My notebook falls opento a page of ballpoint pen drawingsby my son, who had been sittingon a curb waiting for a parade.My own scratchings scarce, inspirationis welcome when it surfaces.Who could fail to be movedby his steady requirement to draw now,on this curb, on a restaurant placemat,a napkin if that’s all there is?(Put this in your purse, mama.)My children remember the admonishmentof an artist to never stop drawing,evoking this advice constantlyand with reverence, as though toldfrom on high instead of under a tentat the Westhampton Fall Festival.Obviously, this is a good thing,a lucky thing, a moment’s one-off wordsetched deep in the psyche of youth,the notebook that is life’s pleasure,treasure a mother hopeswill be unearthed over and over,the mind’s riches providing sustenancefor a lifetime of waiting on parades.
snare drumtektekrattling outtekteklist of offensestekteknot listeningtekteknot rememberingtektekmaking you feeltektekyou are one of manytektekCRASHChrist I’m sorry(sad trombone)tektekyou are the only oneCRASHrattletek
It’s Fireblossom Friday in the Imaginary Garden.
The faint scar jagging up your thighmakes you think about death and sciencebecause there were cadavers in a laband a good-looking guy named Chaz who knewa lab tech who could get us in with a littlenotice. Of course you knew he was sleepingwith her and that’s why she would risk it. Chazwasn’t even pre-med. He was econ but back thenguys named Chaz were sleeping with all cute girlsby definition. Remember why he could goad youto visiting cadavers in the first place. And whyin a dark med school women’s room you shuckedtoo-big jeans fastened with safety pins yankingthem up too fast upon a thud which could only bea reanimated corpse or the campus cops but eitherway you were about to be caught and possiblyingested with blood down your leg from a tragicsafety pin accident what is the point of a failedattempt to break into the cadaver room but a scarryreminder of death and science for all eternity
Not sure what I’m doing with this but am sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden anyway.
"Creation minds the fort like a seasoned bitch.” Lines like this are the backbone of On Hunter’s Wash, a collection of poetry, prose and experimental fiction from Corey Rowley. Rowley's writing magnifies introspective thinking while holding self up to society's sometimes brutal, and other times beautiful, mirror. This volume is awash in the sort of internal dialogue that is immediately identifiable, but at times not so comfortable.
If you recognize yourself in the pages of On Hunter's Wash, just know that you are not alone. We have all been there. Thank you, Corey, for reminding us.
Obviously, readers, you need this book. Get your copy of On Hunter’s Wash via Amazon:
Yellowed by pollen and regretnails gnawed to the quicknot quite remembering that dreambut for a fragmentKnifing poetryon a picket fenceThe lilacs are intoxicatinginsistent as they annually areon celebrating all of Spring’sfailures to thrive
Michael offered a word list from Pablo Neruda’s poems, including: suburb, gnawed, fragment, knife, insistent
Shared with with Toads on The Tuesday Platform. Join!
Suddenly dandelionseverywhere we looked,in front yards and side yards,wide meadows, town commons,that strip of grassbetween sidewalk and street--It was so quietas we all noticeddandelionsunapologetically yellowingall that greenwith only birds trumpetingpraise for dandelions,as we were too stunned to sing--In the quietwe could even hear beesthrummingdandelion pollen,considered dandelion gratitudeas beesdon’t have it easy these days--Then we remembered our machines,the place of dandelions,and obliginglystarted our engines.
Today. And for Grace’s prompt to the Real Toads: JANE HIRSCHFIELD
I want to agewith natural beautylike the craggy maple,red with buds, scraping sky,briefly belying the lush to come,cradling the moonbefore blanketing him awayfrom pining eyes.No one questionsthe valueof the blessed maple,the squirrels keep her playful,and each year offers another chanceat achieving perfection.
Very late for Flash 55 Plus. Am sharing today on The Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden. Come share your own poems with the Real Toads!
I hadan admirablevocabularyand an even biggercapacityfor love
For Izy’s 4/30 prompt to the Real Toads: BANG, WHIMPER, HISS
And HEY it’s number 30 of 30 poems for NaPoWriMo! Yo, April, don’t let the door smack yer ass on the way out.
Unfurledburger wrapperlit on my windshieldin an instant I saw it allthe crashthe decapitationbody parts strewn across the highwaymy husband receiving the newspresented with a bouquetof severed limbsmy wedding ringno ceremonymotherlesschildren.
Something uplifting and cheerful for #29.
Sensible and sedatehandsomeimpressed interiorspongy immenseinterwovenwith glittery necessitylearned to cookcelebratedcoconut cookiescharity cakeSpartan breakfastsneither coffee or tea,of course he did not drink.
An erasure poem character sketch of Mr. Clutter, one of "the last to see them alive," described in the first chapter of In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. #28 of 30 in April, and sharing with the Real Toads on The Tuesday Platform. Somehow the photo "poetry spoken hear" seems to connect to In Cold Blood. Maybe it's because it's day 28.
One part homework,Two garbage nights,Three loads of towels,Half-serving cat hairballs,Tetch of frustration,Handful of mismatched socks,Generous helping of Mama, Look!Blend with equal parts mundaneand small joys.(Best served with kisses.)Dinner’s on the table.
#27 of 30 in April! For Bjorn’s prompt to the Real Toads: POETIC RECIPES
I pulled this fortunethe day you died:What is the distancebetween the eyes and the soul?You know the answer.How did you learn to pronouncethe hard words, which goddessesare whom, the rhythm of line breaks?We all listened. Did you know?Your paean to women made me wishsuch words were strung togetherand hung on my limbs.Now you travel that distance,somehow we expect you to report back.We will miss your soul, your lip.
For my friend and Florence Poets Society colleague Bob Lipton, who passed away on Friday. Bob’s not-always-gentle-but-always-spot-on critique and his own exquisite writing both inspired me to write my best. I learned so much from Bob and miss him already.
Posting to Margaret's Play It Again prompt to the Real Toads, Fortune Cookies, and #26 in April.
Margaret has resurrected the infamous alphabet prompt from an April of yore for her Play It Again, Toads prompt, and I worked on this with my kids this morning! So thank you, Margaret, and here are our efforts:Able bonesconcreted down.Every Fool gets hisin jealous knowing,like machine noiseson piano--quiet rhythm,staccato--tick-tock--undulating Wellspring--xanthous,yet Zen.
Kitten Crazy (by Anne)A bunny can’t drive every fish.George, hi!I, Jeffrey, kicking lemonjuice,mumbling Nyancats on pizza.Qwerty reality.Seals tiptoeing under Venuswith xylophones,yelling zebras.The Nyan Apocalypse! (by Jack)A bouncy catdoing everything funny!Ghosts hiding in Jupiterknowing little messenger Nyancats.Overflowing party!!!Quacking rhino?!?!Silly tie-dyed underpantsversus wet x-raysyet zero....
|(In case you are unfamiliar with Nyan Cat.)|
I set out to write a poemprompted by the color pinkbut was immediately derailedbecause straight away I thoughtof the phrase pink pleasureand that sounds likea battery-operated modelfrom the Good Vibrations catalognot that there’s anything wrong with thatbut it wasn’t the mood I was inas I was thinking more stargazer lilyor phlox or even my pink fluffy bathrobebut now I’m picturing other thingslike the pink of your knees and earlobesand the pink of other parts of yours I likeso apparently my mood has shiftedand it's time to doff the fluffy bathrobegiving serious consideration to the color pink.
#24 of 30 poems in April! Cheeky entry for Grace’s prompt to the Real Toads: TURNING PINK
r u n a w a y s e n t e n c e
f i v e y e a r s o l d !
f i v e y e a r s
s h r i e k i n g i n A L L C A P S !
At five years, it was time for some sprucing up. My old man Aaron has always been the creative design brains behind this blog, and he whipped up a fancy updated masthead and logo to celebrate the birthday of runaway sentence. Isn’t it beautiful?Thank you, gentle readers. Some of you have been here since the very beginning (and even before that). All of you are treasured friends. Here’s to another five years of poetry and occasional mayhem!