Some Words/Phrases I’d Like to Coin As I Age

Posted February 7, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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Some Words/Phrases I’d Like to Coin As I Age

Harmomnemonic: tune that helps us remember something; i.e. who we are.

Noosetalgia: what hangs us up in the past.

No-wince situation:  better than many alternatives.

Self-bleaty:  oh, please!

Memammaries: thinking about them hurts the chest.

Musicafeelia: somehow makes it all better.

Sighlense – also useful.

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Very much a draft poem for the wonderful Kerry O’Connor’s Flash 55 Plus prompt on With Real Toads to write a 55 word poem. The plus is to use a word that may not be translatable.  Kerry gave a wonderful list of non-English words, but I thought I tried to come up with some of my own, beginning with a riff on mnemonic, an aide memoire. 

Just about my favorite Harmomnemonic these days is Paul Simon’s American Tune.   Below two alternative versions of the same song.

 

Depressed Poet, Winter Field

Posted February 6, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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Depressed Poet, Winter Field

Wraith stalks would loom
over the field
like widows’ weeds
if last year’s hay
were earth’s spouse, and “widows’ weeds”
did not mean rough cloth, but whatever stands up
in loss.

That none of these “ifs’ are true,
yet also are,
is what keeps someone shaped like me
walking this field,
this earth, this rebirth.

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55 words (plus title) for Kerry O’ Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads.  Kerry’s prompt talks of using words without direct translations–I wasn’t consciously thinking of that when writing this poem, but perhaps it sort of fits.  Sorry if I owe people comments–a very busy time, but will get to you. 

Pic is mine (as well, of course, as poem).  All rights reserved. k. 

Terminal

Posted February 3, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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Terminal–

For years, my default depiction of Hell,
at least Purgatory,
was Port Authority,
where buses slump, after a schlep
through the tunnel, into
unwalled stalls, exhaling exhaust
and the exhausted
like someone who has no business having hair,
letting their hair
down–

But, of late
I can no longer think of the place
as quite so damned.
This is not because
buses are now banned
from idling as they park
but because I am old enough to carry
more than a spark
of my death,

and long
for this tired flesh
to wheel through a life
more wholly my own,

which stretches one’s envelope
of the acceptable;
which allows even
for the possible enjoyment of corners careened (please, gently)
with gasoline, the funk
of Lucifer, as long as one is un-
deterred, detoured
without chore (and breathing
through the mouth–)

oh then I’d stop
with the idling (so,
I tell myself),
oh then (my short hair
on end), I could abide
quite a bit–

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Very much of a draft and strange poem that (believe or not) has gone through several iterations; posted belated to Real Toads Open Platform. The Port Authority I refer to is the NYC Port Authority Bus Terminal at 42nd Street and 8th Avenue.  (Thankfully, I normally travel by train!) 

Here’s The Thing About the Brain

Posted January 31, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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Here’s The Thing About the Brain

Here’s the thing about the brain–
it gives you no free lunch;
sorrow’s bunched
with the teeming new–askew,
but there it mews,
and when, and after,
you pull out this, that and the other,
it spins from under cover,
and you, who have opened every fence
to let in the green you’ve culled,
are pulled
into some corded stem,
that knows in all its DNA
the lay of primordial muck,
but has not yet learned
to crawl.

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Draft poem just because (without a prompt.)  Pic is an old one of mine. 

Night Mare

Posted January 30, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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Night Mare

As I age, what the night mare carries
on her broad black back
is more often grief
than fear,
joys foregone rather than horrors
to come,
friends who never reached
their rightful ends,
the loved who had to leave,
with no more days
tucked up a sleeve, not even
a sleeve,

and I, who walk this earth
that mounds around them, weep
by the darkest side
of that night horse.
I cannot, in the remorse of here
even lean into her warm hide, cannot breathe the balm
of hard-run sweat, yet bending past

my divide, she nuzzles me; she
snorts, resettling her hooves
in sound sparks whose ring against the doved rise
of my winding sheet is so surprising
that I am able to turn, at last,
to the warmth,
in the way a tree might turn
when the wind winds down,

and apologize to those
who have gone.

But if they reply, I do not hear them
for those beats as the mare
moves on,
for those beats
as the mare
moves on.

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Poem for Bjorn Rutberg’s prompt on With Real Toads to write something on the theme of nightmare.  This pic is a recycled one of mine;  Bjorn also suggested using a painting or drawing of Francesco Goya.  I love love Goya, but confess to having written this poem before choosing the picture, as I could hardly bare the grimness today (so I’m not sure the pic really fits, as I am thinking of rather a more benign horse.) 

This poem has been slightly edited since first posting; and probably will be edited again!  

 

Keyhole (At Some Time in Many Lives)

Posted January 29, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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Keyhole (At Some Time in Many Lives)

the blur eddies
around a single truth
like a broken tooth

the well of the cavity
in its vacuum roar yelling (silently)
that he doesn’t love you–
or, he loves you
but just not that much–

your tongue longs to touch
the sore place, to explore
endlessly
the rutted prongs, the darts
of the anti-Cupid

until the pain becomes
a habit–
you chew
around it, breath
in one-sided whistle, and yet
the tongue probes, sometimes
his, both avoiding and relishing
the quick
of naked nerve–

the pain is not your friend, no, not
your lover,
but at least a reliable
companion, one
who always shows up,
stays the night through,
eats breakfast with you–

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Draft poem for Susie Clevenger’s prompt on Real Toads to write something inspired by the idea of a keyhole.  I’m sorry if I’ve missed returning any comments– a busy few days, but will catch up.  

The above is a picture I took at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York of a piece in their permanent collection;  unfortunately, I do not know the name of original photographer (though I’m guessing from the age of the photograph that it may not be under copyright.)  I will certainly take down upon request from copyright holder. 

Listening With You Tonight to a Mozart Sonata

Posted January 26, 2016 by ManicDdaily
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 Listening With You Tonight to a Mozart Sonata Somehow Makes Me Think of When I was Very Young

I am minded
of the bell metaled gleam that welled
those so-gold-that-they-
were-purple cups
at Patty and Susie’s–the important
things–

the pale smell of mown lawn, greened
knees–

the scree
of yet another hill whose slippery stones
one managed (racing) to climb

when one was me and
you weren’t even you yet–my you–

unknown, but loved,
with every gilded swallow
and step-found stone–

in the way this run grows into
this other run
as symmetry turns
towards the sun;

in the way that blue rests.

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Very much of a draft poem, posted for With Real Toads Open Platform. 


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