Poetry Train: Fortune cookies

I bought fortune cookies for my Poetry-Writing students and gave them each two. They had to begin a poem with one fortune and end with the other. This is what I wrote:

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Fortunate Poem

“Your income will increase”
said the fortune cookie
and right away
I thought of winning
the lottery
and having all that
money.

But I know
what would happen.
My husband would want
and airplane
or two
and a new boat
and before I could blink,
we’d be in debt
and have tons
of bills.

No. I want
a different type
of income.
I want the richness
of poems.
I want bank accounts
of words.
I want an ATM card
that spews
ideas
and credit cards
with unlimited
creativity
because “the important
thing is to express
yourself.”

Revision for Totally Optional Prompts

Casting a Spell 11/1/05

What is it about words
that attract me
like fish to bait?

What tasty morsels
words are.
I can’t resist
nibbling at them,

taking bites
and chewing, chewing,
chomping
on their flavors.

Each one is different
in size and shape
so they are never boring.
I savor them
on my tongue
then swallow
and feel their richness
paint the walls
of my esophagus.

As I digest
each meaning,
I thank the witch
who cast
the fishing line
with the wordy worm
on the hook.



The Revision 3/14/09

Words are like bait
on a fishing line

tempting morsels
I chomp, chomp

and get hooked on.
But who is the fisherman

who dangles those words
so enticing? And do I mind

getting caught? Oh, there’s
another one meandering

around in the ocean
of my brain. I open

my mouth and swallow,
hooked again.

Naisaiku: Temper winter spirits

Come, March, and cajole
the recluse crocus faces
out of their prisons.
TEMPER WINTER SPIRITS
out of their prisons.
The recluse crocus faces
come. March and cajole.

Poetry Train: Setting the clock ahead

Setting the Clock Ahead

What happens to the hour
we lose when we spring
forward to daylight
savings time?

Does it explode into dust
and become those motes
swimming in the slant
of afternoon sun?

Does it get buried
along with the poems
never written
in that hour,
all the songs never sung,
all the paintings
never sketched,
all the thoughts
never born?

Or does it melt
into the next hour
making us doubly creative
for those sixty
pregnant minutes?

Where do those dandelion
fluff moments
disappear to when man
takes a deep breath
and, thinking that it fills
him with wisdom,
blows them apart
and sacrifices them
to the winds
of daylight?

Listen Up for Sunday Scribblings

Listen Up; This Is Important

Your essay is due
on Thursday.
Period.

(Girl in back of room is hunting for something in her purse)

Even if you are absent,
you still have to
get it here.

(Boy gets up to blow his nose)

Have a parent
or a friend
bring it in

or you can
email it to me
as an attachment.

(Boy and girl eye each other, mouth sweet nothings, smile)

Also, you must have it
printed out
when you come to class.

I don’t want it
on a jump drive.
Figure out a way

to get it printed
before you get
here.

(Girl in first row combs her hair)

Don’t wait
until Wednesday night
to write it

and then realize
you have computer
or printer issues.

(Intercom interrupts: Please send so-and-so to the office)

No excuses
will be accepted.
Even if you

are in the hospital,
you must still
find a way

to get it
here by
2:30.

(Several students begin packing up to go)

If you die,
I expect
you will have made

back-up
arrangements
for its submission.

(Teacher looks out
classroom window
and sees fat snowflakes
falling like disjointed
words on deaf ears)

Chores for TOP

For Christmas my daughter gave everyone Swivel Sweepers. We all joked about them because we'd seen them advertised on TV. Then we tried them and fell in love.
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Ode to the Swivel Sweeper

You lean nonchalantly
against the wall
at the bottom of the stairs,

a patient lover,
waiting for the touch
of my hands.

I wrap my fingers
around the handle
and fondle your switch.

You buzz to life,
sashaying,
doing the housework
dance.

You bend first one way
then slide to the other,
back and forth
our steps in sync.

You nibble at flecks
of sawdust and lint,
tucking them
in your pocket.

When the dance floor
is clean, I turn the music
off and lead you back
home,

a perfect date,
asking nothing
in return.

Avenge Genuine Ramble for 3WW

When we were dating,
my husband had a 1957 Rambler.
All our friends were envious
because the back of the front seat

reclined to meet the back seat.
It wasn’t a genuine bed
but, we were teenagers,
and it was the next best thing.

And, honestly, I’m too tired
tonight to write anything decent.
This poem is going nowhere
unlike us when we’d go parking.

P.S. There is no way
I’m going to get avenge in here!
Hope the rest of you
Are doing better than me.