Not Bird (55)

Posted July 4, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: 55, poetry

Tags: , , , , ,

Not Bird

I swung into the early
of my life, pumping the vine-veins
of its woods with sweat-salted limbs
that could rewind,
I thought, warped
arcs–

Swallows swoop
to rise,
but what humans swallow,
they tend
to keep down.

Too much of my flight
a fleeing,
soars sorry, fleeting–you
not there–
nor me hardly–

*****************************

A 55 word poem of sorts influenced by Dante Alighieri, poet of The Divine Comedy, for Kerry O’ Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads–

The pic is from the recent Plains Indians exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC ==a ghost dance drum.

Field

Posted July 3, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , ,

IMG_7918

Field

Pressing myself against your bared back
feels like the idea
of lying down in a golden field
only there is no stalk
poking my arm–

well, that is not completely true–

except that my skin is not incipient
with crawl, with twitch, some
itch, and the craving
to (not exactly) scratch it–

maybe
forget that too–

but certainly there’s no filigree of fern or even hair
along the horn of your nape, spine,
the ridges of ribs that like me
reach round you,
the crests of shoulders
my nose climbs–

For it’s only the idea
of a golden field,
this warmth where I lay
me down, or at least
the idea of me,
this expanse where we both
become quite other–

not true again–

for your skin
always holds gold
when I look closely–
you, my
mister glister–
you, where I lay
me
down,
you, who loves that me–
we,
glowing–


***************************

I’m back with this draftish poem for Hannah’s prompt on nature’s wonders on With Real Toads.  The pic is an older one of a much wetter field than I imagine for this poem!  

Ode to A Rock (On a Bedside Table)

Posted June 20, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , ,

Ode to a Rock (on a Bedside Table)

You’re heavier than
your grey,
and so rounded
you’d pass for a stone
if rolled some way.

And I (meaning me)
could use you, my husband says one night,
to throw at the forehead of
a gunman, knock
him out.

This casts you
in a somewhat different light–
no longer an oversized bite
of forest floor, something to hold open
a door,
but a possible means of deliverance
like the rock rolled away
from the tomb.
Only not.

For I’m not sure gunmen are swayed
by rocks, certainly not rocks
of faith, ages–

Hard to understand
even when your heft
weighs down my hand
that you will outlast its flesh–
that all our individual flash
will transmute to dust, ash,
while the wind still feeds on you–

So, life seems to pass faster
than a speeding bullet for some,
while for others, it is taken away
at exactly
that pace–

*****************************
A draftish poem of sorts for my own prompt on Real Toads to make an ode to something relatively quotidian.  This one, of course, is very influenced by the horrible tragedy in Charleston, South Carolina, this past week, at the Emmanuel African Methodist Church. 

I’ve edited this since first posted, as the end didn’t quite get across the meaning I was aiming for.  Thanks. k. 

Picture of (add music)

Posted June 18, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , ,

       

*************

A not-haiku inspired by Shay (Fireblossom’s) prompt on with real toads to write a poem beginning with the words “Picture of”, and also by one of my favorite songs.  (And beverages.)

All rights reserved.

ps – the pics were all uploaded from my iPhone–they may not show up in full on some brewers; just click on pic to see (if you wish!)

Giving Thanks (on Train)

Posted June 17, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: New York City, poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , ,

Giving Thanks (on train)

What has been a day thick
with humidity
blossoms mist
over the Hudson.

Oh, father, why did I never thank you
for the incidental
kindnesses?

I do not write here of God–
at least, not mainly, of God, I add,
as I look back out the window
where an archetypal depiction of heaven
halos hills, a godhead’s parting
of cloud by sun over water.

How long he would wait
to drive me home–after school, after
rehearsals–all that seemed
so important–me, who could not stand
to wait–

Do I think of this because the river shines
like a windshield swept by night,
because the train drums the tracks
with the rhythms
of tires’ turn,
or, because the sky, so big at heart,
asks so little of me?

Do it now–give
thanks–and often.
Do it knowing
that the oncoming
has already passed, that in
the endless revolution of then,
no amount of clackety
can take you back.

Do it for the mist
and the missed
and in the midst of all
that you will not
then miss,
you with your eyes
full of sun
and cloud
and water.

***********************************************

Though much revised, this is still very much a draft poem for Real Toads open platform, hosted by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor–

The pics are in fact from my train ride (Metro North) along the Hudson yesterday evening. 

Thinking About Scott Walker in Eleven Haiku

Posted June 14, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: news, poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , ,

Thinking About Scott Walker in Eleven Haiku

Why workers joined?  Locking them in from smoking breaks
was worth their death by fire.

One hundred and twenty-three petticoats; twenty-three shirts–
what a waste–

Some will abase themselves for money.  I’m not talking about
employees.

How about I scotch pensions?  Will you give me
one hundred mill?

Chicken farmers are not allowed to balk.  They talk? No
bucks, far worse fowl–

The Company Store kept them in the mines, all spent
before even coughed up.

So.  At least, garment workers crushed in Bangladesh
had the right to work.

Maybe… we degrade education, no one will know enough
to know–

Hey!  Who likes teachers anyhoo?  Says the guy who could never
finished school.

Who can I cut? What can I gut? What hard-fought battle can I
betray?


What future can I flush?  And since you’re flush–another
hundred mill, please?


**************************************

Very much a draft poem for Grace’s prompt on With Real Toads to write something in the style of Marilyn Chin.  This was influenced by a series of one-line haikus she wrote–each of the above 17 syllables. 

Process note, especially for those outside the U.S.:  Scott Walker is a GOP (Republican) candidate for President of the U.S.  His claim to fame as Governor of Wisconsin is breaking down unions and attacking the University of Wisconsin, through budget cuts,targeted attacks on professors (especially it seems those with an environmental outlook)  and attacks on the institution of tenure (though this is actually enshrined in the Wisconsin State constitution.)   He is supposedly the chosen candidate of the Koch Brothers, oil billionaires, who plan to spend hundreds of millions in upcoming elections.  The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire in 1911 was a factory fire in New York City which 123 women garment workers and 23 men died largely because they were locked into their factory floors.   

Poultry farming is a big business in the U.S., with actual farmers under the thumb of big corporate chicken producers.  An interesting clip on this subject by Jon Oliver may be found here. 

Composite pic is mine–all rights reserved; no copyright infringement intended in underlying pic. 

Before Ever Hearing of Plato (And Frankly Even After)

Posted June 12, 2015 by ManicDdaily
Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , ,

20150612-225649-82609680.jpg

Before Ever Hearing of Plato (And Frankly Even After)

The time was once upon a
and the place the space
between her bed
and wall, her head
and torso wedged
between box spring and
plaster.

Can a human being be
the gold ring that is found
in the fish’s belly?
That ring, long lost,
that redeems an all?

The mannerless dust fingered
her nostrils; she sipped the air
as if it were a glass she were forced,
but thrilled, to swallow–

How worried they would be,
if they would
but look for her–
she imagined their alarm,
called it love,

though heard their voices leaf soft
as turning pages down
the hall, the changing of
a channel.

But this is not a poem
about love, there for the looking.
This is a poem about
the love of shadows–how sometimes
all three of your wishes
are to be
the mouth of your own cave–

how pressed against
some wall inside your head,
some time once upon a,
you love that dim,
that flickering,
that dance–how she
certainly did.

*******************************

A poem, much revised but still, I guess, a draft, for Corey Rowley (Herotomost)’s prompt on With Real Toads to write about something you might think about in a cave.  For some reason I thought of both this scene and Plato’s Cave (from the Republic).  The drawing is mine; all rights reserved for it and poem.  Have a good weekend. 

 

 

 

 


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,161 other followers