Tag Archives: poetry

Plural Grief

So, will it snow today or not?
Will I wake up again in the middle of the night?
Will I be sure that I have lost my mother’s amethyst ring?
Will I roam around, fruitlessly, trying to find it?
Will I realize that I still have it (though not my mother)?
Is the day coming when I don’t wake up filled with dread?
Is another day coming after that?
Is it going to be OK, everything that I’m worried about?
Would it help if I could call my mother?
When I could call her, why did I so often not?
When she called me, why did I so often pick fights?
Why did I so often take the bait?
How did I think I’d feel now?
Does it ever really satisfy, being right?
Am I ever really sure that I am right?
How do other people manage their lives?
What do they do with their big griefs and small griefs?
Is it possible for grief to be plural?
If I lose my front teeth, can I afford to buy new ones?
How long would it last, the grief for my teeth?
I check every few minutes but still don’t see snow.

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 14.

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Your Girl of the Houses

Come, my swan of blood. Let us feed the eagle.
Our wave-swine, our sea-steed, stands ready
under the sky jewel, this glory of elves. Come
Unsheath your onion of war, your wound-hoe.
The lord of the gallows calls us; the wolf’s father
already prepares our reward. Will we find it,
the serpent’s lair, before our sleep of the sword?
O, my breaker of rings, breaker of trees. I will be
your girl of the houses until I am flame-farewelled.

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 13. The prompt involved Nordic kennings.

 

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A Very Cute Ladies’ Desire

Desire was designed for use on a boat and is
traditionally worn without socks. Modern desire
was invented in 1935, inspired by a dog’s ability
to run easily over ice without slipping. Desire
is used by sailors and has become fashionable
in America, Argentina, China, France, Portugal,
Spain, and the UK. Desire is usually made of
thick cloth and has a rubber bottom. It is low
and nonslip. Here is a very cute ladies’ desire
with all the benefits of Dubarry’s performance
expertise. And here is desire for a trendy male;
the comfort and style are beyond comparison.

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 12.

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A New, Sweet World

Meet me here by the 3/4 box of Franzia,
and I will tell you the new plan. Unscrew

the cap on the Boone’s Farm Wild Island;
let it breathe. Let it speak to us softly of

pineapple Life Savers and tropical
dorm-room nights. There’s something
in the air; it smells of supermarket jelly
doughnuts and the joy of our union.

You and I do not waste time on fine wine
and artisanal baked goods–not when

there’s so much work to do: Can we
build a new, sweet world before
the old, sweet world expires?

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 11. The prompt was to write about wine and love.

 

 

 

 

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When a Solitary Bee Comes Knocking

Have you thanked a solitary bee today? Have you
put some pollen in the pockets of its pants?
Whether you’re a squill or a crocus, a snowdrop
or a winter aconite, your local solitary bee is ready
to assist you with all your reproductive needs.
Discreet. Friendly. Professional. That’s the kind of
service you can expect when a solitary bee comes
to drink your nectar with its strawlike proboscis
as its head wings legs pockets collect your pollen
and as you realize–for the first time–why it is
that you’re alive. So don’t be shy. Don’t be lonely.
When a solitary bee comes knocking, open up
your sepals, your petals. Stretch out your stamens.

Bloom.

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 10. The prompt was to write a poem advertising something.

 

 

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Black Stone Lying on Whatever

I really don’t care what day it will be, or where,
or what kind of weather, when I die. Do you? Really?
If so, I’d venture to say that you’re fooling yourself —
or indulging some romantic notion about how these things go.

If you die in Coshocton, Ohio, on a snowy February night, you will be
equally dead as if this occurred on a rainy day in Paris.
I’m sure I’ve driven through Coshocton, and I went to Paris once. Both are
OK places to die, no matter which way you wear your arm bones.

Marilyn Cavicchia is dead, or maybe you are. Maybe both of us.
No one beat us with sticks. We missed our final shot at drama.
We thought there might be a rope, but of course there was no

rope. Who said we merit witnesses? There are no witnesses.
Just put your arms back on, and lie down. Be quiet. Try
to think about other things for a while, if you can …

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 8. The prompt was to rewrite a famous poem, and this one was suggested.

 

 

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Hotpoint

You spare me the worst of
dishpan hands. I suspect you are
ancient. From my daughter’s bed,
through the wall, you sound like
a motorboat plying Lake Michigan,
heard from a big white porch
as the sun sets — the hour of
Vernors and distant dinner
preparations, when I was
younger and didn’t have to
help with dinner, or with dishes,
or feel guilty for not helping.
When I was younger, and I
didn’t know you yet.

 

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 7. The prompt was to write a love poem to an inanimate object.

 

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Questions on a Sunday

Does the Little Tykes Cozy Coupe
against the gray house long to
hop the gray fence, go driving
down the gray street?

Do the flowerpots know what
they’re waiting for? Have
last year’s dead leaves
tried to give them hints?

Does the bathtub on the
back staircase wonder what
it did to get tossed out of
the breakfastless B&B?

If the whirligig of the fisherman
in yellow slicker and red boat
on blue water is completely
still, does it need a new name?

Do I need a new name, too?
Should I change it with every
season? Or is it better to keep
some small things the same?

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 6. The prompt was to look out the window and write down some nouns, colors, and verbs.

 

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That Was a Sweet World

I once knew a girl named Ginnifer Green,
whose hands were like a pair of Buddhas.
Somewhere, she had a switch, always “On,”
so you never knew if you were going to the
movies, or over the fence to steal rotten fruit.
We’d get buzzed until we could hardly stand
it — that enervating joy of being what we
were. I’m sure I’ve had better things to eat,
now that I’m an adult and can afford the
luxury of discernment. But Ginnifer’s smile
is something I can never have again, and
that was a sweet world, in our boozy spit.
What would I trade to once again be out
on Ginnifer’s white driveway, toeing the
gravel? That laugh. That flash of teeth.

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 5. The prompt was to write a Golden Shovel, which is a bitch of a form, let me tell you. Here’s the poem I worked from:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

— Charles Simic

Do you see what I did?

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