When I say hello
to lamplight
the glowing globe
beside the brick
warmed
warming
Under our front window,
is it raining? Is it snowing?
See the drops bounce
and hiss, the flakes
feather the globe
This is four o’clock.
This is five. This is
home
NaPoWriMo, Day 17 prompt: Write a poem of greeting.
Your pot of soup, Minute Turkey Pimento,
sullies my oily medicine. Croon a tune of
valor, minus crooning on Jericho.
(Joke’s on me, my Rasta Mullasta.)
My hanky seeks any low vista, linty. I am
a hoyden, your pet teen; just cure it, this
sanest hurt I feel. My oily hair. I am your
automaton, your Conestoga wagon.
Tick it off. Have a view. Is it that I owe you
New Orleans? I lay my cone, Two Oaks Sue.
Joke: I can owe you Japan, sure can walk
you there. But our house? Cooking?
Melting? Joke: I can owe you the casbah.
My hanky seeks a pillow’s view.
NaPoWriMo, Day 16 prompt: Write a poem that attempts to phonetically translate another poem that is written in a language you don’t understand.Here is the poem I used. It’s in Finnish, and it’s by Olli Heikkonen. I’ll post a link at Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. Check that out, if you haven’t already! It’s a big sharefest that happens every Tuesday p.m.
Monk parakeets, green, with grubby baby faces
swing on a birdfeeder in our neighbor’s backyard.
How is it that people live in other places
and think, “Life in the big city must be so hard”?
NaPoWriMo, Day 15 prompt: Write a pantun, a poem with four-line stanzas, with an a-b-a-b rhyme scheme, where each line has 8-12 syllables and the second two lines take a departure from the first two. Got that?
“Wonder Twin powers activate,”
I whispered, and then I yelled,
I screamed, over and over, but
Zan could no longer hear me.
We didn’t know we could die.
It had never happened before.
The doctors never knew what
it was, exactly: a heart attack,
a stroke, or just some fatal
mismatch between our bodies
and Earth. None of them came,
the Super Friends, and Gleek
had long since died, of mange
and fatty liver, neither of which
we could cure with any form
of water or animal. I’m alone
now. My powers were never
all that great, to be honest,
and now they’re good for
nothing. Without Zan, I am
only half here, only half alive.
I own a comic book store. I grew
out my hair, but most days,
I pull it back to show my ears.
I don’t know if anyone notices,
but no one ever says, “Jayna,
is that you?” I never hear my
name at all anymore, or our
signature phrase. No one ever
liked us much, anyway; Zan and I
aren’t real heroes, were invented
only for the cartoon, people say,
as if any of us can help the way
we were born. Sometimes I talk
to Zan when I’m lonely and when
there are no customers. I invent
a problem, other than this one
that can never be solved. I call
out a form: “Polar bear!” I can
hear him shout his: “Iceberg!”
But I know it’s just my mind—
and the door of the shop,
rattling in its frame. Even if he
could speak to me, somehow,
it would still be worthless,
I would still be powerless,
not able to activate myself
until he and I can touch.
NaPoWriMo, Day 14 prompt: Write in the persona of a superhero or supervillain.
You could buy a full-cap wig or
get a weeve, or your ears pierced,
where there’s a barber on duty.
In the window at Rainbow is
the blank, naked white torso
of a child awaiting clothes.
Iyanze Bolat West African Flair
is right next door to Thai Uptown,
fufu competing with papaya salad.
City Sports sells Adidas of every
color and description; a pair or two
might change your life forever.
At Gigio’s, try number 22 out of
the top 25 pizzas in Chicago. If you’re
handicapped, knock on the window.
Cross the slanted street to the Wilson
station, on gang turf. Say hello to the man
who pauses his mop to let you pass.
NaPoWriMo, Day 13 prompt: Take a walk and write about what you see.
You were not mean, exactly,
but you were petty, and sometimes
this is all that’s required; a certain
businesslike adherence to rules
and procedure is enough to shut
the door when a world, a life
has narrowed down to this one
sharp point. I couldn’t have a
butterfly needle, you said,
because my veins were big,
and butterfly needles are for
small veins, and there wouldn’t be
enough suction for it to go quickly,
and you weren’t about to wait ten
minutes for my blood to fill the vial.
I’m sure I became a little wild then.
I’m sure you saw the rough edges
of panic that I cover pretty well
with politeness and with
numbing cream. I called it what
it was, then, a phobia. You walked
out, without a word or a glance. (Isn’t
there anything that scares you?) You
should know that Tara scoffed when
I told her what you’d said. You should
know that she threw away your vial
and big needle, now unsterile and
unneeded. You should know that
I loved her, would have given her
more blood if she’d asked me to.
By the way, it only took a minute
or so to fill the new vial, even with
the butterfly needle. Tara was
quick, and she was kind;
sometimes this is all
that’s required.
NaPoWriMo, Day 12 prompt: Write a poem that consists of things you’d like to say to a particular person but never would.
I am not afraid.
I am completely fearless,
filled with raw courage—
until I think of needles.
Then my palms begin to sweat.
NaPoWriMo, Day 11 prompt: Write a tanka, which is a poem of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, where the last two lines have a little twist.
April, you have misled me,
you have misled all of us,
with your teasing smiles
and warm caresses.
Now, your touch is cold,
and I shield myself
against it.
Where were you
this summer, when
my flowers were dying
and all that I needed—
all that no one could
give me enough of—
was water?
You offer it now.
Oh, how you offer it,
by bucket and pail, in
lakes on the sidewalk.
You say you’re here
to help me water
the garden. Now.
But April, it doesn’t
help when you smash
the young daffodils
down against
hard earth,
like a basketball
jamming
so many thumbs.
Then there is
your noise, April,
at night. I like
rock ’n roll
as much as
the next person,
but not at two
in the morning,
when my son
wakes me
because he can’t
sleep through your
concert, its cacophony
and strobe lights.
Everyone here is
tired of you, April.
I’m just the one
who’s telling you,
that’s all.
You say you don’t
understand. You say
you’re just doing
what comes
naturally. That I
might love you
again next year,
that I might
miss you
sooner than that,
in summer heat.
All of this may
be true,
April.
But older, almost,
than the cycle of
seasons
is this question:
How can I miss you
when you won’t
go away?
NaPoWriMo, Day 10 prompt: Write an un-love poem.
Right away, I could tell she was looking for something—
or someone. Maybe me. We locked peepers. Hers were
agate-colored. Suspicious. Real shifty. She was a squawky
little broad. Made noises like she was hungry. But for what?
A hamburger sandwich? Shrimp DeJonghe? No, sir. It was milk
she was after—and she seemed to think I was a dairy cow, not
a cop. It took some doing, but I got her settled down. Real cozy.
By then, it was 2 a.m. Maybe even later. Time has no meaning
in a place like that, with the shades drawn, shutting out that
old apple, which always goes on with its sad business, even
when you’ve just met a babe like this one, a babe who will
change everything. As dizzy as I was for her, my partner
was just as whacky. Maybe even more. But that was
jake by me—he seemed to know just how to hold her,
what to say to get her all dormy any time she’d throw
an ing-bing, in that goofy way she had. Crazy kid.
What could we do with her, my partner and me?
We took her home, of course. Don’t get any
funny ideas. She’s our sweet pally, that’s all.
She’s aces. And that’s on the level.
NaPoWriMo, Day 9 prompt: Write a noir-inspired poem. I might say more in the comments later, but first, I want to see how many people get what I’m writing about and who the speaker is. Also, I’m linking for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.
The thief broke in and stole a pair of pants.
The window gave a lovely, moonlit view:
a flash of cheeks that sought their only chance.
The pants had stars of pink on ground of blue—
the perfect pair to wear when at a dance.
I ask you, now, just what was I to do?
I mourned my pants, which sparkled as they fled
while I lay in my ordinary bed.
NaPoWriMo, Day 8 prompt: Write an ottava rima, a form that requires eight-line stanzas in iambic pentameter with a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c rhyme. I have a lot of trouble with meter, so I cheated a little by just making sure my lines had 10 syllables and not stressing over the stresses. After a lot of false starts, I went with this one because I really needed to move on with my day.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 