Patchwork Prose and Verse
Susan Ahlbrand is our host today for the third day of the June Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com, inspiring us to write poems about graduation. You can read her full prompt here. I’ve chosen a nonet, a nine-line syllabic countdown poem.
Graduation Nonet
Teachers all worried about airhorns
beach balls should have been their concern
we learned how to inflate them
under our gowns, then how
to launch them at once
on secret cue
skyward dreams
island
style
Margaret Simon of New Iberia, Louisiana is our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 2 of the June Open Write. You can read her full prompt here. Margaret inspires us to write Duplex poems in the style of Jericho Brown, using this process:
A duplex poem is 14 lines, 7 couplets, 9-11 syllables per line.
The second line from each stanza repeats as a first line for the next stanza.
The first line is echoed back in the last line.
My poem is inspired by a daughter’s new puppy, a dappled Dachshund named Jackson (after Jackson Pollock, for his spots). I used the Duplex form and thought of one of his famous paintings entitled Convergence and how his abstract art reminds me of things – – like these catastrophic chicken tacos that have no business being served in a shell that is only going to break and create food art under the first bite. Photo of Jackson below.
Catastrophic Chicken Tacos
catastrophic chicken tacos happen
always at lunch on taco Tuesdays
always at lunch on taco Tuesdays
shells break, insides spill onto the plate
shells break, insides spill on to the plate
revealing shredded lettuce, tomatoes, chicken
revealing shredded lettuce, tomatoes, chicken
all my cheese splatters broken taco art
all my cheese splatters broken taco art
like a Jackson Pollock painting: Convergence
like a Jackson Pollock painting: Convergence
a speckled canvas of confetti’ed food
a speckled canvas of confetti’ed food
catastrophic chicken tacos happen
For Day 1 of the June Open Write, Dr. Sarah J. Donovan of Stillwater, Oklahoma invites us to write poetry using the mentor poet June Jordan’s poetry. You can read Sarah’s full prompt here.
Now This
these nights
they are
hormonal hot
flash hell ~
flapping bedbirds
fluffing sheets
sleeplessly
in all the heat
and rumble
of the dark
these nightmares
they rage in ~
nocturnal carnage
at the screaming
speed of melatonin
on the yellow
eyes of a
Great Horned
Owl in a
trembling tree hollow
these scarecrows
they lurk now
in apocalyptic meadows
where as children
we found
peaceful slumber
we called
sweet dreams ~
all those sugarplums
that once danced
in our heads
~ now this
a spider built her web in my camp
chair overnight, hoping to catch
something huge, and I can’t help
wondering if it was
my backside she spied
a world record
spider prize
trophy
win
toasted Gregg’s Peach Bread
fresh from the orchard nearby
slathered with butter
Ollie is upside-down
in the olive chair
chasing rabbits in
his sleep in the quiet
morning whirr of
the fan, coffee
steam rising from
my cup, Boo Radley
curled around my neck
like a fur-fringed coat
on the back of my chair,
Fitz hiding out under
the bed again
while I consider all
the fine porcelain
plates, these
place settings of past
destined to become
somebody’s mosaic
art piece of the
future
when the world
takes on its murky
hue and the heaviness
of the anchor spirals
downward making it
hard to keep my head
above water I wonder
about my age
and whether I’ve
depleted all the
happy chemicals
or whether I
just need to
eat a banana
two summers ago
I bought a
night-blooming
Cereus for
ten dollars
thinking of
Dennis the Menace
getting in the way
of that plant that
blooms every 100
years and wondering
whether I’d be up
late enough to ever
see it bloom or
whether some
distraction would
forever keep me
from seeing it
but this very week
as a friend lost her
husband, this flower
bloomed in the dead
of night
like a smile from
Heaven
rarely do I ever
get to see true
hold my beer
moments as I
did last week
we’d just finished
dinner when a
dad waiting for
a table took his
baby on a shoulder
ride through the
parking lot,
stopping over the
grate to pretend
to dump the kid
in the hole
he didn’t dump the
kid, he lost his
air pods ~ the case
fell from his pocket,
one pod from his ear
he took the baby back
to the mama and
returned with a buddy
who set down his
beer and went
in the hole for
the retrieval
the old lady in me
was nervous so
I stood in the road
to warn oncoming
cars that there was
a crisis in the manhole
and just like that
the pods were back
in his ears and their
table was ready
after she died
this all
become a
pet rock
relationship
a biding
of time
a hermit
in his paper
kennel
speaking
only of
those who
bid their dogs
farewell
Common Threads 