Instructional

Today’s prompt was to write an instructional poem. This is already day 8 of the April Poem-a-Day challenge. This gets more fun each year. ^_^

How to Raise a Rebel

Dance.
Show up.
Have pets.
Give hugs.
Learn CPR.
Laugh. A lot.
Lead by example.
Unconditional love.
Be their superhero.
Show her museums.
Take them on vacation.
Never talk in baby-talk.
Make him earn that car.
Watch them in the water.
Make her think for herself.
Take time for yourself, too.
Teach him to follow recipes.
Challenge his belief system.
Don’t say, “Because I said so.”
Let her be sad when she’s sad.
Make time for one-on-one time.
Show them how to forgive freely.
Teach him to do his own laundry.
Don’t let her show too much skin.
Punish appropriately to the crime.
Let her pick the music sometimes.
Don’t give him everything he wants.
Give him chores; make him do them.
Make him sign up for teams or clubs.
Hold her when she has a broken heart.
Be willing to compromise occasionally.
Give her extra money if she works for it.
Give an allowance, not based on chores.
They need reasons for things. Give them.
Let him choose his own clothes, crazy or not.
Yes, your teenager has to go on vacation, too.
Never allow the word “hate” to be flung about.
Let them choose their own drinks at McDonalds.
Stand up for him to his teachers, but be realistic.
Have meals together every day, and talk to them.
Know who their friends are. Invite them to dinner.
Listen when they’re talking. It could be important.
Teach them to know what they want and how to get it.
Talk about your past; they need to know you have one.
When you criticize people, they learn to be critical too.
Talk about their future; they need to know they have one.
If you pay her cell phone bill, she has to answer your calls.
Teach her to change her own tire and jump start her battery.
They may complain, but secretly, they want you to be strict.
Take them to the funeral; they need to know that life is finite.
Even if you do everything right, sometimes you fail. Forgive yourself.

The Truth About _____ – November PaD Day 24

I wrote two truth poems today – one about TV and the other about Black Friday, both topics having much to do with the past holiday.  ^_^

***

The Truth About TV

Yes, if you have a cable
or Dish package
(or even basic cable, to be honest),
there is always something
for everyone
at any time of the day or night.
TV has a huge
variety
of network and cable shows
and one could spend
twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week,
finding something
they enjoy at least a little.

But the truth is,
it all depends on
who holds the remote.

***

The Truth About Black Friday

I have a theory
that all of those folks
who participate (willingly)

In Training

in the Black Friday
festivities
are actually quite aware
of what may or may not happen
regardless of the wide-eyed
expressions of horror
and dismay.

I believe they know
exactly
what they are getting into,
much like those who choose
to run with the bulls
at Pamplona,
and those who dive off cliffs
and race fast cars,
they know they might be
trampled,
bloodied,
bruised,
or may even be
arrested.

It’s all part of the sport.

Glosa — November PaD, day 18

Golly, this was a strenuous prompt: to write a “Glosa.” I have taken the description directly from the prompt:  ”This involves an epigram of 4 consecutive lines from a favorite poet that the challenge participant believes they can write successfully to. Then, write a poem consisting of four 10-line stanzas where the final line of each stanza is a line from the epigram, in order. Within each stanza, lines 6, 9 and 10 must rhyme.”

Complex, yes?

And I was traveling all day, to visit my son at Ft. Huachuca, so I did not get to this until late.

I took the last four lines of a poem by Maya Anjelou, Women Work.

***

From Woman Work
by Maya Angelou

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You’re all that I can call my own.

—

I want to run and just pretend
that I have suddenly become a child
again. I want to carelessly leave my
belongings scattered, and never turn off
a light. I want to stay out playing ‘til
dark, and pretend I cannot hear you cry
my name into the dew speckled darkness,
until I am too tired to play tag,
and, guilty, finally, tell my friends goodbye.
My day complete with sun, rain, curving sky.

I want to live that carefree life once more
To have my mother or father tuck me
safely into bed, checking carefully
for monsters underneath the springs or in
the closet, tinkling the hangars with
their frightful claws or teeth of sharpened bone.
I want the whole scenario, complete
with bedtime story and glass of water
and on to dreams of Neverland and mer-
maids, lost boys, mountain, oceans, leaf and stone

And then I want to waken when I want
with no alarms or overly-cheerful
morning show on the local radio
station. I want to wake when I am no
longer sleepy, to stretch, luxuriate.
To hop up out of bed as spry as though
I really were a child again, no aches
or stiffness. And to breakfast where I eat
a meal like a Norman Rockwell tableau,
and our faces beam like star shine, moon glow

I want to be that child again, if just
to more completely recall how it was,
to see my folks as their younger, joyful
selves, before the pain and anger and loss,
before the agony of the divorce,
before the love that we had known was flown.
Regret and loss aren’t all I have left,
You, memories, I have a few of you.
You, lost memories are what I bemoan
Yet you’re all that I can call my own.

 

Tradeoff – November PaD day 15

Tradeoff was the prompt today. I had to think a little while, but what jumped immediately to mind was what I ended up writing about, a common enough dilemma for a mom. When I was a young married, though, it never seemed the father had to make the same difficult decisions. I think (I hope) things are better now.

Silhouettes on a Stage, by EKDuncan

The Important Things Aren’t Things

Things I loved when I was young:
Singing
Dancing
Theater
Reading
Writing
And I was in plays, musicals,
whatever they had at the local
theater. I learned all aspects
from the acting and singing and performing
to the set construction, costuming and directing.

And then I had children.

The choice was to continue
the way I had been,
though that would have meant
a lot of time away from the little ones,
or to leave behind my first loves
to be with my children.

The choice was actually still painful,
even though I knew it was the right one.

Things I loved when I was a little older:
My kids
Singing (children’s songs)
Dancing (around the house with them)
Theater (puppets usually)
Reading (bedtime stories)
Writing (just for me)
And the loss of one kind of focus
was more than made up by focusing instead
on what was really important.

Things I love now that I’m done raising kids:
My kids
Singing (in a band)
Dancing (at weddings)
Theater (at the office)
Reading (as much as I like)
Writing (more than ever)

Totally worth it.

 

Plea poem – What Were You Thinking?

The prompt was to write a “plea” poem.  I blame the mood of today’s poem on the migraine I had yesterday. Leaves me feeling a little weary, though life really is good. Be warned, though, reader, my positive self is still sleeping with many pillows in my quiet bed.

***

What Were You Thinking?

You let me go,
me and our three sons
(one was only six months old)
and you refused to help us.
(At least, without a court
order.)

You flew over two thousand miles
to take my car, though you
at least
allowed me to take the
car seats and strollers out
when I caught you at it.

You begrudged every single penny
the court made you pay
to care for your kids.

Is it just that you wanted me
to suffer? Even though you
were the one who
cheated?

Is it that you wanted to
simply wash your hands
of my part in your
history?

You tried to make me feel
like I was the bad one,
like I had done something
wrong
by not falling in with
your plans
as I did when we were married.

But my loyalty no longer belonged
to you.

You no longer had my trust.

My heart no longer held
you within.

And you could not comprehend
that I had given those things
to you freely,
you thought I was simply
dumb.

And I look back now
from a distance of twenty years
and wonder
what you could possibly
have been thinking?

I could never have abandoned
my children
to fate
regardless of the personal cost.

What was wrong with our marriage
was you.

Used heart: once broken, but still functional.

April 22, Judging

The prompt today was to write a judging poem -either you being judged or judging, or the judging of others. And Robert made a point to ask everyone to play nice. I appreciate that. And I hope I don’t offend anyone by today’s poem about judging.

###

Virtuous

“Oh yeah,” I thought
as I sat amidst the ladies
at the baby shower.

“This is what this is like.”
Nice ladies, all as thin as a stick
and smiling so kindly
and I pull my shirt down
a bit
to camouflage that
extra bit of tummy
that never quite goes away.

And then the chatter begins:
One is talking about her new clothes,
so elegant,
bought as a bribe by her husband
so she would accompany him
to a marathon
across the country.

And how lovely the weather was
in Boston
and how he made such a
fine
showing.

She’s not boasting, not much,
but she is subtly
judging
those ladies who don’t
have the wherewithal
to fly cross country
for a new outfit.

And then the topic changes
to college and
higher education
and how one lady spent
a semester at
Cambridge
they were so glad to have her
and though it is boasting
a little
it’s all so virtuous
because it’s all about
e d u c a t i o n
and how important that is.

And so I quietly get up
and go sit by the
tattooed lady
alone
in the corner.

Yes, I am judging,
in my own way.
But I find the conversation
much more to my liking.

 

Ekphrastic Poetry

That was not a misspelling – Ekprhastic poetry is a poem based on a work of art; a painting, sculpture (or an ode, say, to something like a Grecian urn), etc. Our prompt today was to write a poem based on one of four paintings. I chose The Shootings of May Third 1808, by Francisco de Goya. And I suppose some smart alec will point out to me that cameras with shutters weren’t even invented until 1817 or so, but I say that the simile remains good.

###

On Shutters and Overexposure

(after The Shootings of May Third 1808, by Francisco de Goya)

My eyes are shutters
but even closed
they still see
the shuddering
horror
of the executions.

Like when the
camera’s shutter
clicks,
the picture is
taken in my mind;
but unlike
the film,
I cannot erase,
by overexposure
what I’ve seen.

Only by
overexposure
of another sort
will my mind
become numbed.

It’s Too Late

The prompt today was to write an “it’s too late” poem. I pondered, and felt in a ballady mood. (Yes, that means a mood to write something ballad-like.) I think it’s rough, but it was ten kinds of fun. ^_^ Here is my try:

Reincarnation

A young Egyptian maid in love
with one of Pharaoh’s men.
They meet in secret every night,
they feel the strangest yen.
She says she will marry him,
But she can’t tell him when.
Then her love is called to war.
“I love you little wren!”

And he is gone and she is left
She ne’er sees him again.

Another life, another maid,
this time she’s from Bahrain
and her dear love’s a carpenter
who builds ships for his gain.
They meet in secret every night
His love for her is plain.
But an accident one day
takes him away in pain.

And he is gone and she is left.
She is alone again.

This life she is a Chinese lass
She is a peasant’s child.
They meet in secret every night
He tells her she’s beguiled
him from his lawful wife,
They’ll run into the wild.
They find it to their liking
but the tigers also smiled.

This time they both are moving on
but their love is gone once more.

Another life, another maid
Who lives in Istanbul.
Her love this time’s a teacher
who teaches at the school.
They meet in secret every night
He swears he is love’s fool
But then he lost his head one day,
her Sultan-father’s cruel.

And he is gone and she is left
without her love once more.

She is born a citizen
of privilege in Rome.
He is but a serving-man
who works within her home.
They meet in secret every night,
her father’s not a fan.
He ends up a gladiator
without any battle plan.

And he is gone and she is left,
she ne’er sees him again.

Her next life as a viking girl
is short and not so sweet.
He dies before he sees her,
before they even meet.
And she is always mournful;
she never feels complete.
She dies of plague so weary
and filled with sad defeat.

And they are gone and never met
and must go on again.

And now she is a Scottish lass
and he’s a buccaneer
sailing up and down the coast.
She is his darlin’ dear.
They meet in secret when they can
until he disappears.
Her life is long and empty, then,
through all the lonely years.

She finally moves on again,
and try again once more.

Eventually born in modern times;
they don’t believe in love.
They meet one day and time stands still
not knowing what they speak of,
they never meet in secret once,
they’re always hand-in-glove,
and eventually they just give in
and thank their stars above.

And this time when they both move on
they’ve lived long lives together
Their love was worth the fighting for,
worth waiting for, forever.

 

Quote of the Day

“Anyone who proposes to do good must not expect people to roll stones out of his way, but must accept his lot calmly, even if they roll a few stones upon it.” – Albert Schweitzer

This goes right along with:

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” – Mahatma Gandhi