between her freckles. Her eyes
are moonspill, outerspace, light
years scribbled onto parchment.
Her lips, the kiss of sky;
her smile all the paren
-theses he’ll ever need.

Hour 11: Dog poem (could not contain certain words, including ‘dog’ and ‘puppy’)

my furry apostrophe

she curls in, possessive
of my love – a contraction
of sloppy kisses
and tender paws.
 

Hour 12: Write a ‘moving’ poem.
(a haibun)

Careful: Contents May Have Shifted

My mama always said there are no good moves. Something always gets lost. Something always gets broken. Some last minute much-needed kitchen item winds up in a box marked Bathroom. There isn’t enough packing tape in all the universe for all of Granny’s heirloom eggs, which are on their 11^th move in 20 years. We survey the world around us and deem many things we were just using yesterday as unfit for cardboard travel; relegate them to garage sale piles and secondhand store fodder. We fold our losses and fill the boxes and ask ourselves, What’s worth keeping?

Pack up all you are.
Arrive on the other side
fragile, and less whole.
 

Hour 13: Rift off of “The Road Less Traveled”

Convergence of Time & Energy
(Frosted by Robert’s words)

Older now, and tired.
I just want to take
the quiet road.
 

Hour 14: Food poem.
(an Ode)

Coffee

You are my favorite
food group. Thank you for
your brewing,
brooding ways,
your dark deep
stirrings, your
faithful
dry roasted boost.

No matter how many
lumps I take, no matter
how low the day goes,
there is always a
mermaid mug
of Joe.

 

The link to the Poetry Marathon challenge site is here. Head on over to read some awesome work, and to give kudos to those who went the distance. Next year I hope to clear my calendar fully, and try for a full marathon.

 

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