April Poetry: What the Senses Tell Us About This Place We're Living In; Also, A Wicked Strong Advisory, An Elegy, and What They Said About 'Walking'

"April is so changeable."

It's been raining all day long,

and I've spent the day at home --

the sort of  thing that happens 

to make you write a poem.

          Oh, right, that's what I've been doing every day this month. Here are my efforts from the last four days. 

4.26 The Prompt: "We’d like to challenge you to write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear."

            My poem:

Deer Food

I'm developing a taste for this stuff.

            Yeah?

Reel stuff. Wild. Nourishing. Green. Leafy. Young. Like snowflakes on the tongue.

            Does it have a scent?

Strawberries. Ice. The first sunny days.

            Those are scents?

Pine. Citrus.

            OK, I'm getting something. Are you hearing anything?

Murmuring rumbles in the sky. Dripping. Snow melting from the trees. Cool, moist, happy times.

            That's a lot to hear.

You'll like it. Sunshine. Did I mention sunlight? Flakes melting in your hair. Your lips alive. Your nose touching firm, clean, skin-like.

            You're getting my attention. What do you feel?

The crunch in your teeth. The foliage -- soft, viney, dense, but low. The clean comb of a brush on your hair. An urge to lie down and bed -- but fight it.

Safe, you feel safe. A first inkling of a ray of light breaking through the clouds.

Spring! You feel spring -- !

            OK, enough. Enough. I get it, man. Don't push too hard.

Are you with me?

            Wait... Just one more thing. What does it look like?

Like a necklace. Like a blanket. Like a halo of ribbons, green and gold, for a queen. Like a glade in a valley where the water drips from the crag of an ancient cliff... The kind of place where the king looks down on you and blesses you with his eyes. Like a green mist on a sunny day... A refuse, a secret, a place to lie down and dream of time stretching out in a perfect line of identically perfect moments, hours, days.

            Holy cow! Anything more?

It looks like a garden.

It looks like food.

            OK, you got me. Let's go. Let's go right now. I'm hungry. I'm always hungry.  

4.25 The Prompt: "Today, we challenge you to write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself! (Mine definitely includes the statement: “Do Not Feed More Than Four Cookies Per Hour.”)

           My response: Maybe not exactly an advisory, but definitely in that area. 

 

I Told You Not to Eat It

I told you not to eat it,

now you're feeling very sick

I told you not to sniff it,

and not to take a lick

Now you worry that you'll stiff it

'cause you're feeling very sick

I told you just to wrap it up

and store it in a box

And lock it up in package tape

and cover it with dirty socks

Then throw it in the garbage

and rush it to the curb

and bury it in garden waste

imbued with leaves of rotten-breath, and stinky-weed,

            and a certain form of indelicate, 

not-to-mention "poisoned" herb

-- Truly not to your best taste!

Just do it, and make haste!

I told you not to taste it

with the tipple of a tongue 

and not to roll it on the teeth,

and make that lipsy-smacky noise

Remember -- you're not young!

I told you not to lick it

and make that greedy face

There may be ways to do such things

            -- when you're alone, and I'm asleep --

but this is neither time nor place

And the waiter now turns up his nose,

appalled at your disgrace!

And now you want to take it home,

pretending it's for doggy dear  

 -- Oh such deceit! Oh greed replete! --

When our old dog died last year!

It will only make you sick

All night I'll hear you groan

And when at last you slumber off

I'll wake you with a moan --   

"I told you not to eat it!"

Words I'm writing on your stone.

4.24 The Prompt: "Today, we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem typically written in honor or memory of someone dead. But we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy that has a hopefulness to it."    

            My response: an elegy for a nameless death, with the slightest whisper of hope at the end.

Elegy For A Border Corpse

You paid your way and said your prayers

Still they left you by yourself

to face alone the border snares

The others said 'Give up, turn back,'

You've lost your way, outrun your luck

You faced the river -- ain't it grand?

Come back! they cried,

We'll find another place to stand

You lacked the shame to face defeat

Not going back, on tender feet

I'll wear my flesh down to the bone

My sisters and my mother wait

I won't return with nothing more  

than the scars of futile hate

The desert is a barren place

that never saw a savior's face

By the waters of forgetfulness

A fool throws down his heart

The lion takes the slowest beast

The desert does its part

From barren hearts they built a fence

and watered it with blood

I'll swim the devil's water

and ride it at the flood

I'll eat the bitter leavings

of those who've gone before

Trace bloody truths on naked stones

Sniff the air of specters, gnaw upon the bones

I'll spend my life on a futile chase

For a destiny that seeks my death

And whisper prayers with dying breath

For a life in a better place.

4.23 The Prompt: “When you hear it, you write it down.” Today, we challenge you to honor this idea with a poem based in sound. The poem, for example, could incorporate overheard language. Perhaps it could incorporate a song lyric in some way, or language from something often heard spoken aloud (a prayer, a pledge, the Girl Scout motto). Or you could use a regional or local phrase from your hometown that you don’t hear elsewhere, e.g. “that boy won’t amount to a pinch.”

            My poem, about hearing things.

Things Heard

He walked a fair piece.

I used to walk a little, but he walked farther.

Take a walk, pal.

Good advice. I'm sure I'll take it,

you should too.

After saying such-and-such about such-a-thing,

how can you walk that back?

Well, you shouldn't have gone down that path

to begin with.

When a scrap of talk, or a path taken -- or a big mistake -- goes to meet its maker,

and that maker turns out to be you...

I heard a man say

he took a walk just yesterday,

and today it was nowhere to be found.

But he walked farther than anyone else.

When he returned all the lights were out

and the clean-up gang was preparing for a new century

The trees were cut down, and the parking lot

            for the mega-something was smoothed and sterile,

the way they are supposed to be.

Wild no more

He turned, walking back into the Idea of Place

that was no longer there

Until he stepped inside,

and then it was.

For more information on National Poetry Writing Month here's the link.
http://www.napowrimo.net/2018/04/