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Gone is the need

for patience. 

Now, he can simply 

wear the suit 

and walk in screaming - 

that usually leads 

the whole room 

to a satisfying uproar, 

and then he can sit back 

and wait 

for the high walls 

of propriety 

to crumble like shattered glass. 

Job done. 

Hierarchy

Another weekly work, this one sneaking in just under the wire. 

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At last, 

we've built

a sturdy foundation

on the bones and dust

of nothing but

a thousand years

of someone else's

progress. 

Now, 

pomp and ceremony

akin to celebration,

brandishing hellfire,

lauding

the most vicious 

enthusiasts' work

and children ascending

as angels - 

but is it divine?

A thousand eyes, wings,

and a reach long enough

to touch men's souls? 

The knowledge of things

previously unknown, 

riches forbidden

to the lessors?

We thought not - 

and yet, here,

with sarcastic flourish, 

we are. 

Destinations

Starting a new project with friends - writing one piece per week based on a shared theme/prompt. 

This one is late, and feels unfinished, but also feels sort of complete. Not sure where to take it from here, so this is how it stands. 

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The car rattled and made a sudden heaving motion - worse than before - and driver gifted passenger another repentant smile. 

"She's never let me down before," driver said, giving the well-dusted dashboard a somewhat less than inspired pat. The gesture was akin to a professional sport coaches' reassurances that his star player was definitely, totally, assuredly, no-way-no-how, not in the middle of a slump. 

Passenger sighed and made no effort to hide a heavy mixture of doubt and annoyance. 

It may not have been so disconcerting were they traveling on a more well used roadway. This one - never mind being surrounded by a forest so foreboding it would have given Bigfoot second thoughts - had apparently been forgotten, a theory well-supported by faded paint lines and a slalom of axle-bending potholes. 

Despite the vehicle's age, driver managed to navigate these obstacles well enough to keep the voyage in progress, but passenger feared that if they were ever forced to stop, forward momentum would never be regained. 

"I suppose this is a bad time to remind you that I said we should have taken the other exit," passenger said. 

Baby steps

And now, a poem for Day 28 of NaPoWriMo. Today's prompt is to write a "concrete" poem - one that is written so that the lines take the shape of the topic of the poem, or mimic it in some way. 

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First

it took an

age, or perhaps

more than one - in any

case it was quite a long time. 

Then, 

it was fast, 

critics might say

too fast, even, but that

is the curse of modern amenities.

Finally,

it was most

sudden indeed, 

like losing focus mid-

motion and tumbling

                                off the

                                        next-to-

                                               last step. 

Dust yourself off, check in, 

no grave injuries incurred. 

But then, one would surely

be forced to concede how

akin it truly is to falling. 

Messianic curse

Day 27 of NaPoWriMo. Today is a "duplex," a form of sonnet with plenty of echoed lines - not straight up repetition, though, until the very end. 

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A chain link is only as good as the next in line, 

and our unity suffers for those broken we take in.

     The lie of unity pulls like an elderly, struggling engine,

     puttering smoke as the treads of hope and progress fail.

Smoke billows from the corpse of the future,

dancing ghosts mock our piety and ardent poise.

     They burned our piety at the stake, the damned skeptics,

     the fat of our steadfastness crackling in their sneering mouths.

Real treasures went first to the fattest animals,

grossly sedentary, but with rabid armies at their feet.

 

     The hordes departed and left us bloodied, wounded - 

     where now do we seek our champion, the unbound hero?

Until the fanfare, the champion's call, stay sharp - 

a chain link is only as good as the next in line. 

Peeled

Writing this late, but it's for Day 24 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write a poem using the style of similes often seen in hard-boiled detective novels, and the many spoofs thereafter. 

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I was shocked to find him in such a state, 

composed as he had once been, 

like a Black Eyed Peas cover

of a Beethoven classic.

He ate without remorse, 

bits of old food enduring in his beard

like lemmings

that suddenly had a change of heart. 

I sat and begged him, 

would he pause to reconsider? 

He stared back in barren fashion,

eyes like dry, deserted sand.

Finally I relented - no sense

in wasted time - and quietly left,

my hopes retreating like cowboy

who missed his sunset.

Forgotten trio

Day 21. Today's prompt is to write in three parts: One about someone you knew well but are no longer in touch with, one about a job you previously had, and then about a piece of art you saw only once, but it stuck with you. Then, to ask an unanswerable question. I'm definitely going to forget something but here goes... 

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Tunnel walls reflect

noise like mirrors

reflect things we'd 

rather not talk about, 

but that was all part 

of the attraction, 

as far as you cared. 

Slow down to nothing, 

then shatter the hollow

with filthy cacophony. 

Then in the days between, 

hunched over monotony, 

singing to myself - the same

eleven songs on repeat - 

surely this would pass

enough time, and then

I could leave to see her again. 

Something about winter, 

our supposed escape, nooses

tightened by responsibility. 

Not much to say in horror, 

a sudden accidental dose

of real life - well, a measure 

more real than my own, 

at least. Quick flash and

close the book, consider, 

briefly, reopening it, indulge 

the car crash fascination, 

the depraved, rotting part

of the brain we drown out. 

I wonder, how many precious, 

broken things will we try 

to collect, and when will one

finally, mercifully, be enough? 

6 am, phone call

Day 18. Falling a bit behind but doing what I can. Today's prompt is to write five answers to the same question, without ever specifying what that question is.

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I. 

Sometime in the morning - 

early, too early - 

when the dreariness 

of February 

is still too much

to bear. 

II. 

Somewhere 

there is a 14-year-old,

still terrified 

to bring home 

a failing grade, 

a failure to succeed. 

III. 

Weight crushes

everything, 

a compression

of gravity, but

it feels 

especially concentrated. 

IV. 

Sometimes there is

a scream, 

but no where else

to put it, 

so it festers

and feeds like poison. 

V. 

Rush to stitch up

what is inoperable. 

Carry a new fear, 

but worry not - 

you will grow

accustomed in time. 

Don't read into it

Day 15. I'm still alive, just very tired. Back and off prompt with a wacky one this Friday. 

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Here is my favorite

patch of grass. 

It is fuller than

the rest of my lawn

and therefore

more deserving

of affection. 

I try

as hard as I can, 

look for

new ideas everywhere

to whip 

the rest of the yard

into shape - 

I feed it, 

water it, 

make sure it gets sun

(but not too much), 

try all

the latest chemicals, 

read to it, 

sing to it, 

tell it that

it is important

and loved, 

but still, 

I wind up 

just taking 

out the trash

myself, 

every fucking week. 

Maybe this

isn't about my lawn 

after all. 

Again, in summer

Day 10 of NaPoWriMo. Today's prompt is to write a love poem. I had this simile pop into my head, and then it felt right to keep it rather simple today.

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And there, together, upon the hood of a hand-me-down sedan

staring at the stars, all at once the separate threads begin to twist

into a muddling of quick-sparking wires, inexplicably convoluted,

like a pair of headphones crammed carelessly into a coat pocket.

Could go either way

Back for day 9 of poetry month. I might have been totally stumped by the prompt for day 8, but this one was a little better. Today is a "nonet" - a poem with nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second line has eight, and so on down to the last line at only one syllable.  _________________________________________________

In life there is an ample spectrum

between certain and uncertain,

but then there is Uncle Dan,

who would not dare to bet

his last pack of smokes

on whether the

sun will set

in the

west.

Hustle

On to day 7. Feels like things are starting to flow again, which is nice. Today's prompt is to write something that argues against, or questions, a proverb or famous saying. 

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If you snooze, you lose.

The earliest train pulls into the station

before even the morning fog has woken - 

a clanging, screeching devil with torque

to drag even the heaviest eyelids along.

Good thing, too, you reckon. It is most right

to snatch every hour, to crack every egg,

to bend the will of every thought to productivity.

And by the calendar's end, how to celebrate?

Extravagance, delicacy, a fully squeezed evening.

But perhaps a short nap would have served better.

It's a wash

On to day 6. Happy to still be keeping up with this. Today is a variation of an "acrostic poem" (usually written so that the first letter of each line spells a word) where in this case, the first word of each line should compose a phrase, or perhaps a line of poetry or other writing. 

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I'm certain this could have gone better.

A minor setback, then another, as when

leaf after leaf pluck themselves from safety

on a rippling plunge through snapped air,

the piles waiting as graveyards down below.

Wind would have carried us more safely - 

watch the currents shepherd their flocks,

how gently they come to rest after the fall.

I think, instead, we've been disposed to ill-fate...

Soar but once, and then rot beneath the snow.

Medusa's masonry mystery

Poetry Month day 4. A poem about a mythical creature doing something out of the ordinary for them. For some reason my mind went immediately to the style of a children's book, so here we go. 

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Medusa woke to find one day

that all her stones had gone away.

She looked about, up high, down low,

but no results. Where did they go?

Confused, afraid, she packed her bags,

the finest things, no standard rags.

She donned a pair of glasses black

and securely tied the snakes all back. 

Aboard a bus she did embark,

sat with a chatty man, and hark!

He'd seen a queer few sights, indeed,

among them all a marble steed. 

The Gorgon jumped - she knew that horse!

It must be one of hers, of course.

The man divulged his curious tale,

and from the bus she blazed the trail.

Within the hour Medusa came

to gaze upon an open plain,

and there, the horse, but also more - 

her entire collection, stones galore!

Beside the plain there was a lake, 

and lying in it, no mistake, 

the god Poseidon, her former beau. 

A lousier sight? She did not know. 

Poseidon spoke in words of silk,

but she knew the tricks of all his ilk.

She didn't care, she made it plain

and instead revealed her twisting mane.

All at once the snakes furled out, 

and set their gaze upon that lout. 

And once her shades she did remove

he sat as sculptors would approve.

Medusa laughed, a cackling sound,

and moved to gather what she'd found.

She left for home, this day eventful,

her collection now one piece more plentiful.

Owner's manual, chapter 67: On the subject of emergency maintenance

NaPoWriMo day 4. A poem written as a prompt, or in this case, a set of instructions. 

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1. Split the Earth roughly in two.

2. Move every good thing onto one, and every bad thing onto the other.

3. Fill your bathtub with water. 

4. Place both halves of the Earth in the water, taking great care not to tip them over and get the top sides wet - this would be cataclysmic. 

5. Take the next several days and observe the following, in order:

            a) Do they float?

            b) If not, how long does it them to sink, and which half sank first?

            c) Do any elements of the bad side make a great commotion and

            clamor to be let onto the good side?

            d) Does your bathwater appear to be boiling, or show signs of having

            previously boiled while you were asleep or otherwise occupied?

6. After the three-day observation period, note the state of each half.

7. Note your own state.

8. Drain the bathtub and remove the two halves.

9. Place them on an elevated platform, ideally in good sunlight, to dry.

            a)  If needed, you may also apply a fan turned to a low setting.

10. Once dry, apply a generous layer of strong adhesive to each side.

11. Join the halves, and clamp tightly for security until dry.

            a) This may take some time, so feel free to complete other tasks.

            b) Once again, a low-blowing fan may be of assistance. 

12. Return the Earth to its original place.

13. Rest. 

Burden remembrance

NaPoWriMo day 3 - writing a "glosa," a poem that explains or responds to another poem. It takes one section of and responds line by line, often including that line in what is newly written. Sounds complicated...let's see how this goes. 

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"Two feet of snow at my parents' place, in another season.

Here, the cicadas sing like Christian women's choirs

in a disused cotton mill. Belief is a kind of weather.

I haven't seen proper snow for three years."

 - Erik Kennedy, Letters From the Estuary

The mind wanders freely, to a time when it couldn't. 

When it was tethered to tired, creaky, cement-covered hands.

Sealing up cracks in the foundation, doors slammed shut by

two feet of snow at my parent's place, in another season.

Now it sees more, processes at a constructive pace.

Beams come in and filter out - an awoken landscape

where all life is an ocean's surface, trapped in wet heat.

Here, the cicadas sing like Christian women's choirs.

But still the evenings buzz, far too fast to understand.

A thought and a wish and a hope, flung high and low,

eyes cast about like the dizzying spell of a hurricane

in a disused cotton mill. Belief is a kind of weather. 

Morning draws it to the umbrellas drying at the door,

the first warning of weight left ahead and behind.

Then, in a late afternoon's dream, it comes to me:

I haven't seen proper snow in three years.

Inenodable

National Poetry Writing Month, day 2. A poem based on a word from this Twitter account, devoted to "obscure and interesting English words." I scrolled for a while and then found "inenodable," which refers to something that cannot be untied.

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Remove the heart.

Let it live on it's own

for a short while.

Become invulnerable.

Let it pay rent

and shop at the market

and talk about the weather.

Let it exist apart 

from a binding cage.

Sustain irreverance.

Meet it for coffee

on Saturday mornings

and gobble up

the ghosts of your past

between sips of 

vanilla latte.

Musn't weaken.

Drive together to

a snowy mountain

and remark on scenery - 

there must be meaning

in an avalanche.

Withering still.

Open wide now,

it craves a safe return,

it craves a cage.

The cage is empty 

without it. 

An afternoon's adjournment

Mark this as my latest attempt to reactivate the creative parts of my brain. Will try to stay with the NaPoWriMo schedule of one poem per day for the month of April. This is for Day 1, writing a prose poem that is a story about the body. 

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Her mind drifts in uncatchable threads, each cast to a flowing

river of thought and drowned in rapids some moments later. 

But this gives her no pause - it feels mostly necessary at the 

end of a day like this one. Meetings, and meetings, and also

meetings, until a red, blinking laptop battery reflected her own.

It blinks ever onward now, peering from her bag in the seat

beside her. There is no solace in the cold glass of the train car - 

it bounces her head back and forth until she comes away with

an embarrassing red mark. She rubs it gently, hoping her stop

comes before the ticket taker. She rests her elbow on the ledge,

and her cheek in her hand - perhaps finally, the familiarity

of her own skin can calm this torrent of actions and ideas that

threatens to leak out her eardrums. Now the vibrations are cast

between wheels and track, between train car and humerus, 

and up her arm until they seem to counteract the frenzy in 

her brain. "Ma'am, I'm sorry but we've reached the end of the line."

She'd forgotten where she was. "What?" An uninterested face

stares at her from the front of the car. "You need to get off now,

this train's going back to the yard." The fog stays with her as

she gathers her things and disembarks. She finds the nearest

bench and sits. Her laptop blinks at her. It's too quiet here.