he wants to retire back where all the spires conspire to show him the way.
2 (too much of a good thing)
summer evening the red sunset bleeds regret maturity lost.
3 (Why can’t I write like Rupi Kaur?)
my quinoa* quota was far from quotidian thanks! sunflower seeds! *’keen-wah
4 (Climate Change is Opening Windows)
rumours dropping from the eaves neighbours thick as thieves singing off key at three
o’clock in the morning.
The challenge from Laura over at dverse is to write a poem consisting of fragments:
“Either: a poem of several numbered stanzas. Each being complete in itself and having only a passing relationship to each other, if at all OR a poem of disjointed images (like listening to conversation in passing, repetitively switching between radio/tv station, random images across a screen, or paintings/photos seen in a gallery)
Rules: Your poem should NOT conform to any rhyme scheme Your poem MUST include Fragment(s) somewhere in the title”
The moon is waning gibbous the pollen count is low and yet another atmospheric river is on the way, all that warm moist air all that water vapour looking for a place to condense; based on anecdotal evidence this is either normal for the time of year or a signal that we should start building an ark but one thing is starkly clear the data with which the calculated risks are calculated is no longer valid is in need of an update the paradigm has not shifted but the perimeter has been breached like a dike in need of repair.
Taking part in Open Link at earthweal….it’s raining again in British Columbia.
We got off the train from Machu Picchu at the Ollantaytambo station, walked up the station road to the town square and came upon this: Mother’s Day in Ollantaytambo. It went on all day – entertainment, raffles, prizes, politicians’ speeches. The ladies seemed to enjoy themselves, although they never clapped once.
Later that evening, we had dinner in the restaurant down at the station and walking home we witnessed this haiku-worthy scene.
In a dystopian future there’s rioting in cities and towns all across the USA and anyone who cares to can own a semi-automatic weapon. One fateful night a seventeen year old baby-faced punk called Kole heads into town with his semi-automatic rifle to restore order on The Streets of Somewhere, by the end of the night three people are dead. Kole is arrested, tried and acquitted in The Court of the White Over Caste. He becomes a hero, an icon, an example and soon young punks all across the USA are starting to feel lucky. (Spoiler Alert: It’s not the Future).
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
not the kind of place for revelations, then boom! awooga! there it is, the unbearable flatness of beige pancakes in the morning.
Over at dverse , Grace’s challenge is to write a wayra incorporating onomatopoeia. What’s a wayra? I’ll let Grace explain:
“The Wayra (Quechua – wind) is a popular verse form of Peru and Bolivia. It appears it originated in an indigenous Quechua language but has found its way into Spanish literature. It is a short syllabic verse form found at Vole Central and some other sites around the internet.
The elements of the Wayra are:
1.a pentastich, a poem in 5 lines. 2.syllabic, 5-7-7-6-8 3.unrhymed.”
The sheriff disagreed He tried to make the distinction between death and extinction They stopped off at a place called Hamburger Heaven to grab a bite to eat But Helen had no appetite, she just drank a 7 Up while the sheriff tapped his coffee cup to a distant beat Kind of like Ooh ooh-ooh Ooh ooh-ooh It won’t look like those old frescoes, man, I don’t think so There will be no angels with swords, man, I don’t think so No jubilant beings in the sky above, man, I don’t think so And it won’t look like those old movies neither There will be no drag racing through the bombed out streets neither No shareholders will be orbiting the earth, man, neither It will be hard to recognize each other through our oxygen masks The successful sons of businessmen will set their desks on fire While 5-star generals of the free world weep in the oil choked tide It won’t sound like jazz Jazz, jazz, jazz Jazz on the Autobahn
Now isn’t that something to aim for…
The Felice Brothers are from New York City.
“The band has two main members, Ian and James Felice. Former members include their brother Simone Felice, their friend Josh “Christmas Clapton” Rawson, frequently described as a traveling dice player, fiddle player Greg Farley, and drummer David Estabrook. At other times, they have featured a horn section in the band, composed of local Hudson Valley musicians. Ian is the main vocalist and plays the guitar and piano. James contributes vocals and plays the accordion, organ, and piano. Christmas plays the bass guitar. Dave Turbeville played the drums from 2009-2012, performing on Celebration, Florida, Poughkeepsie Princess, Mixtape, and God Bless You, Amigo. Simone Felice was the drummer as well as a vocalist and a guitarist. Simone is also an author, having released books entitled Goodbye Amelia, Hail Mary, Full of Holes and Black Jesus. Simone Felice left the Felice Brothers in 2009. He now leads his own band – The Duke & the King (named after the duo of con-artists in Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn) with Robert “Chicken” Burke. They released their debut album – Nothing Gold Can Stay on Loose / Ramseur Records August 4, 2009, followed by Long Live the Duke & King in 2010. Simone released a self-titled album in 2012, followed that up with an album titled Strangers in 2014, and then released his third album titled The Projector in 2018.” ….from Wikipedia.
I just popped that pill I got from a guy who called me ‘dude’ now the signs along the highway are leaking semiotic fluid
and the cacti look psychotic lizards parse the desert floor far off in the clint-eyed distance I see a slowly revolving door
and I’m feeling, demotic, neurotic, anecdotal, overused I’m looking for a sanctuary, the fisherman and the shoes I’ve got those hallucination highway peripatetic blues.
I’ve been writing/ rewriting this poem verse by verse this week, posting a new verse each day. I think I may have come to the end of the poem, but I may take it up again.
Either way, there is a fascinating prompt from Bjorn over at dverse on the subject of conceit: To quote Bjorn:
“A conceit is defined as an extended and complex metaphor”
“In literature, a conceit is an extended metaphor with complex logic that governs a poetic passage or entire poem. By juxtaposing, usurping and manipulating images and ideas in surprising ways, a conceit invites the reader into a more sophisticated understanding of an object of comparison.”
Given the week that it is, I decided to bring this poem back from the dead…..
Thom Yorke takes a walk on Halloween Night
The dead move slowly
through the graveyard,
they are few at first
but as they pass
each row of headstones
grey fists punch
through mounds of earth
in a manic salute
and the throng grows
and the throng grows
and the night howls
and the fog curls
and a thin cloud
bisects the moon
and at the edge
of the graveyard
is an old well
and at the bottom
of that well
is a little boy
and that little boy
is crying for help
and that little boy
is Thom Yorke
it’s a name that you come across
in someone else’s bathroom
beside the shaving cream
and those pills that people use
from your head
down to your shoes
there ain’t no doubt about it
there ain’t no doubt about it
you’ve got those Estee Lauder blues.
consider the object consider the space consider the objects excluded from the space ask the question: is the object occupying the space worthy of the space or is the object a waste of space? consider the material forming the space journey to its origins in a plantation somewhere British Columbia, perhaps, or Brazil see the tree felled, shorn of its branches, loaded on a flatbed truck with its passive companions follow the truck to a paper mill the size of a small city see the tree chipped, pulped, processed see the gases escaping to atmosphere hear the outfall roar into the river ask the questions: are we here to consume? can we be consumed by consumption? see the worker arriving home from the mill to food on the table a roof above his head ask the question: is there only one answer to a question? return to the space consider the object.
that’s what Myron’s mother called him – a reasonable facsimile , of his brother, that is, in that his brother was preternaturally unreasonable if his brother was the weather his mother said he would be deemed unseasonable his actions were incomprehensible reprehensible, irredeemable so based on the principle that no praise is too faint Myron was amenable to being called a reasonable facsimile of his brother.
Bono, Paul name those streets it’s time it’s time.
Mr. Joyce, James yes, that sea still tightens the scrotum.
Mr. Beckett, Sam we’re waiting we’re waiting we’re waiting
Mr. O’Brien, Flann, Myles of the Little Horses this is not about a bicycle. My dad once told me you were a regular on the last bus out of the city, heading home to Booterstown langered, stotious, three sheets to the wind whether this was an observation or a judgement or an exaggeration I could never quite figure but if you should meet my dad in that section of heaven reserved for former residents of South Dublin please say hi from me and I hope it’s always late June up there and the evening is stretching its legs and the light is like filtered longing.
Tell us about the places you hold most dear in the corner of the planet where you live. Share them with us; let us see them through your eyes and your words. Let’s sing their names and landscapes – the places that hold our hearts, that call to us when we are gone, that welcome us home when we return.
This post last appeared on St. Patrick’s day. I no longer live in Dublin, but I go back there a lot (physically and in my head!.
up on Dunbar Street the barber shops are empty a guy smokes a joint
and laughs hysterically at the blank screen of his phone
when asked if the melon is ripe the girl behind the counter at the Chinese-Canadian Deli sniffs the pale green globe, shakes her head and pointing to a small beige circle, says:
this is the melon’s bottom the melon is ripe, when the bottom smells sweet.
outside the traffic stalls on Dunbar Street
Sherry over at earthweal asks us: “Tell us about the places you hold most dear in the corner of the planet where you live. Share them with us; let us see them through your eyes and your words”.
I live just off Dunbar Street and to be honest, the street is more than a tad prosaic, even if the real estate pamphlets call it “bucolic”. But if I don’t put Dunbar in a poem, who’s going to? So these are two slices of Dunbar life. By the way, for some reason, there are more barber shops on Dunbar than the population could possibly need.
a raven rising above the trees seen from a boat on the swirling river leads the tracker to the bodies
avoid foliage excessive leafiness too many trees the reader needs to see the poem
** The leaves on the trees bordering the soccer field have abandoned that chlorophyll thing and are leaking yellows and red like a paint store catalogue
The sun drops behind the ridge of the house the wind goes crazy in the trees, the moth balls smell like halitosis on the warm neurotic breeze.
Paradise as advertised: a coral reef a bluebottle sea sting rays undulating pelicans plummeting palm trees swaying in the reggae breeze
Life’s like that from time to time you bark up the wrong one.
Brendan over at earthweal asks us to ” spend some time and thought in our hearts with trees, for nurture, communication, grace and grief. You decide.” I’m not much of a nature poet so I searched my blog for references to trees and came up with the above collage (?).
After Myron’s dog died he experienced what he would later come to call: A Failure of Optimism.
It wasn’t just the loss of his dog it was the pandemic, the anti-vaxxers, the placards, the protests, the rabid mobs. He began to think in movie titles, book titles: Dawn of the Dumb Ass The Age of Idiocy The Death of Logic.
And it wasn’t just the anti-vaxxers It was Texas and its abortion legislation Patriarchy’s Second Wind The Great White American Male coming up for air spouting an acidic spume of piss, vinegar and self-righteousness.
And it wasn’t just Texas it was Afghanistan the rise of the Taliban the fall of Kabul Welcome to The Fundament of Fundamentalism! Hey Mister Taliban Daylight comes and everybody wants to leave home.
And then one morning Myron woke up, walked out the door and got himself another dog. Some things can be fixed.
Sarah over at dverse asks us to write about things that creep and crawl, so I thought I would resurrect these two poems. (The one below was inspired by a fly that appeared on Mike Pence’s head during a vice presidential debate back in the glory days of demagoguery.)
The Fly on Top of Mike Pence’s Head Speaks
It’s so white up here. What’s that fragrance? Is it Rogaine? Is it piety? Is it Rogaine and piety? You seem a little nervous around the women folk, Mike. Can I recommend a good conditioner?
Oscar’s wife, Anka,
declared: we need to procure a guard dog to make our home secure, a real dog not some mangy cur some obscure miniature some saliva dripping skinny impostor looking for a sinecure, a dog that barks at every knock on the door and when, Oscar asked, should this occur? Yesterday, she said, or before.
This is a poem from the days of The Daily Prompt. the prompt was the word “cur”.
Photo taken at the Takashi Murakami exhibition (The octopus eats its own leg) at the Vancouver Art Gallery.