Day 7

My landlord is dying

The City of God segues into
The half-life of urban decay

(100,000 years out from the homeland)

She knows you can't be trusted
With the myna birds, but keep singing

The coyotes, I heard,
Were the first to be tamed

Woo-Hoo!

Naoko has had two poems accepted at Rune! Congrats!!

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The blue ash cat
Licking the blade

Of grass has captured
A hummingbird cumulus

Our windows are cracked

It's late September

Frame for me then
A peach pollen moon

We're still rising

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(Tom's 21st Birthday, the merest beginnings of a poem that has nothing to do with him, poor fellow. I could have at least written him a birthday poem! Or not.)

Pry from me
An open-handed moment

Tire iron and fist
Full of nails for mending

Those spinnaker hearts
Caught sailing

Into the branches
Of wintering trees

(I'm feeling better about this process. I like the idea of writing crap, but then moving on the next day to more crap, instead of spending months thinking about one thing. If I can make it through the month I'll have a tidy pile to sift through, with maybe some things to keep.)

Horse Gentian

(The music stopped long enough to find a few lines.)

Beginning brilliant

Cirrus minus and swish of tail

We are distantly related

I didn't want to stare

Into your unbranchedness

Your fine covering pubescence

Others, certainly, have tried
And failed

Save the pieces

Bluff and bleed

Nought

Shit, I got nothing -- but Jojo playing the piano all day, everything from Jesus Christ Superstar to The Corpse Bride -- and a cat meowing and clawing at my door. I feel violent.

One-Tenth of the Way Through

(Another partial poem. Isn't this fun? No, it isn't. It's plain old work. I hope by the end of the month I'll feel differently.)

The woman in the leopard
Print dress wants you to believe

It's all natural

The American lion much larger
13,000 years ago

(And living)

Long legs capable of chasing
Down its prey

I believe in extinction

And the futility of calling
God good

In the particular

Or of calling

Dark Matter

(So, there are going to be a lot of partial poems here. I never liked pressure...)

Grandfather cut timber at Fort Stewart
And kept a knife in his pocket, scoring
Oranges into sections before carefully
Peeling away their skin.

There's a salivary gland called the parotid
That runs diretly below the ear. I envision
Communication. Pavlov's ears

Beginning to twitch whenever dogs
Were near.

Still An April Fool

Most of the time, when I look at my poetry, it looks like something someone wrote with a fat kindergarten crayon, while everyone else is writing with fine point pens. I've tried adjusting the font, but it doesn't seem to help. If only switching writing instruments would solve all my poetic problems!

Mark has posted a couple of poems.

And if you'd like a writing prompt, you can check out the Poetic Asides link I stole from Sarah.

National Poetry Writing Month

A little motivation never hurt. Louise is participating in National Poetry Writing Month. Her opening volley is pretty good. Maybe you'd like to give it a go? I'll throw something out from the dark closet of rough, rough drafts, too.

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Maybe the caterpillars
Will pay for the dying.

Grandmother is waiting
For the women with Scotch

Tape to escort her home,
Turn the compost, doctor

The rugs. I'm waiting
For the genius who stole the

Big Boy to come calling.
I'll say there was a painted

Circle on the roadway,
That I observed a puddle

Of blood and a tennis shoe,
But no nine-foot tall

Bare-footed statue, no
Miracle white Clorox-

Dispensing love.