NaPoWriMo #7 - Pointless

Pointless

Your picture still pricks like cactus
when an unread letter announces
your death -- five years ago.
Too late to slap you now. 
Damn it.

( i did have six lines. so now I have altered the lines breaks to make five lines)

-- Mar Walker
Unresolved hurt makes havoc with grief.

The PROMPT:  "Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka."  I got the five line part, and the love part. I missed the humor and settled for irony.....   

NaPoWriMo #6 -- Today's menu

Today's Menu

Dog looking
Dog looking at me
Dog poised to do a happy doggie dance.

Me looking
Me looking at the mirror
at the back of dog's head
poised to take a picture.

The looker and the look-ee
both expectant, assessing
the possibilities, full of energy.
Dog wanting something,

an adventure of walking
sniffing, chasing, a car ride.
Me wanting a photo, showing
a doorway, a place of entry

for reflection, for life and its shadow
where the right and the left  are joined
in a lake of glass: this moment
whose surface shows

all the actual places
we could go from here.
Woof.

-- Mar Walker

My dog, pictured above, is named Oggi which means Today.The prompt was to write a poem from a picture. I am so very glad for this prompt. I have always liked this photo and was never sure why. I thought it held something unusual but I wasn't sure just what until now.

NaPoWriMo #5 -- Mr. Poetry

Mr. Poetry

Bubba might be neurotic
or worse, bites his nails, drinks
expresso with rum, counts cards
at the casino. Bubba's not welcome
because he notices things: the gum
in your car ashtray, scratches on your
shirt, holes in the wall board, flecks of hubris.
Dressed in his neon coveralls
and backwards baseball cap
he'll write you a repair estimate that will
drain all the blood from your face and
other extremities while you phone
your lawyer and make excuses.
Bubba's secret is this: if you slap him
he will screech like a dying hare.
When he is done, he will hunt you
with a Swiss Army knife and a pen
until you are furious and embarrassed
or until your liver lies in the middle
of the road under a semi hauling
a lifetime supply of Bondo and
metal-flake paint, in various colors..

-- Mar Walker

The Prompt was to personalize poetry....   (You know who you are....)

NaPoWriMo #4 - The Exhibitionist

The Exhibitionist

 

Here I am in my kaki waders
and No. 30 sunblock,
standing in a white  bathtub
with rolled edges and claw feet,

a white dingy beached
on a choppy cove of lawn.
Inside it floats an island of fat leaves

sheltering coy fish in the noon sun.

Here I am with my beach hat
and waving my scrub brush,
or perhaps a little square net
for fish or butterflies who pause
so  slowly folding and
unfolding their wings
and the coy fish slowly opening
then closing their mouths
and the sunlight slowly
moving among the tree shadows.
And those bashful neighbors
shutting out the thought
of my afternoon bath,
discreetly lowering binoculars
and closing their living room blinds...

--  Mar Walker

The prompt was to write something inside-out. The garden bathtub and fish belong to a friend in Hamden. No actual bathing took place.

NaPoWriMo #3 Forgotten in the drawer

Forgotten in the drawer 
"place the bulb in complete darkness for one week"

Long pale roots, white
strings of life reach
deep into the bulb vase
stretching down for the last
half inch of murky water.

Pale whitish leaves
bent over, twisted
longing for the sun. Worse:
the now dried lavender bloom
that no one ever saw.

-- Mar Walker

The prompt was to write a poem about something you fear. Right after reading the prompt, i found the hyacinth plants in the drawer. I don't even remember what month it was when I put the bulbs in there. they did their blooming-growing thing as best they could, entrely without witness, carried on without human intervention, as nature always does when we walk away.

Why art satisfies

This is NaPoWriMo #2 .  At the very end - this poem makes a allegation about art and why we find it meaningful.

Better than television

The rolling wire probe
tests the level
of moisture
in this careful
world in glass.

Nurtured,
self-contained
moss, tiny ferns,
bugs, little lizards,
a climate trained for
atmospheric tricks
on command.

So every Friday night
Manfred sells tickets,
puts the terrarium
through its paces,
circles folding chairs
around his coffee table.
Unlocks the doors
Pops the corn
Announces each act.

"Ladies and Gentlemen
we bring you a special performance
by the Sudden Storm Troupe!
First up, the magnificent duo:
Lightening and Thunder!"
(applause followed by flashing
and crashing sounds, followed by
more spontaneous applause)

"And wasn't that spectacular?
And now,  please welcome:
Heavy Rains with Driving Wind:"
(applause, rapid pelting, vigorous
whooshing, then more applause).

Ringside seats
No channels to change.
Sometimes the storm inside
and the storm outside align:
Audience satisfaction.
Transcendance.

-- Mar Walker

The prompt was to take the acronym for the site name ( RWP for Read Write Poem) and run it through "Acronym Attic" then pick one of the lines and write a poem inspired by it. "Rolling Wire Probe" and "required weather performance" were the lines that inspired this poem

NaPoWriMo: Poem #1 Chameleon

Today's prompt was to write a shuffle poem using the first five titles that appear in the shuffle mode of your MP3 program or device. I took the first five English titles that appeared as my player is overloaded with Italian, German, and Latin items in the Classical genre. These are the first five English Titles I got:
** The Concept of the Open Throat (From a voice instruction CD by David Jones)
** Madama Butterfly Act I (Puccini)
** In the Fen Country (Vaughan Williams)
** When I Have Sung My Songs (Ernest Charles)
** I Cried All the Way to The Altar (Patsy Cline)

Here is the first poem:

Chameleon

I cried all the way to the altar
in the fen country of never
then like Madam Butterfly Act I
I waited in the sap green hills
between the paper walls
with irrational hope
for my life to start

I had delusions but
Pinkerton had a  plan, a social agenda.
As he sails away, I cannot find the right knife
the right note, I sing and sing until
all the songs have gone out
like last ship, the last love
the last dim star.

As the finale crashes to its end
I think about the coda: I think
when I have sung my songs
I should burn this music.*
After the fire, I lift my brushes,
paint still LIFE, or land SCAPE
and never wait for masagynists
or condescending conductors, and
the concept of the open throat
suddenly demands blackberries or peaches,
or a sigh of contentment at the end of the day.

And the good light shines in any color I want
every morning for the rest of my life

-- Mar Walker

*this is a metaphorical statement. I would not burn a score