Day 12 Prompt: Write a poem about a techie gadget that does not exist but should. This one is easy, particularly today.
There oughta be a thing
you can hold in your hand
some sort of device
that can access the internet
when you are away from home
so you don’t have to rely
on a squishy old dinsosaur
of a hotel computer
that crashes at random.
Oh wait.
Oh well.
Day 11 Prompt: Write a veteran poem from the point of view of a veteran.
It was like I had slewed into an alternate reality
just one notch over from the one I’d always known.
On the surface, everything was as I remembered,
but almost imperceptibly off.
The sycamore tree out behind the house
was just coming into leaf
with that almost impossible gray-green
that sings out at you in the morning light.
When I came home, it was as if
someone had clicked that off,
turned down the volume.
The swaggering pink of the dogwood
was on mute.
Everything was like that,
like a veil had been thrown
over my senses,
like I was under the burqa.
Setting the table or sitting on the porch
talking to my mother
I began to feel that I could
no longer trust the distances, even.
Had I grown? Or shrunk?
I worried that I would miss contact
with the surfaces around me,
slide out of existence.
One thing. One thing remains the same.
No matter where I am in the house,
I can still feel the attention
of that crazy old dog, searching me out.
If everything else is slightly less real,
then this is more so.
When I roll over in bed,
I can sense him twitching his ears
where he lies downstairs on the kitchen floor.
Even when I am off to town
I feel the silver cord of his hope
mooring me, holding me solid.
And when I sit next to him
watching the sunset,
inside the bubble of his wakefulness,
the colors begin to sparkle and sing
almost as clearly as they used to.
Day 10 Prompt: Use a non-English word.
I tried to write it down:
moto, fire
chakula, food
pilipili, spicy
watoto, children
nyumba, home
But the words flew away
like a thousand tiny blue birds,
feathers flashing
out over the lake.
I cannot recall the words
for water, sky, or snake.
Day 8 Prompt: Argue with a dead poet. Choose a poem and argue with it. I thought this would be easy. I chose “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens. A simple argument–that there are more ways than 13. Just a really good excuse to play with Wallace Stevens. Also, typing fast. Stream of consciousness, without over-thinking. I may re-make this poem every few months just for the exhilaration of writing without the agony of processing.
XIV
Okay, the blackbird is involved
in what I know.
But the blackbird
is the Secret-keeper.
XV
And when the shadow
passed across the field,
I looked up into the face of the blackbird.
XVI
In your voice, when you said,
“Betrayal,” I heard the blackbird’s song.
XVII
Tomorrow I will search the wood
for blackbird’s feather.
XVIII
When I am grieving,
blackbird is there.
When I am satisfied,
blackbird is singing.
XIX
A fly on the wall,
a blackbird in the trees.
XX
I carried a small jet stone
in my palm,
the eye of the blackbird.
XXI
There in the scarlet maple,
a blackbird is dreaming of me.
XXII
She waited until he had stolen
softly into the room.
Her words flew at him,
a thousand blackbirds
without mercy.
XXIII
Mercy is the blackbird’s name.
XXIV
When you flew into the center
of those circles,
you spoke my name and blackbird’s.
XXV
Why did you wander so long
without the shadow of blackbird
for comfort?
XXVI
I do not know what I am writing.
I do not know my name.
I do not hear the wind spilling secrets across the valley.
Blackbird will tell you why.
XXVII
We journeyed far from home.
Blackbird followed us mile for mile.
XXVIII
Why do you search my words for meaning?
Blackbird means blackbird.
Blackbird means everything but blackbird.
XXIX
When the hurricane had passed,
the houses of the small town
were reduced to rubble.
Trees flooded the streets.
A thousand blackbirds sat witness
in their branches.
XXX
I’ve said my prayers,
pulled up the covers.
Blackbird wraps her wings around me.
XXXI
In the heart of the fire
winked blackbird’s eye.
XXXII
My name is Blackbird.
My voice is a snowflake in the wind.
I cannot see but by touch.
XXXIII
A grain of sand is larger
than blackbird’s eye.
Her feathers are heavy
as glass.
XXXIV
Be-bop-a roo-bop,
blackbird on the wing.
Sha-na-na.
XXXV
My love is muddled,
my heart is torn.
I will love the whole world
if blackbird will sing while I dance.
XXXVI
Hold out your hands.
Breathe upon your open palms.
Open your eyes and open them again.
Blackbird will rise from your clenched fingers
into the clear air.
XXXVI
Don’t say it.
Just don’t say it.
Blackbird will hear you.
XXXVII
The falcon swung high
in the dusky sky,
pivoted and swooped
into a dive
To clutch a blackbird in its talons.
XXXVIII
Remind me why I came.
Was it because you called to me
or because the blackbird
flew through your open window?
XXXIX
Let us review:
I know what the blackbird knows.
I cannot speak her secrets.
The blackbird will not carry your shame.
XL
I walked in the wood
until I heard the blackbird call,
and then I returned to my home,
my books, and my people.
Mockingbird Chronicles 