NaPoWriMo #17: The Elements

I’m the one
with a sense
of humor.

I don’t rage
like fire
with a hot tongue

nor am I stoic
like the patient
earth

and I don’t have
sun’s steadfast
hope

No, I like to play.
A couple days
ago I had fun

with Linda. She
needed cheering up
after visiting

an assisted-living
facility for her mom.
She and her brother

were sitting on the porch
having a beer
and a glass of wine

reading all 30 plus
pages of the contract
when I slipped

around the corner
of the house
and blew a puff

of fresh levity
their way. It lifted
those heavy papers

and twirled them around.
Linda reached to control
them and spilled her merlot

all over every singe one
of those white sheets
and her legs

and her chair. I
chortled at this
unexpected bonus

sashayed around
then moved on
knowng my work was done.

NaPoWriMo #5: Personify Poetry

Wanda

The bitch has black hair
straight and oily.

She snaps her gum
and wears tight jeans,

cropped tops, and a thong
that shows in the back.

Her hips are a metronome
swaying back and forth.

She points her finger
at me and beckons.

I know we’re going
someplace smoky

and dim with men there
who want only one thing.

But I follow, anyway,
follow those rhythmic

hips into that dark place.
I sit at a stool next to her.

She smiles, offers me a butt,
and I know I am home.

From the Point of View of a Bad Person for TOP

I like to sit
at outdoor cafés
watching the swirl
of women’s skirts,
the curves of their legs,
the dance of their hair,

their scents braiding
into the steam
from my coffee,

imagining them
tied to a bed,
their arms above
their heads,
statues
that I sculpt,
one part
at a time,

chiseling the anger
of my mother
into their skin.

Persona Poem for TOP

Feeling pretty dull this week. Too much going on with Christmas, etc. Came up with this, though, during my planning block today when I was sitting in front of my computer.
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My Name Is Dell; I Am Your Slave

I hum
all day
a tuneless hymn

I eat
your words
devour them

I keep
morsels
of your living

I trans-
port you
to other lands

I purr
a soft
contented song

I wait
for you
I wait for you

A Winter's Tale for Sunday Scribblings

In June, I’ll froth out
in lavender cones

but, now, I’m at rest
watching the snow

inch up on my boughs.
See my black branches

silhouetted against
the blue eye of the sky.

I’m covered with a layer
of shiny ice

just biding my time,
knowing this deep freeze

is necessary for rebirth.
I remember when Linda

was on a sailing vacation
in Florida one January

and the sail boat got grounded
near a beautiful garden.

The kind owner invited
her in and Linda marveled

over the winter blossoms.
The owner replied,

“Oh, but you have lilacs.”
I am the spring of winter.

Stranger for Sunday Scribblings

I heard about this law in Nebraska designed to offer a safe place for newborns to be dropped off by parents who can't or don't want to take care of them. Unfortunately, the lawmakers didn't put an age limit on it and people from all over the U.S. have been dropping their older kids off.
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Safe Haven

Mom, no, don’t
leave me here!

Wait, turn around,
stop walking

out the door.
I know I’ve been

a brat and uncontrollable.
I’m sorry I hit you,

ignored you,
disobeyed.

But you can’t leave
me here in Nebraska.

You’re getting smaller,
you’re pushing

the door handle.
The wind whooshes

bringing in the scent
of abandonment;

it swirls around me,
isolating me

in a capsule of hate.
You’re just a shadow,

now, behind the glass
that reflects me

standing alone, mute,
screaming your name

in my mind. A stranger
takes me away.

Write Like Summer

Totally Optional Prompts June 26, 2008
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I slap them
in the face
as soon as they
leave the airport,
wrap my boa arms
around them
and squeeze.

I’m the fat aunt
who visits
and won’t leave.

They try to escape
from me
into air-conditioning
but I sit outside
their door,
sweating.

As soon as they
come out, I wipe
myself off on them,
spritzing my cologne
everywhere.

At night you can hear
my laughter turn to growls
and see
my eyes flash
with a bit of anger.

I feel
sorry for myself
and shed a few tears.
But in the morning
I'll still be sitting
right there,
ready to latch
onto them like
a chubby chimp
and they'll haul me around
all day.

Romance for Totally Optional Prompts

I've been thinking about romance all week but I guess I'm just not in a romantic frame of mind to write something new.

Last year I had my poetry-writing students find a piece of artwork and write a poem inspired by it. I did it with them and told them I'd open an art book and point to a picture and go with it. This is it. It's called "Nude in the Sunlight" by Renoir. Needless to say, they were thrilled with my random pick!












Nude in the Sunlight

We escaped
from our work
and slipped away
to these woods
to make love
in the sunshine.

Then he asked
if he could paint
me sitting
in the glow,
as natural
as the air
swirling around
the leaves
and my breasts.

I pulled my shirt
up to cover
part of me
because no man
should ever know
all of a woman,
but let him
love me again
with his paintbrush.

What does he see
as he sketches?
Does he notice my arms
thick from doing
my mistress’s laundry?

Does he see my hair
loosened like the grasses
fluttering freely
but still anchored?

He captures the coins
of light on my skin
but he can’t draw
my soul
hidden in my sturdy
body.

He thinks he’s painting
me but each stroke
lights the fire
of naked
independence
that I’m smiling about.

Soon I’ll head back
to the steamy washtub
taking the freedom
of the afternoon
with me.