Cat's up

Hmm, the April poetry prompts haven't been doing it for me lately. They're stacking up like lumber. Not a good sign. My goal is to write 60 poems for Poetry Month. I've got 13 poems.

Blue-green acid test.

Today, instead of finishing my taxes, I did 6 loads of laundry, gathered up my art supplies I'll need for Tartan Day at Ardenwood in Fremont (set up is tomorrow afternoon.) Got lost in a time warp in the garage where I store my art supplies.

Other chores beckoned. Catsitting gig in particular. While on enforced chair time, kittysitting, I played with Picasa, and took some Koolaid colored acid test photos of myself with my laptop for a possible avatar photo for new Twitter account. How very Andy Warhol. Maybe I should take some photos holding a soup can?

Whadda ya mean, a corgi puppy?

Spartan, who has finally settled in for his 15 minutes of scheduled laptime, is fascinated by the laptop's PhotoBooth software countdown: 1, 2, 3—FLASH! He quizzically peers into the laptop screen, pats it gently.

Played with Facebook—made myself a new Fan Page as my students, the kids from Cleveland Elelmentary School have found me out and I'm being deluged by myriad friend requests. Not sure if I want to friend them all. Will have to watch my Ps & Qs.

Played with the cats. Played with a wine cork. Played with a wine glass. Washed the turtles (and their pond). Joined Twitter.

Today, the cats were bad, very bad. I guess they decided to help themselves. Last night, they got into the 25 lb. bag catfood underneath the kitchen sink (even though the door was rubber-banded shut—apparently they're smarter than toddlers) and tore a big hole in the bottom of the bag. There was a huge mountain of catfood on the floor. I shovel it into a dustpan like a miner collecting slag coal.

I should've guessed something was up when I came in through the back door. They still played me as usual but they were acting so guilty. My routine: pick up the mail in the lobby, come up the back stairs and cats usually come to greet me on the bookshelf at the door.

Nellie-cat usually stands on the shelf and wants to kiss noses with me (whisker tickles) and Spartan attempts to trip me with some fancy ankle weaving. The object of their desire is food, I'm merely the bearer of good things. The kissing routine is merely greasing the wheel. Sophistocated cat-begging.

This time, the cats were both on the floor and they were unusually subdued. Pile of catfood in the kitchen explained it all. Don't tell me that they don't know right from wrong. They acted guilty before I found the evidence.

It looks like they both tried to eat as much of the kitty kibble as possible, so needless to say, they didn't get fed. They each drank a bowl of water, so I guess the catfood swelled their little bellies tight. Means I have to stay extra long today to make sure they don't explode.

Not sharing McBoing-boing!

I had a horse like that once, a canny begger, she'd sneak into the barn and take apart a haybale and make a huge nest of it with her nose. I had to put nails through the garbage can lids we used to store the sacks of grain like deadbolts because she was quite dextrous with her lips—she could open garbage can lids up to get to the oats inside.

And the same story: if I caught her in the act, she definitely looked guilty. Then it was walking duty. I had to walk her for hours to make sure she didn't get colic and die. (She eventually did die from overeating—but then, she was 32 years old).

I was often awakened in the middle of the night by my horse flipping over tall aluminum garbage cans and noisily rolling them around in the corral in hopes of shaking loose some oat treats. Some oats did sift out under the lid—so her bad behavior was rewarded.

Surveying the cat kingdom.

I'll be cat/turtle sitting duty for nearly three weeks and I am constantly amazed at their strength of personality and sheer willfulness. Felid manipulation and terrapin tantrums revolve around food. Never a dull moment. This is a job I could grow to like.

I use the opportunity to prep for my poetry classes—read kid poems, comment on them, type up samples for the next day. April is poetry month—and also the busiest month of the year for my teaching gigs. Cat seem to prefer to sit on my lap only when I'm ready to type—uncanny how they choose the most awkward time possible for lap fix. It's all about the object of their affection.

Weirdly, the two red-eared turtles also seem to crave human attention—especially the little one. When I sit in the chair near their tank, he tries to get as close as possible and claws frantically at the glass—even after he's fed. He's either ravenous or rambunctious or both. The other one, who is more reserved, prefers to bask under the sun lamp, with nose pointed skyward.

Did you mention bananas?

Their owner emails from the other side of the world, says: Oh, he always does that. He just wants to be hand fed. I tried that with turtle kibble but he clamped onto my finger instead. I couldn't shake him off. So I resorted to hand-feeding him yuppie lettuce. The white vee of his beak was in stark contrast to the forest green of his skin. He was a little surprised by the texture (of the lettuce, not my finger), and spat it out as if it were poison. Not dried turtle kibble or mealworms. He woefully looked up at me as if to say WTF is that? And then begged some more.

Why yes, I'd love a knuckle sammich.

But when the other turtle slipped into the pond to investigate the lettuce it was suddenly desirable. And then the lettuce wars were on. He attacked with gusto—snorting water out of his little nostrils like a dragon or one of Charles Darwin's imps of darkness—the Galápagos marine iguana. Little green confetti piles of shredded lettuce floating in the pond.

Oops, now I have to clean their pond. What goes in... Must be one of those retrograde days when the animal planets are in mischief mode. Even the turtles were bad today. When I was cleaning their tank, the little one kept trying to sneak out of his loose-lidded tupperware dish. Like a child, he'd push the lid up, check it out to see if the coast was clear and then try to crawl out onto the carpet, first one front leg over the edge of the plastic bin, then the other. He was the epitome of caution stepping out in slo-mo.

But then he'd spot me and drop back down into the dish like a Jack-in-the-box. Then he'd pop his head back up, pushing the lid up slowly. Then down. Up. Down. Up. It was quite comical. The cats keep an eye on him, if he gets out of his Tupperware bowl, they'll gnaw on him. Not a good move.

Spartan runs up the curtain, hangs in space over the turtle tank as they bask under the sunlamp; he's like a furry astronaut contemplating a moonwalk. They ignore him. The wire mesh lid keeps furry intruders out. But a cat can dream of big game conquests.

And I'm still unsatiated, I haven't written today's poem...not for lack of fodder. My mind's a hamster wheel of random thought. But the photo of me holding Spartan peering into the laptop camera looks promisingly obscure for a Twitter avatar. I slip out the door into the last nuance of dusk, stars nibble on the horizon.

MdBoing-boing, my favorite thing.

UNTIL EACH CAT

UNTIL EACH CAT

Until each cat has had its scheuled laptime

I can't leave, so I wait in the teddybear chair

alternating between wine and cake

to boost my flagging energy. I'm too knackered to write

after teaching 120 fifth graders the origins of poetry.

I have a headache and coffee grounds between my teeth.

The cupboard is bare so I toss some chocolate chips

ground coffee, butter, an egg & Bisquick into a mug

and zap the mess a minute in the microwave.

I'm elated over my hockeypuck of a cake.

It delivers a payload of chocolate chips and coffee

but until the words come, the cats are properly cuddled

I can't go home. The cats are aloof. Playing hard to get.

The greedy turtles are watching my every move.

Maybe they should be writing the poem.

A mourning dove calls, lonesome in the palm tree.

Sirens in the distance wail like a pack of urban coyotes.

Somewhere, a truck is backing up. Anemically beeping.

Or a mockingbird is practicing his monotone notes.

A neighbor cranks up rap music. I hate listening

to someone else's loud car music—like second-hand smoke.

The cat hangs himself on the screen door for the third time.

I rummage through drawers to find scissors.

Kitty's first toenail trim. He's having none of it,

and turns into a wild animal fighting for his life.

I'm patient, I hold him close, and pet him.

Snip. Growl. He has a wide vocalic palette of sound.

He seems pleased now that he doesn't snag the rug when he walks.

The apartment pool reflects a patch of sky on the ceiling.

I'm desperate for blue-eyed sleep,

I've never been one to nap. Not like the cats.

I distract myself with Twitter, a friend just got back

from taping a segment on the Tonite Show,

bagpipe jokes abound. But it's not yet tonight.

Until then, à bientôt. Until this is not a poem.

I will sit and wait.

4/7/10

take the phrase "Until (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and write the poem. Possibilities include: "Until we meet again," "Until tomorrow," "Until monkeys fly out my butt," or even "Until blank" (why not?). Until we meet again, have a great Wednesday!

Ekphrastic poem: FLIGHT OF THE WITCHES

from Flight of the Witches, Francisco de Goya

The dozing burro at the crest of the cliff

doesn't even bat a splayed ear

when three mitered men are swept off their feet

in an unholy asention, as they carry a corpse

up the ladder of the night sky.

The half-naked one in green with his back to us

is a redhead. His flesh is translucent as the moon.

A bonfire blisters his fair skin, sheds light

on what is both seen and unseen.

A repentant man cowers at the feet

of the dark dancing one shrouded in a cloak of white,

his feet remembering the old patterns.

The cowering man covers his ears too late

against the howling din and the raging light

as the queasy surf ushers in waves

dressed in the salt tang of regret.

4/6/10

POCAHONTAS

from Pocahontas, by Annie Leibovitz

Running with deer, she leads,

the barefoot girl dressed in deer skins,

races along the cliff's edge,

the doe dutifully follows at a half gallop

scuffing autumn leaves like a child.

Soon it will be time to gather maple sap.

Intent on something at the edge of the woods,

she does not notice a masted ship laying

fallow in the glassy bay, sails pulled in,

or the gathering storm and the nervous flight of birds

Beneath her feet, the sedges weave themselves

into a weir of conquest and entrapment.

Ekphrastic poem. According to John Drury's The Poetry Dictionary, ekphrastic poetry is "Poetry that imitates, describes, critiques, dramatizes, reflects upon, or otherwise responds to a work of nonliterary art, especially the visual." So, I've provided links to two pieces of art, and I want you to pick one (or both) to write an ekphrastic poem. (It would be helpful for you to mention which art you picked.)

1. Pocahontas, by Annie Leibovitz
2. Flight of the Witches, by Francisco de Goya

NaPoWriMo 5 Personal

Carolyn Forché once told us that as writers

it was our job to show up at work every day,

to sit at our desk and wait for the muse to appear.

If nothing happens, so be it. Sit there and wait.

Her reasoning was that if we sat still long enough

the muse would find us, at the ready

or we'd become insanely bored & take up writing

just to escape the monotony of enforced desk time.

That's fine for those conventional enough

to have both a desk and a writing space.

I have no fixed patterns for art or words.

That work ethic of desk and chair bypassed me.

When Celia gets in the mood, she

pours herself a large glass or red wine

lights a cigarette & waits for the words to find her.

When she stares into the candle flame,

her muses come galloping in on wild ponies

waiting to be tamed. But I prefer the tranquility

of other people's white rooms. I once wanted to

write a series of poems crafted and honed

while visiting other poet's workspaces.

I never got around to it, but I discovered

any new house seems to unleash words.

Whose words, what muse, I'm not exactly sure.

And so each day I sit in Leah's little recliner

that looks like a well-loved potbellied velveteen bear

than a chair, I stare at a blank screen. Waiting.

As her cats angle in for their personal lap time,

I become a contortionist trying to write

in the sitting pretzel lotus lapcat position

while they squabble over who's next.

When it comes to lap, they're selfish.

They don't share. My involuntary angels growl

and swat the muse with bared fang and claw.

Day #5: Make your poetry personal. I mean, it already is, right? It’s thoughts, observations, deep, dark, personal feelings and stories dressed up in pretty words and oblique descriptions. You get it, and some others get it.Still others see it as something else entirely, which is great, honestly. We have our own set of filters our lives go through, and this influences how we interpret things. It is part of what makes reading poetry fun and interesting for me.Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me.So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.

HOTSEAT

The Thai curry that a friend made for us the other night

was so Scoville hot we literally couldn't eat it.

I went cross-eyed, I was willing to grab my tongue

to pull it out from the roots if I thought that would help.

Leah says, Here eat the cucumbers. That will cool your mouth.

I eat all mine, and bolt down her bowlful too.

Neil's already finished his, so I swig the dressing.

I'm choking on the heat, tearing up, gasping for breath,

and then Neil begins discussing the effects

of burn a deux: exiting hotsauce & curry on his asshole

at the dinner table and I'm truly mortified

by the thought of flaming "O"s. Besides,

the 'roids are acting up again and that makes for heat.

I used to laugh with the doughnut pillow folks

until I joined the dubious pillow league. I stand up a lot.

It's not something that you discuss in intimate, or polite circles.

They really ought to sell Preparation H in plain wrappers.

I mean, you get up to the checkstand and the clerk

asks for a price check over the loudspeaker—

Heads swivel and soon the entire store is privvy to the fact

that you're having an intimate relationship with your rear end.

Reminds me of the story of big time Hollywood actors

who used Big H creme to reduce the bags under their eyes

from too much alcohol abuse the night before.

Like Norma's famous line in Sunset Bulevard:

All right, I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Neil says, You really don't know someone well

until you've seen their asshole. TMI, I shout. TMI!

Besides, there are children present. At that moment.

as if on cue, the cats perched on the couch

hoist their hind legs daintily into the air

and give their bottoms a thorough going over.

Urg. Though I admire their poise and dexterity

and the way they have of leveling the field

by making all intimate acts ordinary and public,

dogs are even worse, the way they noisily get down to it

making themselves into crude Rodinesque sculptures on the rug,

licking their balls when the conversations settles down.

Everybody ignores them, averts their eyes,

and pretends to be preoccupied with something else

far more interesting than elephants in the living room

when his little pink lipstick happily swizzles out of its sheath.

But you really don't want them to lick you afterwards.

Then there's the hound who noisily plants his nose

deep into your crotch when you're at your most vulnerable.

Someone helps with introductions: I'd like you to meet so-and-so…

and the damned dog is snuffling at you like a prize trufflehound.

You try and bat his head away, but he's persistent

and the owner casts a blind eye, saying something trite

like: Aww, he really likes you. And you try pinching his ears

to deter him, since lifting a quick leg to his chest

will only serve as an enticement for deeper rotor-rooter work.

He yelps like a tattletale playground fink,

the owner frowns and clocks you suspiciously

wondering of you're some kind of pervert or worse, a dog-hater,

and wonders whether or not he can trust you with the job.

And all you can think of is: Thank God there's no puppy

having a go at your ankles.

write a TMI poem (or too much information poem). As with all prompts, there are a number of ways to come at this one. You can make it about gossip or revealing too much personal information. You could write an information overload poem. Or...well, I'm interested to see what everyone produces.

WARDROBE MALFUNCTION

WARDROBE MALFUNCTION

I've never been much of a morning person.

If I have get up early to teach,

I prepare everything the night before:

from clothes to lunch,

leaving nothing to chance.

I also don't like noise or bright light—

it's as distressing as an alarm clock.

A fifth grader once pointed out to me

in the middle of poetry class

that I had my top on inside out.

And so I did. Oops! Tattle-tale label.

I was backtracking as fast as I could.

Should I pull a quick metaphor out of my hat?

I thought, Aw, fuck it. I'm a night-owl

and I get up far too early.

There are bound to be crossover moments

of complete confusion and wardrobe malfunction.

I have no fixed schedule or place to be

like the way those in the workforce hamstering forth

to snug gray cubicles each and every morning.

I harbor angst about not waking up on time.

Alarm clocks are too jangly so I use my cellphone

and computer screen for ambient lighting.

Every so often, the system periodically goes haywire.

I arrive at a school oddly dressed,

or a day early, or not at all.

They never remember all the days

I am spot on time

dressed to kill,

and ready to roll.

4/4/10

napowrimo #4: inside out writing inside-out or outside-in. She says I watch too much HGTV, so I have learned (very well) about bringing the outdoors inside and also turning outside spaces into rooms (which is, apparently, more than putting the old sofa out on the front porch).In our case, writing inside out (or outside in) means setting your physical or metaphorical inner bits out of doors, to be walked around and looked at from odd angles, as if they were monuments or mailboxes (as an example). Or it could be transforming your internal organs into flowers or letting a pack of four-year-olds (human or otherwise) loose in your attic. Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.

NaPoWriMo #3 Scary poem

Scary, trying to play catch up

when I haven't written anything in so long

I'm dreaming of ex-lovers ignoring me on the streets.

I woke this morning and wondered why

he didn't see me, or why he shunned me.

After all, I was the one who was wronged.

And the Catholic guilt dressed me in skins

because I had abandoned my writing

the way he had abandoned me,

the way we abandoned the child

at the altar of the sacrificial surgeon.

Perhaps I should have held up my bloodied hands

and beseeched an older god.

But he was deaf and mute as well as blind

his current woman, old an haggard as he,

followed ten paces behind.

I begged her to tell him hello

but she was loyal, I was the enemy.

What was I to her? I wanted to say:

What does it matter? We all grow old

and lose our way at the end of the camino.

napowrimo #3: scared yet?

Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible!

Sometimes by articulating our fears, we strip them of their power. (But don’t go too far! A little fear is good to have.)

PARTLY CAT

Partly because the cats refuse to settle in for a nap

partly because there's cat fur on the keyboards

(am I ever glad that I bought that keyboard condom)

& partly because a fruit fly, in love with my laptop screensaver

is crawling over my every word, I'm partly at a loss for words.

Ok, I admit, so I didn't strike when the iron was hot

& that afternoon chocolate partly clouded my judgement

& the kitchen faucet is singing a sleepy water song

& cat # 2 is on my lap

but the laptop battery is heading into the red,

still no poem, partly because ...

APRIL PAD—Partly...

OK, I'm resisting, here...

Cat sitting the turtles

Time to go pet the pussies—I'm CATsitting! They each get an hour of special lap time a day. The turtles, no. They stay in their scummy little tupperware pond. But they will get fed today. Yes. Nice, freeze-dried red worms. Yum. With pond scum for green leafy veggies. Cats are eying turtles as potential kitty treats. Talk about a movable feast. They're quite the head bangers against the glass wall when it comes to the mere thought of food. Turtles are both out of the pond craning their necks watching my every move as I surf, they KNOW I shortchanged them on the mealworms. Extra bits of turtle food didn't fool them. Sort of like drooling corgies begging at the dinner table. Think I'll go tickle some slow loris. More exciting. Kitties are too jacked up on catnip to settle in for laptime. Turtles are restless too. Who knew they liked catnip? Well, I got my lap back, after Spartan gave himself a good going over, even washing my cashmere sweater in the process. Wow, talk about prime real estate! Spartan no sooner leaves when Nellie settles in for her nap. Makes it hell to hold the laptop as said lap is already occupied. I need an iPad. OMG! Spartan jumped up on the window sill but lost traction & Nellie jumped about a foot straight up off my lap I was laughing so hard. Now he’s sulking because I laughed at him. She’s not too happy either.

Unanswerable questions

The important thing is never to stop questioning. —Albert Einstein. Is 2+2 really 4? Did I forget my socks again? Color of socks relative to feet. Where did I leave my violin? In the fridge? Why did E want to be equal to the square? Was the square getting more energy? And where do laps go when you stand up?

NaPoWriMo #2 RWP

The rhythmic wave process

slapping against the hull

of consciousness

lulled me to sleep

the way a lullaby lingers

in the crenellations of the ear

that fuzzy divide between waking and REM.

I remember my aunt Toddy

one sticky summer afternoon

sitting in the cool basement doorjamb

rocking me to Brahm's Lullaby

as I read Allingham's Up the Airy Mountain

Down the rushy glen, we daren't go a hunting…

I divided my attention between

the unaccustomed luxury of lap,

and the rhythmic realm of fairyfolk

amid the sonorous drone of flies

and yellowjackets dangling a striped benediction.

In my small world there was still no division

between time present and its mythic counterpart;

there were no rigid wave patterns between

the world of make believe

and the real world problems.

napowrimo #2: the ol’ acronym switcheroo

If you love acronyms as I do, your mind has already shortened “Read Write Poem” into “RWP.” But the three letters RWP form known acronyms for at least 31 other phrases, including “Random Weird Person” and “Right Wing Pundits.”

Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!

RED-EARED TURTLES

The red-eared pond turtles strain their necks

and bang into the glass with voracious desperation

harboring an unassuageable hunger;

do they know I'm not their owner

but their keeper for the next two weeks?

They try to reach me,

telling me in their turtle ways

that it's time to eat. But I tell them

they must wait two more days

before I slip dried worms and fish tidbits

into their murky pond.

The cats watch, plot their next move,

stretch and yawn, as if indifferent.

But the turtles don't seem to notice them—

fast moving mammals.

They have eyes only the tall upright ones,

the shadowy feeders.

They watch me intently with their striped reptile eyes

swiveling and turning

as if to comprehend my nonsense speech.

Press their nostrils

to the side of the tank closest to me.

Or maybe it's my ham sandwich

or the cat treats they're eyeing.

I turn on their heat lamp

and they get as close as they can

to bask in the warmth.

Noses pointing skyward like stargazers,

they settle in.

I marvel at their vermillion cranial ear markings,

the intricate camouflage patterns

of yellow and olive stripes,

as they splay their webbed feet,

and thrash over boulders,

long slender toenails,

translucent as new moons—

thinking maybe distance

between reptile and human

is not so very far, after all.

4/2/10

April PAD—Water

GOOD FRIDAY

Yesterday's bright billowing clouds gave way to grey flannel skies.
A perfect Watteau or Frangonard canvas of the pastoral pursuits
looking up the skirts of the beribboned middle class—
morphing into the stark industrial duende of deChirico or Miro.
No chance of rainbows, or atmospheric haze.
A young hood practices dragstripping up the street,
that peculiar hissing waltz of rain and tire and iron road
chases the revving engine, boombox pounding back
a lush tropical rhythm of drums and cannibal instincts.
Weeping cherry trees in antebellum skirts sway in the breeze.
An airplane howls a doppleganger of loneliness in overcast skies.
An alarm jangles like an old school telephone. No one home.
The fan palm clatters and waves to the sky,
whether in greeting or farewell, I can't tell,
but the cat on my lap has tucked himself in for the duration.


4/2/10

Oakland


April PAD—Water

NaPoWriMo #1 Shuffle

It's no secret love is a stranger with open arms

the sound of loneliness

is like phantom lovers at the corner house.

All I care about is the peace within.

Let's wrap it up. I'm nobody's moggy now.

Meet me in the morning by the streams of Doonah

where two island swans spoke with the angels

on the snowy path, dark and deep.

Thousands are sailing down on the moon.

napowrimo #1: shuffle a poem

# Put your iPod or iTunes (or other mp3 player) on shuffle. (If you don’t have a music player that shuffles, you can choose CD or album titles at random from your collection by writing several titles down on little slips of paper … works the same way.)

# Write down the first five titles that come up. No cheating allowed!

# Use all five titles to draft a new poem. They have to be used intact — you can interrupt them with punctuation, but you may not remove or change words. Shuffle away — the more eclectic your music collection, the better!

CONSIDER THE CAT

Spartan meows lonely as the rain on the horizon.

My job is to cuddle him an hour a day

while his owners visit Paris in springtime

but he'll have none of it. I try holding him,

rolling the ball, offer cat treats, speak in silly kissy voices

you wouldn't want to be caught dead uttering in public,

all I get for my efforts is ribboned flesh.

I try sitting in different couches to entice him.

Nothing works. He won't stop circling the kitchen

meowing piteously for all things lost.

He tries different languages, translations of lost meows

but nothing works. They're inexplicably gone.

And I can't tell him, this many days on the calendar of hope.

Living up to his name, he eschews affection and toys.

Keeps a spartan existence. I think:

what if he dies of loneliness while they're gone?

Only on my watch. I've grown accustomed to the idea

having lived much of my life alone, and now

living with a man who demands a wide satellite orbit

that I've created artificial islands of loneliness

in order to survive. I find solace in the starkness.

Only when I sit down at the table to write this poem

does the cat come unbidden to my lap and tuck himself in

the crook of my arm for a long desolate purr.

4//1/10

April Poem A Day Challenge—Lonely

NaPoWriMo Prompts 2010 (not used)

4/6 Pictures Rhiannon’s prompt gives you something else on which to focus these conversations: pictures. Many people collect favourite images, whether as memories or posters, sketches or computer files. Pick one such collection of yours – a stamp collection, a postcard book, a file of photos – and rifle through it until something catches your eye. (If you don’t have such a collection, try putting a word – any word – into Google image search or flick through the website of an art gallery.)Once you have an image, begin to interrogate it for poems. Ask: Who or what in this picture could speak? What would they say? Why is this image meaningful to me? When I look at it, what am I remembering? How does this image make me feel? Which of my moods is easiest to find in it? Where would I want to display picture? Who do I want to see it?Collect the answers to your questions as a hoard of words or phrases. Scatter them across a blank sheet of paper, then check for patterns. What rhymes? Where is there alliteration? Is any rhythm apparent? Patterns might suggest a form for the poem.If there aren’t enough patterns, you have two choices: either write your poem as free verse or go back to the images and generate more words. Have fun




napowrimo #7: love, funny side upApril 7th, 2010by the Read Write Poem StaffToday, Alan Summers wants us to write poems about “humor in love,” and he has a specific form in mind!Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka. (You may even decide to create your own tanka journal for love poems!) Here’s how to write one:Describe in concrete terms one or two simple images (two or three lines) from your humorous love encounter, not just what you saw but also what you tasted, touched, smelled or heard.What were you were thinking at the time this love encounter happened? Write that down, too, as two or three lines, so you have five lines in total for the poem.Think about making the third line of your poem into a pivot line, so that it links to both the previous two lines and to the final two lines.Test the tanka by dividing it into two parts so the third line acts both as the last line of the first part and as the first line of the second part. Does each section make sense separately, and then together?Think about reducing — and even avoiding — capitalization and punctuation because a tanka needn’t be like a sentence or merely a flat statement.




4/8 NaPoWriMo 8 Unusual Love ConnectionsToday, think of your current love, your current obsession or the one who got away. Now come up with five or more unusual metaphors for the object of your affection/obsession: wool scarf, cough drop, puddle, half-empty bottle of red wine… Choose your favorite of the bunch and write a poem celebrating (or trashing) your love.

NaPoWriMo #9 Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to:
Use at least twelve words from this list: flap, winter, torch, pail, jug, strum, lever, massage, octopus, marionette, stow, pumice, rug, jam, limp, campfire, startle, wattle, bruise, chimney, tome, talon, fringe, walker;
Include something that tastes terrible;
Include some part (from a few words to several lines) of a previous poem that didn’t quite pan out; and
Include a sound that makes you happy.



4/10 write a horror poem. Make it scary. Make it cheesy. Make it funny. Whatever you do, link it somehow to horror. Who knows? Maybe someone will write the next great raven poem.

Here's my attempt:

"The People Outside"

We wait outside your windows for a chance
to peek inside, to see what you do when
the lights go out without warning. We don't
understand, so we scratch at your walls and
shake your door handles. If we could, we would
reach out for you and try to pull you close.



4/11 take the phrase "The Last (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Some examples: "The Last Train," "The Last Kiss," "The Last Time I'll Give Directions to a Complete Stranger," "The Last Dance," etc.

Here is my attempt:

"The Last Thing I Said"

Let me begin by explaining:
I am not an astronaut; my
body is not a capsule. When
I was fired into outer space,
I had no idea I'd return.

4/11 write about the choice we didn’t make:

Everyday we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo?

Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose.

Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you.

*As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind

4/12 pick a city, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem. Your poem can praise or belittle the city. Your poem could be about the city or about the people of the city. Your poem could even have seemingly nothing to do with the city. But the simple act of picking a city will set the mood (to a certain degree), so choose wisely.

Here's my attempt:

"Savannah"

Oaks hover over us as we walk
toward River Street. We stop to read
a sign. A man holding a trumpet
asks Will if he can take his stroller,
but Will just points at a bird hopping
along the brick sidewalk. Tammy laughs,
and I lean in to kiss her. We don't
have any plans today, so we turn
away from River Street to see if
we can get lost and find our way back.




4/12 Found poem: 6-word autobiography:

For sale: Baby shoes. Never used.

To see more six-word autobiography poems:

4/13
write a self-portrait poem. Other artists study themselves to create compositions (not all of them exactly flattering either), so it is only natural that poets, who are word artists, write self-portrait poems from time to time. In fact, some poets make self-portrait poetry "their main thing." For at least today, make it yours.
Here's my attempt:

"31"

Look at me and cry wolf; say hands
and shoulders; say legs; my eyes burn
bright through walls and clothing; I turn
mistakes into miracles and

push harder when pushed; look at these
arms; they absorb the fine knuckles
of this world; my back won't buckle;
my heart reaches for the trapeze.

MORE POETRY PROMPTS

PAD poetry prompts 2016 (not used)

April Poetry Month prompts...2016

NaWriPoMo 2015  link
It's time for April Poem a Day! 2014 

November Poem a Day prompts 2013

APRIL POEM A DAY links 2013

NaPoWriMo PADI, Molly Fisk, poem prompts 2013 (not used)

NaPoWriMo poem prompts 2011 (not used) Nov

NaPoWriMo Prompts 2010 (not used)  Apr

National Poem Writing Month

If November is National Novel Writing Month, then cruel April is National Poem Writing Month. 30 Days, 30 Poems.

Silly Poem

A silly poem for a silly kitten

who madly grabs the carpet

and throunces the corner

and thumps it within an inch of its life

until it begs for mercy

but the kitten has lost interest

and is peering at me

with that crazed look in his eye

and he races off to the kitchen

colliding with the cabinet

where the catfood hides.

He thwacks the door a few times

the rubberband taut between the knobs

holds and twangs like a Jewsharp

but the kitten gallops off again,

tail arched like an Arabian horse,

to attack poor old Nellie the cat,

caught napping, she hisses

and swats him down into place

but he's undaunted

and she enters into the fray

batting a piece of paper like a pingpong ball,

she's playing for both teams,

she scores a goal at both ends of the hall,

she pirouettes while he watches on

with a practiced bored expression

on his little kitten face. He yawns,

and curls up on my laptop for a nap.

Write a silly poem: http://bit.ly/deimZ9

Crawdaddies

Why does everyone call crawdads "crayfish" when  they're clearly not a fish at all? We don't call  their pinche cousins lobsters & langistinos—lobsterfish. At least a few crawdads are actually dads. Otherwise there’d be none at all. In Australia they call freshwater crawdaddies (crayfish) "Yabbies" or "Koonac". Mudbugs, ditch bugs. Whatever you call 'em.

My brother Guy used to catch crawdads in Arroyo/Barranca Creek and cook them in a tiny pot until they turned red. Tasted like lobster. Do they still have that big annual Delta crawdad feed in Locke? Went once with my cousins Dave & Sinead. They covered the table with newspaper and dumped platterfulls of 'daddies on the table.

I preferred the crawdads from our clear creeks—no muddy aftertaste. ‘Course the beer takes care of that. How to eat crawdads? Pinch the tails and suck they heads, as they say. Not much meat, but, sweet with butter & lemon. We used to hang red rubber bands from string and the crawdads would latch onto them and we'd slowly ease them out of the water, with them hanging onto their treat. The trick was to have a net ready to catch them as they dropped off. We never had a net, and I was too impatient to lull them to shore, but I still tried to lob them to the bank. God, they could pinch!

I found this: The name "crayfish" does not come from the word "fish", but from the Old French, escrevisse (Modern French écrevisse) meaning "crevice" referring to the habitat of the animal. The word has been modified to "crayfish" by association with "fish". The American variant "crawfish" is similarly derived. (This derivation is an example of folk etymology.)

Aha! It's a Malaprop, or a Mondegreen: escrevisse = crayfish. They have slain the Earl of Morey and laid him on the green (Lady Mondegreen). Mrs. Malaprop bungled aphorisms. Songs take a big hit too.  José can you see, by the dawn's early light. Me, a cowboy, me a Mexican cowboy (mea culpea). 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy.  In a Godda davida!

Don't forget the starfish.  Neither fish, nor star.

Woodpussie

My uncle once rescued an old sailboat, a Woodpussie,

from the bottom of Tiburon Harbor and parked it on our hillside.

It sank into the dirt, the only tide it ever saw was a steady sea of grass.

One spring I planted bulbs in large cans, and arranged them on the deck,

the boat was a riot of color, but watering them was my undoing.

The gophers smelled food and chewed thru the bottom of the boat,

climbed up the deck and into the pots just to get to them.

I WAS A KINDERGARTEN DROPOUT

When I was four-going-on-five,

on my way to kindergarten,

a gophersnake stretched itself across the fireroad

and I was too terrified to step over it.

I managed to step over the snake once

but when it happened again,

the snake stretching out his long green coolness across the road,

I dropped out of kindergarten.

I simply wouldn't go. My grandmother relented,

my tantrums verged on archetypal hysteria,

and so I was a kindergarten drop out.

It was a mile to the highway to catch the bus—

and I was a very young kindergartner

so I often got lost along the way.

My grandmother did not walk me to the bus stop.

She figured I'd manage on my own.

But it was a terribly long way,

an infinite ribbon of road with myriad country distractions.

I remember catching the big yellow bus once.

A sea of hostile faces and an irate bus driver

who didn't like to wait. That sealed my fate.

3/25/2008

Gophersnakes (or why I was a kindergarten drop-out.)

When  I was four, a gophersnake would stretch itself all the way across Arroyo Road (it was still a fire road in those days) and I was terrified to step over it. I did manage to muster up enough bravery once—but when it happened again, I dropped out of kindergarten. I simply wouldn't go. My grandmother relented, and so I was a kindergarten drop out. It was a mile to SF Drake to catch the bus—and I was a very young kindergartner (November birthday) so I often got lost along the way. The road was long, so many distractions.  I remember catching the bus once. A sea of hostile faces and an irate bus driver.

OAKLAND TURF WARS

I heard the keen of a hawk overhead,
all the birds ducked for cover,
and now the bluejay's jabberin' up a storm,
stealing the finches’ food and dive-bombing
the poor cat—just because he can.

Notes on Zana's Scarecrow Photo

                       —from a photo by Zana Darrow

The scarecrow wants to escape to the islands,

but he's landlocked in the backwoods of Wisconsin.

He's a hunter, a redneck, or a logger,

wearing an aloha lei over his plaid shirt.

His belt buckle is a flattened beer can

of finest aluminum alloy.

He's into supersizing, he eats a lot

of Wonderbread washed down with beer.

Smokes a little Maui-wowie when he can get it.

He's a bit shady. His other truck is a truck.

He's either unemployed,

the welfare checks have run out,

or else he's a writer

(the full beard that's seen no razor in years)

or else he's my first ex-boyfriend

(Sweet Old Bob) gone retro-native, the shit.

Life is shitty, everybody dumps on him

so he takes a dump in the woods

to get back to nature, he says.

Or maybe a tornado whirled his house away

while he was sitting on the pot.

Or he's waiting for hunting season

and the deer to come to him…

But at the crossroads on the edge of town,

the topless bars are hopping.

He reckons he'll have to sit this one out.