Hour Three: The Weight of a Dollar

                     The Weight of a Dollar
What is the weight of a dollar? Atlas’ World was easier to carry.
The patient Turtle carrying Atlas and the World had an easier task
than carrying Lady Liberty on a silver dollar,
L I B E R T Y is bold among the rays extending from her head
likened to the images so many would see when upon first entering
the harbor, gazing from afar, and then up at the guardian –
no matter where the Sun was, she was illuminated and illumination.
From far and then coming closer, people will call out,
“I see her! She’s so big against the sky! We made it! We’re here.”
Still, she remains quiet with a gaze looking away.
Does she hear the words? Do their tones and vibrations touch her heart?
No matter what, she stays silent in return.
Tarnished from silver to sepia patinas, black shadows, and rich grays,
the coin brings heft, smooth surfaces, and delicate crevices
as fingers explore and discover a New World on the other side:
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
E PLURIBUS UNUM
PEACE
All are raised on this dollar’s second face with
the feathered Eagle grasping an olive branch but
cut and scraped with gnashed wounds from the bladed
rock that has razored his wings and claws.
Lady Liberty stays silent.
The Eagle is present, but his back is turned away.
Young John and his sister Berneice
dreamt of seeing these two proud figures welcome them to a new home.
In 1951, they took turns holding this coin from 1922 on their long voyage.
As a “Peace Dollar” it chronicled years of prosperity for some countries, but
certainly not for these two children who’d spent childhood years in invaded Poland,
war-torn refugee camps, places of in-between for years longer than the war itself.
Still, dreams were fresh in their hearts, just like the eager anticipation of silky chocolates,
 tart apples, sweet tomatoes, and rich pumpkins of this New World.
Back and forth they passed this heavy coin, growing stronger each time they held it,
for these dreams certainly grew lighter as reality became brighter with each mile.
Such a reality was heavy with despair for Svetlana, their mother.
This New World was not hers. Lady Liberty was remote; the Eagle, a vulture.
What is the weight of a dollar?
For her it cost the farm, the chickens Berniece tended, the rabbit Johnny loved.
It cost her little Stephanie who had cared so earnestly for the two youngest.
It cost her Frank and her husband, John.
4. Use one example of synaesthesia (mixing the senses).
5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.
9. Use a piece of false cause-and-effect logic.
10. Use a piece of “talk” you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).
11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun)…”
12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he/she could not do in “real life.”
14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but finally makes no sense.
18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19. Make a nonhuman object say or do something human (personification).
20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem.”

Prompt One

The sky opens its mouth.

Clouds burp out.

I smell raspberries but

my hand avoids your face.

I see persimmons ripening

and the tractor trailer sails through the miasma.

I hear silence and I touch your face

Bernie Sanders flies over Los Angeles and

if I stand on my toes I can just touch his shoe.

I taste soot and see dogs surrounding the tree,

sniffing at its bark.

 

#Prompt 3 – 2023

Hearts of Stone

Like a pebble commanding the ocean
Seeing her thoughts
Listening to waves and touching the dream
The aroma of possibility fuelled by the taste for solitude
In the sourness of the colour yellow
Lee cries alone upon the shore
Surrounded by a plethora of sun-worshippers
Not really there
The universe is tranquillity
Hot winds
Dreich days
Yellow tornados of fear
Liquified sunshine in hell
The devil quenches the fire
This girl drops to her knees
In a lifetime she is yet to experience
Speaking without sound
Shouting silently in lost whispers
Facere ius (make it right)
The grotesques laugh, “you have no power here …
In this world of chaos”

Hour Three: Babylon

“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy. They said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How can we sing our songs of praise while in a strange land? (Psalm 137:1-4)

They gave us a space

At the bottom

Where we can see wider spaces

Circling above us

with vultures

 

They captured us to cage us

Where we can be their entertainment

And learn “useful skills” for their profit

So we can love them for the benefit

And forget the tortures

Where they can continue to look down

Where they contain us

 

In this empty space we sit where

no trees shelter the joy we brought with us

We weep because we forgot

What we lost

We weep because we remember

What we no longer sing

Hour 3 – Twenty Little Poetry Projects

You are my pot of gold
The mint plant of life singing
I taste the soft breeze on my face
What would I do without Keith in Joshua Tree?
Though sometimes he is a dipshit
“Can I have a rainbow, Mom?”
The sweet stone of freedom beams me skyward
As we walk in the desert in order for democracy to be saved.
Do you smell that basil plant singing?
I am pricked by the cactus spikes every morning for breakfast
The arc melts into the future
Keith and Ditz will dance in fragile freedom
I see the olla de ora
The pot of gold calls out to us
Golden these years

“My dream is to become a writer”

Writers are not born professionals,

Their capability to struggle is vital.

“Pen is mightier than sword”,

Like playing with terrific words.

Read between the lines,

Until you turn nine.

 

There is the chaos in the crowd,

As critics raise their voices aloud.

Reading is to mind,

Like exercise is to the body,

Take lessons in creative writing from somebody.

 

By hook or crook,

We burn the midnight oil,

As food wrapped in a foil.

Sleepless nights with racing thoughts,

I became a freelance writer,

Without giving a second thought.

 

It’s just the starting,

As batsman hits six to earn innings.

The world of imagination,

Makes me ponder over,

Like putting up my thinking cap,

To work with dedication.

 

From amateurish to prolific,

Fluency will come, so be quick.

Competing in contests,

Lifts our spirits,

Don’t worry if you can’t win it.

 

Mastering the skill,

If there is a will,

There is a way,

So, make hay while the sun shines,

Those worthy write-ups are mine.

Chasing my dream,

Like eating the sweet cream.

Sometimes, up and down,

Don’t spoil your face with a frown.

 

Achievements will come in handy,

It’s my job and a necessity.

One day, will I be grinning?

Of course, others say you, will achieve success,

Stop counting numbers in excess.

Thank God, for this rare talent,

Will write in the present moment.

(c) Preksha puri 2023.

 

Too Much of a Good Thing #3

The air clung to my skin, a wet washrag waiting to be wrung out.
Grabbing a hand full, I squeezed until liquid filled my bucket,
smelling sweetly of new mown hay. It ran down my
arms and pooled around my feet.
"Ern's Better'n Nair'n, Kris" my granny would say long ago when I
complained about lack of something. How to account for too much
of a good thing? 
Water covered the yard. Making it hard to breath deeply.

This poem covers the page in messy writing, impossible to
transfer to the page. Full of aulasy, I fight on.
Water and words covering me, the page still empty.
Ahead, I see nothing but more nothing, but I plunge
squeezing words into the bucket with a rapidity that startles even me.

Pero, ¿a quién le importa?
The bucket, tired and full walks off stage, splashing overflow into the
already flooded yard.

A vivid image? I will be lucky to complete with a limp image, let's try though.
The air smells blue overhead. The sun, a round ball of yellow fire, begins
to dry the yard. the wet dishrag I didn't have, I toss after
the fleeing bucket, making a SPLISH, SPLASH.

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Three: 20 line poem

cooking for me is a game of guessing
drop into the pot what you wish, the less you reveal, the tastier it is
sometimes i’m tasting with my stomach cells or my gills
John loves what i cook but America doesn’t
America loves what i cook but John doesn’t
who cares? not me
me
obfuscating the whole business of cooking
i cook therefore i am
who can deny that?
the old women of witchcraft would say
cooking is a balm and a poison
who knows which

American helper (Prompt 3)

Metaphorically speaking
she is a couch potato with
a heart of gold
answering siren song of
heart-tugging
tear-jerking
infomercial paeans to
starving children
abandoned pets
endangered land
forking over credit card
access with every
channel change
racking up enough points
to travel the world
times over
yet never leaving
her living room
therein proving irony
most always stranger
than fiction
even when the facts
don’t get in the way

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

The Smashed Flower (poem 3 )

 

 

What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk

Was it?

Blown off by the wind, or

thrown away in anguish

 

What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk

Was it part of a wreath?

Adorning a maiden’s hair and adding to her beauty, or

Providing solace to a devotee being offered to a deity

 

What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk

Did it?

Make two hearts meet and lead to a happily ever after, or

Break a heart and lead to a forever unrequited love

 

What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk

Did it land here?

As a result of the changing seasons through nature’s course, or

As a victim of manmade changes through unnatural cause

 

What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk

Can we?

Ever know the full truth, or

We’ll have to satisfy our curiosities through our assumptions