A malignant spirit's retreat, summer

Day three. Writing the "opposite" of a poem you like. That is, rewriting it using contrary language as often as possible. I chose an oldie I've had bookmarked for a long time - this poem by Jonathan Brechner, featured in decomP many moons ago. 

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It disregards cruelty to create life. I've sprinted each hallway,

the letters scattered on a full-color body,

bland disorientation rough in my nose. Space is still,

a ragged smell, bitter as a candy cane. 

Every bright spot is silent, each one a paper folding,

clasping its free-flowing message. The thoughts

ignore me if I scream, remain unspeaking, 

frozen still like raucous snakes. I remove each one

from upon my shirt and send it away. The knowledge he granted

is false, all of it failing, thin as pleasure, to stand

apart from these ceilings. Sometimes it drinks, dark clouds descending.

At 10:30 P.M. the walls will close, the purple women

will leave me, build up each flattened floorboard, 

steal vegetables from over my shoulder, their gazes lost among

the others so I may see. Even though I shy away, 

even though I whisper. 

Seven questions

Day two. Today's prompt was to ask questions about a selection of words, ie: "What is ____?" Then, come up with abstract answers to those questions, and combine those answers in a poem My words were acorn, gutter, longing, generator, river, seaweed, and owl. 

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An emblem of possibility. 

Some ancient folklore's favored thoroughfare. 

The body we buried with all the others. 

Only a dream, a future left to rot. 

Pack mule of the sky. 

Unbloodied blades sinking through time. 

An emptiness below the stars. 

A story of reading

National Poetry Writing Month is upon us again. And so, the dormant writer brain rises from its long rest, and takes the first step toward seeing if it's still any good at this sort of thing... 

Today's prompt is based on a book cover. The one I'm working from is here. 

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A length of tendon rebounds

like a loaded guitar string - 

feels like an "A." 

Something dramatic, 

poetic, 

worthy 

of medieval illumination.

Next comes the word,

and it fizzes 

under the nails

like an unqualified acquaintance 

has wired the socket -

hairs on end, 

voltage meter questionable. 

But we plough forward. 

Plow? No, not yet - 

edit later. 

For now, the opening salvo, 

and the covering fire, 

and the last, defining volley. 

Ride the lightning.