with the volume of my heart's
Wet morning, wanderingideas grey as cloudsor sidewalks washed with rain.Walk, avoiding puddles.Wisdom or confusion,who’s to know? Worthierquestions have confoundedsearchers for centuries.I got the street’s memo:Here, embrace the wetness,always seek your own way,& write everything down.
For the Real Toads: This Prompt Brought to You By the Letter W
As I waited for youin the wrong place,you left me behind,leaving only your motherfor commiseration.Next time,you left me with my packperched on cement steps,taking the dogwith you, no looking back.After that,every night I smothered youwith my pillowbut you never came back;I had been left behind.
For Margaret’s great prompt to the Real Toads: Willard Asylum
A red Jetta passes& I’m transported 20 years,pulling in next to yoursat Pennsylvania Pizzawhere you are holding courtover Wednesday happy hour,top-shelf vodka in hand.Susan is on her second Yuengling,Caren’s animated, Carl is late& you are still but for the shinein your eyes when mentioningyour son’s promotion& your grandbabies down Atlanta.Did you keep that efficiencyupstairs when Pennsylvania Pizzasold out & became a Hooters?Did you still order Stolion the rocks, Baby-Doll?I can hear your voice.I can feel the twinkly grinthat said You can’t fool me,Girl, I know what you’re up to.You always did. Yes, you always did.
Open arms. Open up!Little airplane will flyright in! Open sky.Open heart,tiny vessel, already broken:filling a slotopen for infants.
Sam Edge has the Real Toads playing with language in the style of e.e. cummings. Not that this tiny poem fits that tall order, but here it is.
Sun sings low redat the horizon, you stringtwinkly lites arounda grand piano on your front lawn.I don’t know you, but haveforgotten how to dance.May I join?
For my own occasional music prompt to the Real Toads: Working On That
Nothing gets through.Not the window opento the first sunny airafter an aggressive winter.Not the memory of last night’slovemaking, nor the joltof a navel orange,happy news from a friend,children’s peals, coffee, poetry,the Velvet Underground.That My Little Pony episodeis stressing you out. Shouldn’tyou be working on something?Guess that got through.
This needs work (shouldn’t I be working on something?!) but I’m posting anyway to participate in Kenia’s Sunday prompt to the Real Toads.
Armed with Rustoleum & grandiose aliasesin case of arrest, we branded the sidewalkswith our anti-violent, violent message,wheat-pasted sins & leafleted long afterbull-headed & well-intentioned argumentsturned to mildly-amused barely noticed,disavowing all each morning, like a hangoverthat just needs to be powered through.These days, I wake to birdcall followedby children’s questioning of everything,including What Mama Did When She Was Younger,& in sharing glimpses of days gone, hopethey’re able to ride that current of Hope.I spin their messages into a river of words,in up to my neck, yesterday’s sidewalks soaked& glistening with the power of every single one.
Susie challenged the Real Toads to write a street poem.
Sharing wordstakes nerve.There’s a learning curveinvolved.It won’t solvetoday’s problems--probablynot gonna solve 'em.Or could we?
April is National Poetry Month! We are offering inventive and creative prompts every day, all month long in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Come and join us in challenging yourself! Write one poem or thirty, share them or write clandestinely under cover of darkness. The only requirement is to write.
Mama Zen kicked off April with a challenge to surprise her on April Fool’s Day, in 37 words or less. My poem uses just 22.
I’ve been less prolific of late, with many less-than-poetic things distracting me, of necessity. Don’t know that I’ll write 30 or even try. I guess we’ll find out.