Forgetfulness

The walls are itching, so it sounds. Or perhaps it is just the squirrels,
desperate, scratching a path through the insulation that preserves our world
from theirs. They are tumbling through the pressure-treated wood,
sinking their claws in the dark side of the drywall. Caught in between dimensions,
they slink and crawl amidst two-by-fours and a hastily-bricked foundation,
leaving only the click and scritch of their toes.
I wonder if they are ethereal, or if they have forgotten how to escape
and run from limb-to-limb with sweet liberation, how to spring from
height-to-height with no knowledge of the glass ceiling or the walls of debt.
Perhaps they have become one of us, secure in our delusions and the warmth of each other. In our walls they escape, snooze and listen to Dancing with the Stars, and let go
of all the things in the world a squirrel can’t change.

The prompt for April 13th, “Forgetfulness”, is from 30/30 Poetry.

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Beauty (a scribble)

Beauty is a recursive directory listing -
a mathematical structure, seen as a graph,
or as an arrangement.
Beauty can be used
to sort or classify items.
It is a plant with an elongated stem,
a woody trunk, and supporting
leaves or branches.
It may be chopped down or
it may live on for many years.
Beauty has roots, ever-reaching,
that do not flower or revel in greenery.
Instead they rely on the sturdiness
of dirt and grit,
structure and water,
and faith in Nature’s organic
organization.

I’m behind after a few busy days, so this is more of a scribble than a poem, but I like to think that it could lead somewhere if reworked. The prompt for April 12th, a “replacement poem”, is from NaPoWrimo.net. As noted there:

Pick a common noun for a physical thing, for example, “desk” or “hat” or “bear,” and then pick one for something intangible, like “love” or “memories” or “aspiration.” Then Google your tangible noun, and find some sentences using it. Now, replace that tangible noun in those sentences with your intangible noun, and use those sentences to create (or inspire) a poem.

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An Anacreontic Verse

The paint is peeling on the walls;
the carpet’s greyed and spent.
An ancient fan rocks to and fro-
this room’s not worth its rent.
Yet I would doze here all day long
and in your limbs recline,
for though the word may need its stage,
my needs are love and wine.

The prompt for April 11h, “Wine and Love”, is from NaPoWrimo.net.

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Radiant

The moon looks on, its bow smile
drawing at the base of our spines
as we stand, godless, in the clovers
that caress our feet.
Like infants we gaze at the stars,
take in the nature of space-time
and ponder the cacophony of pasts
in our vision. We are only now,
in this moment, our toes digging
into grains of soil.
We dwell on the millions of bacteria
beneath us, within us, and whether the
the light of the stars reflects
from our eyes. We are full of atoms
and empty with space.
This is the way of our strolls,
suspended and slow,
like heavy, circling moons.

The prompt for April 10th, “Anywhere out of the world”, is from 30/30 Poetry.

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Untitled

The digital clock in the shop window
screams thirteen-thirty five in a scrolling red pulse
as we stand at attention, focused on the steam
pressing into our shorn scalps
and scurrying down the small of our backs .
We are waiting for the moment
when we will fly out of this fresh hell
– back home to the little sisters
and brothers that will only hear the
if you could only see! and giggle at the
thought of us being glamorous and terrible
freedom fighters. We will fly
away from our brothers and sisters here –
no more will we suffer each other’s do you remember.
Do you remember days without sand flies, days with breezes,
days without death?
At home we will pass one another with a nod
and slight shift of the eyebrow –
we will understand that we are now the creep
on the corner, uniform or no, we are
now scarred with the violence
we tried to leave in the sand box.
The digital clock in the shop window
screams thirteen-thirty seven as we await
our next command. Our minds are electric
as we think on green beans, mother’s handkerchiefs,
a catcher’s mitt that is either brown or tan.
My body is a cage, a tight vault hanging onto
the threads of childhood and all that came before.

Today’s inspiration is from Napowrimo.net, where the prompt was to use five random song titles from a playlist. The titles I used are Thirteen thirty-five – Dillon; If you could only see – Tonic; Do you remember – Ane Brun; Creep – Radiohead; My body is a cage – Peter Grabriel.


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Neurotic

I am not so far gone that I have resorted to counting
down in my head from one–thousand, or measuring
my breath. It is only that I need to observe the stove
pilot three, or four, or five, times – I’m not counting
– I only want to be certain that it has not snuffed out
before I sit down to work. I hear carbon monoxide is
a colorless, odorless gas. And I have not yet taken to
washing each dish to excess, caressing my plate with
metered circles spiraling from the center to the edge
and then back again. But I notice the cushions of the
loveseat aren’t smooth; they press into one another,
now lost and sweltering subway passengers. Perhaps
they are watching the carpet wrestle away from the
floor in the soft, floating ridges that curl beneath my
toes and scratch at my brain. I will smooth them with
five perfectly painted nails, tamping out all of the im-
perfections, smothering the buzzing and popping in
my head. The quiet allows me to breathe more easily.