Who Needs Sight?

This poem was from this week’s Living Poetry Prompt, believe it or not.

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Who Needs Sight?

I’d rather be blind
than struck deaf.

Vision is too distracting.
I don’t need eyes
in the back of my head
to hear someone approach.

Who needs sight
when we swim
in an ocean
of sound?

Bubbling laughter of women
Harsh taunts of blue jays
Summer wall of cicadas
Distant mourn of coyotes

Tip tap of falling rain
Cursive swirl of wind
Sharp crumbling leaves
Singular silence of snow

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Potty Training

The image below is from Living Poetry’s May Visual Poetry Prompt.

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Potty Training

There is no greater joy
in the life of a parent
than when their furry
child poops outside.

Then life can settle
into a routine,
no more high alerts
whenever the puppy
leaves the room
or begins sniffing
the corners or circling
a suspicious spot.

A doggie door
and fenced yard
means no more midnight
emergency diarrhea
walks or mad dashes
home after working late.

Dogs are more than bark
alarms and crumb vacuums.
They are our primal companions
and the young of both species
need to be house broken.

 

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Last Slice of Life

Thirty poems in thirty days, hope you’ve enjoyed my work this National Poetry Month.

For today’s prompt, write a closing time poem. Or another way of coming at this prompt is to write a poem in which something is coming to an end–like this month’s poetry challenge. Could be the end of a concert, an era, or whatever else must come to a close.

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Photograph: HANDOUT/AFP/Getty Image

Last Slice of Life
for David Goodall

When there’s less than a glass
of wine left in the bottle
I finish it before it turns to vinegar
even if it was delicious.

Especially if it was delicious.
I don’t leave the last slice
of pizza to molder in my fridge
nor the last piece of pie.

Life can be just as fleeting.
Why cling to the last days
like a car that spends more time
in the shop than on the road?

If I decide someday
I’ve lived too long,
don’t cite archaic laws
of God or man.

The only thing I truly own is my body.
Let me go in peace.

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Notes from Underground

For today’s prompt, write a response poem. Respond to whatever helps you get your poem written, but my thought is that you should respond to one of your poems from earlier in this challenge.

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Notes from Underground
(in response to Cavern of Green)

Tree houses are quite poetic
and just as practical.

Imagine swaying in the wind
like living on a boat at sea,
books falling from shelves,
wine spilling at every gust,
insurance policies and pizza
delivery unattainable.

Instead let me dig
into the side of a hill,
windows facing south
to catch the sun’s rays
while we rest in the strong
gentle grasp of the earth.

Hurricanes and tornadoes
can rumble over head without concern.
Earthquakes won’t be a worry
here in Carolina until the politicians
give the fracking rights
to their best campaign contributors.

 

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Whoops Wave

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) Wave,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Tidal Wave,” “Next Wave,” “Friendly Wave,” “Heat Wave,” and/or “Sound Wave.”

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Whoops Wave

The women wore their summer dresses
for the first time that spring
at a handicrafts street festival.
I was admiring the art
when a beautiful young lady
approached, smile beaming
like a laser to my eye.
I raised my hand to wave
but only got as far as my chin
when I realized she wasn’t looking
at me. I quickly converted
the wave into a tuck the hair
behind the ear motion
and hoped she wouldn’t notice.

That’s called a Whoops Wave
and she was focused on the handsome
young gentleman standing behind
me. Lucky bastard. I remember
when I was him.

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Pon Farr

For today’s prompt, write a story poem. Think of a story, could be a long, complicated, winding story, but for a poem, it may make more sense to make it a short, direct story.

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Pon Farr

My friend should have let me die
but he was an emotional human,
prone to irrational outbursts.

He risked his career
to save my life
by bringing me home.

Home, where every seven years,
I must return to lose control
else die an undignified death.

Home, where the stark beauty
and austere landscape
enforce discipline.

Home, where she waited
in clear precision
for my desire.

Or so I thought.
She challenged my right,
declared my friend her champion.

Were I not deep
in the blood fever,
I would’ve understood,

countered her tactic
like any gambit
in three dimensional chess

but I fought as an animal
to pass my genetic material
to the next generation.

My friend lies in the dust,
my ahn’woon around his neck,
the fever passes.

He should have let me die
then I would not have killed
him, my captain, my friend.

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Frost on Dead Leaves

Image prompt from Suzanne Olivante which combined nicely with the Poetic Asides prompt:

For today’s prompt, write a relationship poem. Of course, there are human relationships, but there are also plant-animal relationships, animal-animal relationships, and even mathematical relationships. Good, bad, healthy, and not-so-much. Dive deep today.

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Frost on Dead Leaves

I remember spring.
It was several years ago
when we first met
and the world was full
of waggy puppies and purry kittens.

Then a few years of summer,
sure there were storms,
but easily weathered
and it seemed like the picnic
would never run out of potato salad.

And just like it did once before,
autumn blew the bright leaves
to the graying ground
where they gathered the frost
from your voice.

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Petrichor

For today’s prompt, pick an intriguing and/or seldom-used word, make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. If you have a limited vocabulary, try out brabble, dandle, feracious, impavid, lippitude, or vulgus. Or pick up a dictionary or thesaurus.

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Petrichor

I welcome the rain
after an eight month drought,
greet the electricity
in the air with open arms.

The scent of petrichor
fills me as the first drops
touch the dusty ground,
invigorating memories.

I’d forgotten the taste of water,
grown accustomed to this thirst.
Imagine my delight in the downpour,
feeling life return vibrant

and strong but all too brief
like the crimson desert flowers.

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Cavern of Green

Credit Suzanne Olivante for the image below which prompted the poem. Further inspiration from Robert Frost’s Nothing Gold Can Stay to which the first line alludes.

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Cavern of Green

Frost’s first green surrounds
me like a cavern of gold
with stalagmites of wood
as I walk through this suburban
grove in rainy late April.

Just yesterday the deer
could see me and clatter
away through the winter
fallen limbs but today the trees
are claustrophobic with growth.

Branches drape my path,
heavy with new hung leaves.
If this were a cave,
bat ears would brush my hair
instead raindrops caress my scalp.

I would build a tree house
here and live in this day
for tomorrow the green will deepen
to lime and the sun will tarnish
this brief spring.

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Arc Welding

For today’s prompt, write an action poem. So many actions are available to the poet: singing, running, clapping, working, and–umm–poeming. Yes, there’s a world of possibility today–all ready to act.

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Photo courtesy Tara Lynne Groth.

 

Arc Welding

Unlike kissing
sparks should not fly
while welding.
There is an electricity
involved in convincing
two metals to join
but all the action
happens out of sight
as the molecules,
freed from their solid
families dance into liquid
and are married.

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