heaven is
round and fat and toothless
she grins at you just because
PAD #15 For today's prompt, I want you to take the title of a poem you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem. I chose Dickinson's Hope Is
Showing posts with label napowrimo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label napowrimo. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
NaPoWriMo
untitled
what is this cruel affair that woman
must bear the brunt of a man's despair?
when his anger grows in her belly
and his bruises bloom on her cheeks
what is this cruel affair?
when she tastes the metallic of her own blood
on her tongue does the meek receive her savior's wafer?
where is her salvation?
*No prompt. Just trying to crank them out for the challenge. Can't tell you where this came from. Don't feel awkward if you think it's a brain fart. I'm a big girl. I can take it. There is something here.
what is this cruel affair that woman
must bear the brunt of a man's despair?
when his anger grows in her belly
and his bruises bloom on her cheeks
what is this cruel affair?
when she tastes the metallic of her own blood
on her tongue does the meek receive her savior's wafer?
where is her salvation?
*No prompt. Just trying to crank them out for the challenge. Can't tell you where this came from. Don't feel awkward if you think it's a brain fart. I'm a big girl. I can take it. There is something here.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
NaPoWriMo #21
At twenty before plus one,
my daughter bloomed
in my womb. My birth canal
was our shared rite of passage.
Is there a rite of passage in our lives that doesn’t get much attention? For example, we tend to celebrate success and bury failure. What if we honored our mistakes? We tend to endorse transformation and overlook the ordinary. What is important enough in your own life to warrant a ceremony? What do you value and how could you pay it homage?
my daughter bloomed
in my womb. My birth canal
was our shared rite of passage.
Is there a rite of passage in our lives that doesn’t get much attention? For example, we tend to celebrate success and bury failure. What if we honored our mistakes? We tend to endorse transformation and overlook the ordinary. What is important enough in your own life to warrant a ceremony? What do you value and how could you pay it homage?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
NaPoWriMo #20
rebirth
she sat across from me, puffed up-
a breakout threatening to surface.
for me, our exchange was a pimple,
a reminder that I'd never have perfect skin
to her, I was poking at a boil that wasn't there;
she wasn't angry.
PAD prompt #20 is rebirth.
she sat across from me, puffed up-
a breakout threatening to surface.
for me, our exchange was a pimple,
a reminder that I'd never have perfect skin
to her, I was poking at a boil that wasn't there;
she wasn't angry.
PAD prompt #20 is rebirth.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
NaPoWriMo #17
Missing Mrs. Gavin
Last week Mrs. Gavin moved. I felt uprooted by
her leaving. She had been Drakewood's historian,
35801's unofficial senior R.A., our resident gardner
and welcoming committee of one.
Mrs. Gavin said after her surgery she never felt
quite like herself again. It was if she woke up
and suddenly she was old.
She never said how old, but if you listened to her stories
about her life and about the complex, you knew
Mrs. Gavin had lived many seasons.
More than thirty years ago, she had planted a tree
behind our building. The last few years, it looked
ill; it was no longer thriving.
Still, we had the best grounds, thanks to her.
Every year she planted, weeded and cared
for her garden. With the passing seasons,
Mrs. Gavin had grown on me.
Seeing her come and go, working in the yard,
talking with her before church or listening to her
explain at length what needed to be fixed
had become part of what made home home.
Mrs. Gavin had become my surrogate grandmother.
Her inquiries and her kind exchanges enriched
my daily routine. Her leaving was like plucking
a piece from a completed puzzled.
Who will I take cards and cookies
to at Christmas time now?
Who will make sure our garden grows?
Prompt at readwritepoem: Instead of “missing someone/something,” maybe you’d like to write about “something missing.” My neighbor really did move and I miss her. She's not too far and I plan to visit her. In between visits, I look forward to working on revisions. I'd like to share a finished draft with her. Before leaving, she told me how old she is, but I won't be sharing that here. :-)
Also participating in Poetry Friday. Find more reads here.
Last week Mrs. Gavin moved. I felt uprooted by
her leaving. She had been Drakewood's historian,
35801's unofficial senior R.A., our resident gardner
and welcoming committee of one.
Mrs. Gavin said after her surgery she never felt
quite like herself again. It was if she woke up
and suddenly she was old.
She never said how old, but if you listened to her stories
about her life and about the complex, you knew
Mrs. Gavin had lived many seasons.
More than thirty years ago, she had planted a tree
behind our building. The last few years, it looked
ill; it was no longer thriving.
Still, we had the best grounds, thanks to her.
Every year she planted, weeded and cared
for her garden. With the passing seasons,
Mrs. Gavin had grown on me.
Seeing her come and go, working in the yard,
talking with her before church or listening to her
explain at length what needed to be fixed
had become part of what made home home.
Mrs. Gavin had become my surrogate grandmother.
Her inquiries and her kind exchanges enriched
my daily routine. Her leaving was like plucking
a piece from a completed puzzled.
Who will I take cards and cookies
to at Christmas time now?
Who will make sure our garden grows?
Prompt at readwritepoem: Instead of “missing someone/something,” maybe you’d like to write about “something missing.” My neighbor really did move and I miss her. She's not too far and I plan to visit her. In between visits, I look forward to working on revisions. I'd like to share a finished draft with her. Before leaving, she told me how old she is, but I won't be sharing that here. :-)
Also participating in Poetry Friday. Find more reads here.
Friday, April 17, 2009
napowrimo #14
love smells good
like Nautica and Tide
and warm clothes
from the dryer
morning coffee kisses
PAD #14 write a love poem or anti-love poem
like Nautica and Tide
and warm clothes
from the dryer
morning coffee kisses
PAD #14 write a love poem or anti-love poem
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
NaPoWriMo
across my wide screen
fall’s sage and spruce inspire
springtime renewal
springtime renewal
This doesn't fit any prompt today. Heard a great interview with Nelson George. I'm writing because. And when I'm inspired, I'll write then, too.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
NaPoWriMo #12
I Come from a Long Line of Pimps, Hoes, Hustlers and Factory Workers
Where I come from everyone originally
came from down south.
I'm from Detroit- born and raised,
a place with neighborhoods called
Paradise Valley, Black Bottom, Palmer
Woods, Sherwood Forest and University
of Detroit District.
We lived nine blocks
from U of D, on the other side-
the working class side.
I come from a line of firstborns.
My grandmother mopped floors
at Bi-County General. My daddy swept
floors at Mound Rd Engine and I
cleaned houses from twelve until
my freshman year at Sienna.
I come from pimps, hoes, hustlers and
factory workers who dreamed
their children would leave overalls
and shiny suits behind and sit at
desks with pressed shirts and
skirts and ties.
And we hope maybe next time-
our children's dreams won't be
deferred; they'll earn degrees
before bringing babies into this world.
I am the child of blue collars
middle class income earned mopping
concrete floors and running numbers.
We hope still for name plates, classrooms
and nurses' stations.
I come from a long line of pimps, hoes, hustlers and factory workers.
Where I come from everyone originally
came from down south.
I'm from Detroit- born and raised,
a place with neighborhoods called
Paradise Valley, Black Bottom, Palmer
Woods, Sherwood Forest and University
of Detroit District.
We lived nine blocks
from U of D, on the other side-
the working class side.
I come from a line of firstborns.
My grandmother mopped floors
at Bi-County General. My daddy swept
floors at Mound Rd Engine and I
cleaned houses from twelve until
my freshman year at Sienna.
I come from pimps, hoes, hustlers and
factory workers who dreamed
their children would leave overalls
and shiny suits behind and sit at
desks with pressed shirts and
skirts and ties.
And we hope maybe next time-
our children's dreams won't be
deferred; they'll earn degrees
before bringing babies into this world.
I am the child of blue collars
middle class income earned mopping
concrete floors and running numbers.
We hope still for name plates, classrooms
and nurses' stations.
I come from a long line of pimps, hoes, hustlers and factory workers.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
NaPoWriMo #9
napowrimo #9 PAD-memory
barbeque sauce and sticky fingers
blue light emanating from the thirteen inch screen
and my pillow, my daddy's full round belly
barbeque sauce and sticky fingers
blue light emanating from the thirteen inch screen
and my pillow, my daddy's full round belly
NaPoWriMo #10
Friday
basket of catfish
fries and a diet coke
eating way past full
PAD prompt is Friday. To read more, go here.
basket of catfish
fries and a diet coke
eating way past full
PAD prompt is Friday. To read more, go here.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
NaPoWriMo PAD #8
Burying Our Young
When did young girls' crying replace the wails of church mothers?
When were balding pallbearers replaced with young men in ill-fitting suits?
When did the young become the bowed heads and shuffling feet?
When did boys take on the burden of carrying the dead?
When did the funeral procession become familiar?
When did we exchange obitutaries for class pictures?
When did burying our young and witnessing
this untimely death become routine?
Prompt #8 for PAD is routine
When did young girls' crying replace the wails of church mothers?
When were balding pallbearers replaced with young men in ill-fitting suits?
When did the young become the bowed heads and shuffling feet?
When did boys take on the burden of carrying the dead?
When did the funeral procession become familiar?
When did we exchange obitutaries for class pictures?
When did burying our young and witnessing
this untimely death become routine?
Prompt #8 for PAD is routine
NaPoWriMo
Animal
I knew how to release the safety, cock
and pull the trigger in singular
fluid motion.
I knew to put the butt of my
rifle between my shoulder blade
to brace myself against the backfire.
If he chose to lunge at me once more,
I'd drop him dead in midair. This ain't
no bush and I want be preyed upon no more.
PAD
I knew how to release the safety, cock
and pull the trigger in singular
fluid motion.
I knew to put the butt of my
rifle between my shoulder blade
to brace myself against the backfire.
If he chose to lunge at me once more,
I'd drop him dead in midair. This ain't
no bush and I want be preyed upon no more.
PAD
NaPoWriMO #8
Some Collect Shoes
His name was Steven and we were eight.
He kissed me in my basement.
I dreamed of us having a new washer
and dryer and yellow babies.
Keith was sixteen. I wrote Mrs. C-
over and over in my notebook.
He took me on my first date.
Underneath a table, on a floor
he broke my heart.
Paul was the Monkey in Chinese Zodiac.
A ravenous lover with lean muscles
and the stamina of a man ten years his junior.
He drove me mad and left me spent.
Willi was my senior. A gentleman who bought
me flowers just because. Took me to real jazz
concerts and catered to my every whim. But
I didn't love him.
List all of your old flames. Try to go back as far as your first kiss in the 2nd grade coat closet. Sit with your list. Depending on your mood today, choose the flame with the most sparks, or pin the list on the wall and throw a dart. Whatever your method or mood, write a poem about an old flame.
His name was Steven and we were eight.
He kissed me in my basement.
I dreamed of us having a new washer
and dryer and yellow babies.
Keith was sixteen. I wrote Mrs. C-
over and over in my notebook.
He took me on my first date.
Underneath a table, on a floor
he broke my heart.
Paul was the Monkey in Chinese Zodiac.
A ravenous lover with lean muscles
and the stamina of a man ten years his junior.
He drove me mad and left me spent.
Willi was my senior. A gentleman who bought
me flowers just because. Took me to real jazz
concerts and catered to my every whim. But
I didn't love him.
List all of your old flames. Try to go back as far as your first kiss in the 2nd grade coat closet. Sit with your list. Depending on your mood today, choose the flame with the most sparks, or pin the list on the wall and throw a dart. Whatever your method or mood, write a poem about an old flame.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Typical Evening
I
I folded the laundry,
scrubbed carrots and potatoes,
read some poetry,
avoided balancing my checkbook.
Ate meatless stew and drank
cran-apple mixed with soda,
read some poetry.
II
Pulled off twice worn jeans and sweater
slumped into bed alone.
Under the blankets, I clutched my sides,
tried to push black back to the corners
finally, I cried. Cried because I had stuffed
tears down as long as I could.
Missed him, missed my children,
missed me.
This is a revisited piece. I'm sharing this for TOP's prompt, solitaire.
I folded the laundry,
scrubbed carrots and potatoes,
read some poetry,
avoided balancing my checkbook.
Ate meatless stew and drank
cran-apple mixed with soda,
read some poetry.
II
Pulled off twice worn jeans and sweater
slumped into bed alone.
Under the blankets, I clutched my sides,
tried to push black back to the corners
finally, I cried. Cried because I had stuffed
tears down as long as I could.
Missed him, missed my children,
missed me.
This is a revisited piece. I'm sharing this for TOP's prompt, solitaire.
Friday, April 3, 2009
NaPoWriMo #3
the problem with occupation
is it's not liberation. the occupied don't want
saving but sovereignty. the flying shoes were
screaming: how can you know a life when you
haven't walked a mile in the others' shoes?
the act was incredibly poetic.
I'm posting my drafts to readwritepoem and the PAD challenge. I'm working on the prompts for rwp. This one is PAD's fill in the blank prompt.
is it's not liberation. the occupied don't want
saving but sovereignty. the flying shoes were
screaming: how can you know a life when you
haven't walked a mile in the others' shoes?
the act was incredibly poetic.
I'm posting my drafts to readwritepoem and the PAD challenge. I'm working on the prompts for rwp. This one is PAD's fill in the blank prompt.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
NaPoWriMo #2
Dichotomy of Race and Language: A Girl from The Hood
When I was growing up we could not say finna, ain't or lie.
Slang in general would unleash an automatic correction-
and scowl. You don't want to irritate my mother.
Dropping the endings of words-
Correction. And the ominous skies
before the storm.
Where I grew up, everybody said dang, finna, doin'.
Everybody went to the neighborhood school.
My sister and I at eight and seven caught the bus
to a better school- according to my mother.
We were often teased: "Why, y'all talk white?"
I live in the suburbs; a single, educated woman
with two daughters. Our favorite food is Indian.
I work for an established reference publisher.
My peers are liberal, middle class and educated.
We eat lunch together, debate social ills, talk about
latest art films, exhibits and what we're reading.
We visit each other. I read poetry at their weddings.
Inevitably though, someone slips up: "You don't
talk like other black people."
Today's PAD prompt is outsider. I would have preferred not choosing race, but the truth is the dichotomy of race, culture and language hugely colored my upbringing. It was a natural choice when I read the prompt so I went with it.
Today is Poetry Friday. Find more poetry reads at ayuddha.net.
When I was growing up we could not say finna, ain't or lie.
Slang in general would unleash an automatic correction-
and scowl. You don't want to irritate my mother.
Dropping the endings of words-
Correction. And the ominous skies
before the storm.
Where I grew up, everybody said dang, finna, doin'.
Everybody went to the neighborhood school.
My sister and I at eight and seven caught the bus
to a better school- according to my mother.
We were often teased: "Why, y'all talk white?"
I live in the suburbs; a single, educated woman
with two daughters. Our favorite food is Indian.
I work for an established reference publisher.
My peers are liberal, middle class and educated.
We eat lunch together, debate social ills, talk about
latest art films, exhibits and what we're reading.
We visit each other. I read poetry at their weddings.
Inevitably though, someone slips up: "You don't
talk like other black people."
Today's PAD prompt is outsider. I would have preferred not choosing race, but the truth is the dichotomy of race, culture and language hugely colored my upbringing. It was a natural choice when I read the prompt so I went with it.
Today is Poetry Friday. Find more poetry reads at ayuddha.net.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
napowrimo #1
The Origin of Brain Farts aka 30 days of Bad Poetry
I don't know what's worse, brain farts or brain freeze. I'm going to go through with this but I really want to back up and run like hell right now.
Five steps in-
I'm drowning in white noise.
Five minutes more
and the static is a roar.
Five steps back; what was
I thinking? Was I dreaming
I'd last five minutes
before drowning in white noise.
I'm drowning in white noise.
Five minutes more
and the static is a roar.
Five steps back; what was
I thinking? Was I dreaming
I'd last five minutes
before drowning in white noise.
I don't know what's worse, brain farts or brain freeze. I'm going to go through with this but I really want to back up and run like hell right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)