Hour Five
Puzzled Possession
Source: Poe, Edgar A, and Jacob Schwartz. The Purloined Letter. London: Ulysses bookshop, 1931
Prompt 4: Grant & Sherman
When he said War is all hell,
That was his heart’s truth
Maddened by the carnage
And the gadfly press
He sank into morbid thoughts
and shrank from command
Until a rough-hewn tanner’s son
Awkward, unworldly, prone to
Dissolving his discomfit in drink
Yet confident, careful
Unafraid, bold and decisive
Reached out his hand
Offering the other security
And the will to win
Once scorned by the world
They raised each other up
And the nation to blood-soaked
Victory because
Each knew that the other
Made him more than
what he was before
they met.
Last 4 lines taken from Grant and Sherman: The Friendship that Won the Civil War, by Charles Bracelen Flood
Prompt 5, Poem 5: Grandma
Rain has cleansed the town,
nourishing the grass and flowers;
I sit on the front porch,
breathing in the clean air.
Suddenly, one of my cats comes running across the yard
and stops, batting at an object sticking out of the ground.
I cautiously approach and poke the blue circular glass object with my foot.
It begins to turn and shake violently, blue smoke rising from the middle.
I am swallowed by the blue smoke and dropped into my grandma’s old living room.
I watch my 6 year old self and my 4 year old cousin, dressed for summer, talking to
Grandma in the kitchen.
We are playing house, we tell her. We need a job.
How about a famous author? Grandma suggests.
I’m teleported into grandma’s living room with blue couches, the one
in front of the window rocks.
I watch as we each sit on a pillow, construction paper and markers
surrounding us on the coffee table.
We write away with little chatter and show Grandma after.
She gives us a quarter for every story.
We feel like good mom’s.
My heart warms.
Blue smoke fills the air and I am brought back home.
What is this trying to tell me?
Publish a book?
I sigh as my cat rubs against my legs.
It’s still my dream.
Later, I sit writing poems with other poets.
Grandma would be proud
that I never gave up.
Have a Nice Day – Hour Five
I am writing this note
A missive, I guess
To say I’ll be leaving tomorrow
My time has now passed
It’s over and done
And there aren’t minutes left here to borrow
I gave you my all, all my time and tears
My best and my worst, left here bare
And all I have left for the gist of these years
Are harsh memories of woe and despair
I’m grateful you taught me about life and love
I thank you for that, don’t ask why
For there was a time we were hand and glove
But all good things in life must die
We have run our course
And when I look ahead
I see a future that looks bright
I wish you the best and am glad you were mine
Even if breaking up just feels right
And so, I’ll conclude by just saying this
I hope that you’ll move on in stride
That you’ll walk a path filled with promise and hope
And make the most of this ride
For it is now time for me to check out
So I will not stand in your way
As you go your way, I’ll gladly go mine
We’re done, thanks and have a nice day
P.S I love you
Darkness does forms by the light being away,
To bring you near, Guess that’s its unique way…
Your face does resurface,
By being in darkness’s embrace…
The free flowing of the air,
Brings your feel and not the scare…
Entire grace of the moon’s surface,
Is a thing borrowed, all from your face…
Silence of the night, isn’t by the absence of noise,
Just is the language of your eyes enhancing magic of your voice…
So many memories of yours does accompanies the night,
Never feeling you are away or I am deprived..
Thou The night would vanish and the day to soon strive,
But with your memories, In the meantime, she would just live.(P.S. I Love You.. Cecelia Ahern)
Daddy Franco
Let’s get this out of the way, before we begin
so there will be absolutely, positively no doubt.
I no more want to be associated with having Daddy issues
than the source of this poem wants to be known as Daddy Franco, King of the Zoomesphere
and by no means does this poem belittle him by saying “and yet we are here.
He is Daddy Franco
a title that has been earned, justly so.
He is the master globe trotter,
taking the world by poem, one haiku at a time.
I wish I could write a haiku.
But I have not mastered the telling of a story in such short order
And though it undoubtedly would honor-
I am not not sure a haiku would fit…
The General’s ranking.
It contains way to little syllables to reference the inspiration
that strikes forth whenever he opens his mouth.
It does not expand far enough to truly note the lands
in which he is known.
He is friend and not foe.
Though, if poetry were war-
with his words, the General would lead.
And behind him, I would gladly go.
But poetry is not destined to harm or cut off the heads of one’s enemy;
and so I use my pen, which is mightier than the sword
to capture the attention of all who are human
and present this award-
for truly it is more blessed to give flowers to the living
while they are still able to know and understand that they are important and loved
than it is to write one’s eulogy-
Bryan, Generalissimo Franco you are a light in the poetryverse
and it is a privilege to Knight you the Haiku Emperor.
Arise this day and know forever more that you are deserving of each and every accolade.
Even the ones that seem to say Special K’s got daddy issues.
4.
I keep catching glimpses of a new way of being in the world but can’t hold on to the vision. Like a lichen too dry after years of drought to hold onto the rock when the wind comes up. Or like mist that floats through gorges and across mountains and winds up a droplet in the river that cuts the canyon. I search for stasis hoping it’s synonym is peace. But I hold on, fly off, float through, become water that cuts, to nourish the lichen on the rock by the riverside. “To see this is to be made free”.
(“The world is filled, and filled with the Absolute,” Teilhard de Chardin wrote.) “To see this is to be made free”. – Teilhard de Chardin, Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
The little bird house
He had made it “specially”
With a sponge robin on the side.
Bright with crimson feathers
and two manic googly eyes.
The roof was newly tiled with tiny squares,
all stuck on firm.
A coloured cross of sequins decorated
the round door
And the marker scrawled upon the front
Said
“I love you Mum, I’m Rare!”
stories
All stories I told were believed
with blind faith —
A tenant reading my cards for a quarter
or seeing a tall black man with purple shoes outside my window —
met with interrogations, concern
Leaving me in a paralysis of shame unable to admit my fiction
finding honesty through aimless guilt
Hour 5/Long Car Rides
Long Car Rides
They told me long car rides were the most painful,
the time when silence stirs sweet memories and
tears surge, those moments — raw, unavoidable grief moments
They weren’t wrong,
No, those who had suffered lose before me,
were not wrong.
It has been two years since my mother’s passing,
and mostly I drive with the radio on,
the louder the music the better to subvert silence,
loud music to prevent the onslaught of tears,
that strike in the quiet, raw grief moments
but sometimes
I choose the silence
I choose the silence to remember
to remember mom kneeling in the garden,
tending vegetables,
gathering clippings of yellow daffodils,
plucking ripe cherry tomatoes
I choose silence to remember
mom nestled beside her grandchildren, reading, singing…
I choose silence to see mom kneading dough,
spreading her love through cooking
I chose silence to listen to mom’s voice,
calling my name. I must strain to hear.
Sometimes,
I just chose silence on long car rides,
choose silence and tears to remember.