Prompt for Hour Four
Write a poem that belongs to a specific genre, ie: a science fiction poem, a fantasy poem, a romance poem, etc. . . Feel free to use cliches, or subvert them!
The train
It didn’t show the future
Only present was cherished,
My thoughts went green,
All the memories when seen,
faces full of affection,
Smile pure with courage,
though some things tasted bitter,
But happiness still litter
The train took me to soul,
Taught me to love,
One and all
Good Enough (#3)
I’m not as good as I want to be,
not as good as I thought.
I’m all twisted up in coils
machinery,
and knots—
chained to a speeding clock.
Fly fishing
Plant your feet.
Gauge the distance.
Ready your line and begin to whirl.
Cast!
That look of pure determination shall haunt fish all their meager lives.
Wail #1
It’s dark
And though the sounds are dense, I hear so clearly
It’s cold
And though I can hardly move, my mind moves freely
It’s a world away from what I’ve ever known
And submerged inside this world I’m all alone
And you cannot hear my call
Unless you’re a narwhal
Hour 3
Confession
I wish I could tell you
we ride every day, or at least a few times a year.
Truth is our horses are lawn ornaments
since we are consumed by work, school, activities.
I wish I could tell you that I spend time each day,
appreciating nature and centering myself.
Truth is most days I’m just hanging on
trying not to fall off Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
I want to believe I can hop off the ride
once and a while.
Truth is I find more ways, like surfing the net,
to distract myself.
I want to believe, this too can change.
Truth is I love my crazy life –
husband, kids, animals
crazy schedules and all;
I just need to take the blinders off once and a while
and look around.
Hour Three: The Question
To what and to whom
does one say Yes?
To purple and to sweet talk,
old cars and Donovan,
walks along fence rows
in the snow, and Yellowstone.
Hour 3: Fishing
Not him; he’s fat.
And he puffs at the tiniest move.
He buys shirts for a body not his; I see he’s in Alexander McQueen.
So last year.
Not him; he’s trashed.
And his eyes are the blackest of black.
His thin body curves to the bar, trying to assume an air of cool normality.
So achieving the opposite.
Not him; he’s loud.
And his muscles have muscles have muscles.
His body is too big for his head; he spends his tedious life at a tedious gym.
So what.
Not him; he’s short.
And he walks in the angriest way.
He goes to one girl, then another, then another: a spread better, I see.
So predictable.
Not me; I’m too good.
And I sit with ostensible cool,
With a glass in my hand and eyes scanning the dance floor.
I’m fishing.
No, not you.
Lovers Will End (Hour Three)
“I had trust in you.
What did you do?
What did you do?”
It is a fire alight in his mind,
This betrayal of his kind,
And loathsome weakness to forgive
And put the past behind.
And what of her,
The delicate girl
Whose existence could exert
Such frantic pull
And madness imbue,
Shouldn’t he settle with that one, too?
They will rue, yes,
The lovers will rue.
It is an itch that he must scratch,
And so he’s weaker than he thinks;
For all his might, he can’t transcend
His rage and so the lovers will end.
His rage the lovers will end.