The usual rules

No profanity allowed.

No God taken in vain.

No questioning Faith.

Butt! F**K! Whoa!

where is god?

when love is lost or ground to dust?

who draws the lines?

and, can one sand time?

down to an alchemic mutter, under breath?

who’s ripples repeat and repeat same as same as?

 

watch me break the usual

rise and falls, balls and chains

rules only apply if god

exists and if god             (who’s not a woman!)

is not love nor lost         (she bloody well is!)

in time, sanded back to hard lines and

soft blood and wet flesh and wars that cost

the bitching earth and lives and write a history

that I and my have no part in. Listen! Watch! as a woman ( not a witch!)

as my questions break like waves and escape in tongues

the present shore, as artists, barefoot and fearless

relentless as

i am, if god exists

and if she doesn’t, i do

solicitous to my self

and I’m not lost in your mouth, you bastard!

your moral code erodes, you shit!

eternal damnation and unconditional

love cannot live on the same breath

or separate the eternal rule of life or death

answer, godamnit!

 

i’m here, I?M HERE and

water calls my name;

the one god gave me.

Listen!

You insect! Stand taller on the shore

and ask for yours

come, on soft gusts and loose curls, there

where god is waiting

tracing untraceable lines

in the sand with her toes

same as same as same as

blasphemy!

I am the same as

God.

btw April 20 2018

 

Hey, I think I broke a few rules there. Bad form??

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NaPoWriMo day 20:-The speaker or subject of the poem could defy a rule or stricture that’s been placed on them, or the poem could begin by obeying a rule and then proceed to break it (for example, a poem that starts out in iambic pentameter, and then breaks into sprawling, unmetered lines). Or if you tend to write funny poems, you could rebel against yourself, and write something serious (or vice versa). Whatever approach you take, your poem hopefully will open a path beyond the standard, hum-drum ruts that every poet sometimes falls into.

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there is nearly nothing left

thirsty for a gulp of sky

cold as a why with no answer

frozen as a what caught by the throat

cool as a long white box I’ve become accustomed to — shaking

hands shaking walls and floors

left, turn, left, turn, left

left circling in disguise

unflinchingly dry, burnt white

turn right

I am the magician that was  —  once

a girl, lost on the teeter of knives

still humming, soft beyond perception

tired as a fox, hot as a beetle in a box

go straight

a wretch dressed as a queen  —  heart

untried, unkilled yet

go back 3 paces

so, some bird loves the villain I have left

in this bodice; he wavers and waxes

in his flight, he flutters to warmth and back

and always back again to sweetness

apricot, his wings

too heavy to lift

me.

 

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Napowrimo Day 19:Off prompt today because…

Laundry lists, scenes and directions don’t do a thing for me – me, I must – I must
write the above

Today we challenge you to write a paragraph that briefly recounts a story, describes the scene outside your window, or even gives directions from your house to the grocery store. Now try erasing words from this paragraph to create a poem or, alternatively, use the words of your paragraph to build a new poem.

By Candlelight

a response poem using an excerpt of By Candlelight by Sylvia Plath

knitted

spines like tiny mosaics

carefully curled tight, inlaid out in

complicated patterns

I can’t look
close enough

an absence of breath, or death?

I am too big, too indelicate to detect

too brutish to sniff; I swallow it

squeeze my eyes
speak the words

at second sight, a spark alights

this is real  —  I squeal  —  leap back

a little
late

watch shadows burgeon against bark & branches

inflate against sleeping flowers & wide

eyed bushes; insects make good their escapes

while my agitated shadow withers, becomes

a halo that immigrates, taking my breath with it

up and away in one fluid take

I gape, shaking
something

looking in on all this in transparent sight

on a tongue set to dulled time or

time of day or of night

in absence of death or breath or light

I sit curled in to my own

palm, stilled down to not much

I feel it, feel it, as the moon slips

down my throat like cut glass

wet and soft and dark

threaded with bits

I cannot
identify

dragging all the wild things with it

hair & scales, skin & feather, claw & bone

compressed to sparkled dirt that I can, I can

bring in spit water and throw back up easily — I pant

 

emptied stomach growls and purrs

waits

for what small love comes

next

 

btw 18/04/2018

 

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Napowrimo Day 18:- prompt: sounds a bit more complicated than it is, so bear with me! First, find a poem in a book or magazine (ideally one you are not familiar with). Use a piece of paper to cover over everything but the last line. Now write a line of your own that completes the thought of that single line you can see, or otherwise responds to it. Now move your piece of paper up to uncover the second-to-last line of your source poem, and write the second line of your new poem to complete/respond to this second-to-last line. Keep going, uncovering and writing, until you get to the first line of your source poem, which you will complete/respond to as the last line of your new poem. It might not be a finished draft, but hopefully it at least contains the seeds of one.

she named herself Goliathe

happy

she was

piddling small, tiddlesome tiny, miniscule pixie of

skinny legs, spindly arms and all, sapling branchy foal of

freckled nose and front-tooth gap, happy disposition of that

littlest sprat in that extended clanned

firmly rooted, family tree-ed

 

she was

lucky, she was

cherished

second uncle chuckled like cherry santa

fully whiskered, tickled her tummy

fashioned her a slingshot gift from honest wood

and a thick bit of rubber tubing; gave it her for nothing

one summer, on the front porch, with a sun-full, innocent grin

after

first uncle snickered like all intricately conspired

joviality like pomegranate satan, dragged her out to

the woods behind the out, housed under thick gritty

arms, spit and bit her quiet like, gave

her nothing ‘cept a knowing blink, a slimy grin

after

ever after

she kept

carefully selected or

even random

stones tucked in her

cheeks

and that

slingshot within her

skinny reach for

if he ever got within spitting

distance again, she’d give

him what for, she would

she would

she mustn’t

ever

never repeat

what for

btw 2018

 

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Napowrimo Day 17:- write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time. It could be the story of the time your Uncle Louis caught a home run ball, the time your Cousin May accidentally brought home a coyote and gave it a bath, thinking it was a stray dog, or something darker (or even sillier).

In Your Dreams, babe – an old game, created by Game Works, Ltd

I am President, in the board

game, but when I look again

I am the beggar, and bone is

my counter

 

I am Power, in the oval

arena, but when I look closer

I am the desired, and acquiescence is

my counter

 

I am Warrior on the sports

field, but when I zoom in

I am the squire, and sweat is

my counter

 

I am Man in the realm

of men, but when i taste the truth

i am the woman, second string, and blood is

my counter

 

i am pawn dressed up as princess

sometimes played dressed as whore or

if i’m lucky, someone’s mother, (pray for a boy)

and men are my counters

and they made up the rules

just my own damn luck

my lot

to be born a woman

and i should be flattered

to be brought to the table

to be asked to play

 

I, don’t want to play this game no more

it’s no fun

Wait, I think it might be my turn…..

btw 15/04/2018

Haiku:

this is not a game

I can win, but I’ve started

so I will finish

btw 15/04/2018

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Napowrimo Day 16:- write a poem that prominently features the idea of play. It could be a poem about a sport or game, a poem about people who play (or are playing a game), or even a poem in the form of the rules for a sport or game that you’ve just made up (sort of like Calvinball).

Sid Philips lives next door

Andy doesn’t notice him, no-one does

but he exists

on the other side of the fence

Sid Philips seizes toys and re-tells

their stories in vicious bites

by plucking eye balls for their heads

hacking legs and torsos off

mix-matching to imagine monsters

for his own sadistic pleasures

 

skull and crossbones on his unwashed t-shirt

match his blackening young heart

sparking ambition as a future star-serial-killer

confined, for now, to his basement, bedroom

neglected back yard

but later

when it’s time for tea

and his toolbox is discarded

he sits upon his mother’s knee

kicks his little sister away

ignores her cries

that whinny insect, he’ll pick her wings off

later

he accepts his mother’s loving kisses

and her soft arms as a tonic to his nightmares

where no-one plays with him.

btw 13/04/2018

  • Sid Philips is the villainous boy next door in the hit Pixar Disney flick, Toy Story.

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Napowrimo Day 15:-In her interview, Blake suggests writing a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil). Perhaps this could mean the witch from Hansel & Gretel has lost her beloved cat, and is going about the neighborhood sticking up heart-wrenching “Lost Cat” signs, but still finds human children delicious. Maybe Blackbeard the Pirate is lost at sea in an open boat, remembering how much he loved his grandmother (although he will still kill the first person dumb enough to scoop him from the waves).

Cause of Deaths

Sleep is the little death

that visits nightly. She says. It’s nothing.

 

On Friday, 8 o’clock, she contemplates again

What’s the meaning of this?

storms stuck in coffee cups

this morning’s saucer cracks

remnant hammer-jacks of

last nights flights crusted and bleary

pecks eyes from skulls on beaks of hungry sea

gulls squark in pirouettes behind closed eyelids. Pow!

sea of silk amidst prancing ballet shoes

slip streamed of its

ribbons, still dancing, Ophelia-like….

drowning

Wake up!

Sea weed sylph-phonies in bubbles

gums stuck to the roof, dark stained berries around

a mouth tea-cupped in the palm of  night

without a sound

 

Awake!

Friday morning, sitting listless at a wobbly table

leaning in on head and elbows, not too subtle tells

kettle’s boiled

What is real and what is not?

cup-upsets, curdled milk too thick to spill, too cold to sip, still

What’s the meaning of all this?

 

in residual mists, toothless sharks gun for rowboats

faster faster                               Help!

un-manned youthless blood pumps through tunnels

of her temples, inside her mouth, dry as cotton

pulled of pearls, moon heavy, sun shy, sea heaving

                                                           Oh God! 

She gasps!

Wakes. Nothing makes sense!

Inside dream bubbles that can’t exist on

morning breath, only outlines and traces remain

                                                              Pop!

on contact with thought

storms rise on the back of a cavernous tongue

nightly stung.  Storm hits again, creamy in her

coffee cup, clouds gather then disperse

What’s the matter, honey?

So, so very, very tired.

Nothing is as it seems, it seems

it seems                        Night is a mirror

and you be in it……    is whispered.

She finds no voice to answer back.

On Friday: Dentist appointment. 10 o’clock.

 

 

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Napowrimo day 14:-

Dream dictionaries have been around as long as people have had dreams. Interestingly, if you consult a few of them, they nearly always tend to have totally different things to say about specific objects or symbols. Dreams, unlike words themselves, don’t seem to be nicely definable! At any rate, today’s prompt is to write entries for an imaginary dream dictionary. Pick one (or more) of the following words, and write about what it means to dream of these things:

Teacup

Hammer

Seagull

Ballet slipper

Shark

Wobbly table

Dentist

Rowboat

where Mary had a little Slam

(I couldn’t resist another one on today’s prompt! Just for fun..)

Wham! Bam! Warts and blisters…

What fairy godmothers never tell ya

Y’all get what you deserve in the

bend

bend over Cinderella, in the es’pend, retrieve ya

own slipper, getcha feet wet, slip down and up the gutter

wipe and snipe your own damn fair

of place – mat your way out of childish disgrace, fall from enough!

eat enough!   give enough

rope enough to hang

bang!   yourself

any witch way, but loose the grimace

dance! Princess, you goose

chimes wait for no man or gander

Good! for ya, and, if you press Send

Ps. Always wear comfortable shoes

The Bend.

 

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Napowrimo day 13: Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended.

Naked Blush

IMG_3747

Morning raucous of neighbourhood crows bring me blinking onto the balcony. Hazy silhouette of not so distant mountain across the blue grey bowl of Lac Leman, filled with holy waters of pure snow melt. Each day the view changes clothes; moody greens, granite blues, peaks and ravines revealed or coquettishly concealed in mantles of cloud, slung low over shoulders, or completely shrouded. In winter, she wears sugar coating, of course, it’s the fashion.

Early afternoon, magnolias bloom and bud and burst into debutante blush. With pink faced determination, in pale promise, they manage to lift my heart from the sludge of winter dullness. This naked, first blush, pressed against still slate grey skies, for the most part, will be brief, but enough to revive those curious yellows. They peek out from beneath broken earth and early grasses; the posies of primroses, profuse patches of daffodils, sprays of daisies preceding dandelion weeds. Next will come the wilful tulips, deliberated planted in sculpted beds by industrious gardeners, but lets us not get ahead of this moment.

Triumphant trills of promiscuous birds; a lively mayhem of mating rituals.  I take my coffee out on to the terrace and timidly remove layers of clothing, risking goosebumps for a dainty taste of Spring on my tender skin. It’s a sin. “Enleve pas un fil en avril…” as they say here. But this is Lausanne at its best and I’m excited. I’ve survived.

Ditch the tourist pics of snow and slopes, cheese and chocolates, cowbells and watches. This is bees knees! This is champagne fizzes! This is sweet nectar. The scent of summer on the breeze comes, from a distance, I’ll admit, but defiantly detected. I take a great, fat, grateful breath of it….and….and …and  begin to sneeze. Damn, I always forget this bit!!

magnolia creams
brief blushes brush blues; timid
rays tiding Summer

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Napowrimo Day 12:- its’ a haibun to day! Here’s mine!