Posts: 1,279
Threads: 187
Joined: Dec 2016
Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
Topic 24: Write a poem inspired by the place you are from
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Questions?
Posts: 444
Threads: 285
Joined: Nov 2011
< father Texas >
fully dangerous
you are the hot pistol that amazed my mother
and you are looking at me right now
laughing
as i try to find a way to impress you
men of the life of my father
i invoke your names
in fear and disgust and respect
i am slipping again
into shotguns and dead animals
'round fires and whiskey
my dream
is of taking a shotgun
to your football helmet
your aftershave
your knives and boots
and all your vicious jokes about sex and women
but i need to hug you as well
to feel your body
bristling with flame and force
- - -
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
Posts: 2,357
Threads: 230
Joined: Oct 2010
(04-24-2015, 03:55 PM)rayheinrich Wrote:
< father Texas >
fully dangerous
you are the hot pistol that amazed my mother
and you are looking at me right now
laughing
as i try to find a way to impress you
men of the life of my father
i invoke your names
in fear and disgust and respect
i am slipping again
into shotguns and dead animals
'round fires and whiskey
my dream
is of taking a shotgun
to your football helmet
your aftershave
your knives and boots
and all your vicious jokes about sex and women
but i need to hug you as well
to feel your body
bristling with flame and force
- - -
Loved the poem especially the ending
Being from Texas and living there now, I can relate. If you added a John Wayne commemorative plate or two and a stuffed Bobcat (I have the pictures) you could sum up a large portion of my family.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
just mercedes
Unregistered
Sandy Bay
In moonlit rockpools of memory
night-anemones shelter
flicks of quicksilver fish.
Slow shadows show
beached canoes before our bach,
a sea shanty singalong
with the ragged suck of surf on rocks.
Trimontagogues on patrol
keep night caves safe
under summer moons like
Christmas oranges
freed from long socks.
Posts: 848
Threads: 231
Joined: Oct 2012
In the willows
I can still run
I know what's around each corner,
no need for hesitation,
but if I stay too long
bath night comes
and Sunday evening stomachs
rumble on.
Granddad couldn't remember how,
hospital to house.
such vulnerability,
place names lost
to scrabble, turned over blank,
a new game.
His Captains map
washed away in a blood clot.
So, hood up
never make eye contact,
long term memory
more precious than short.
I have my map
it's crumpled,
stained with an old tea bag for authenticity
and kept beneath the look
on Granddads face,
lest I should forget
the streets
and what gave me my name.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
Posts: 1,325
Threads: 82
Joined: Sep 2013
Tumbling World
A bite at a time or on full overload
everything you can dream of and what you can't imagine
is out there, somewhere, get moving.
Two feet, bike, car or train
eyes and ears open, see what you can catch.
Pull back the spring and fly onto action
bounce off the bumpers and light 'em up.
Find the pockets of quiet
the winter beach
the museum bench
the circular pathways
of night's empty parks.
Through one door a tenement,
through the next a world of luxury,
the people in either just people.
Live a life you can live with.
Hold your head high, buoyed by good.
Give and be grateful, born lucky.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
Posts: 1,827
Threads: 305
Joined: Dec 2016
Red Charybdis
Looking across to Oklahoma,
the red clay engorged Red River,
takes me back fifty years,
to the Oklahoma side.
A molten metal shard
took out my dad's eye.
The river then, much as now,
rolling through, but the bridge then
was still part wood and it could not stand
against such a force.
To get to the hospital
he had to ride in a basket via crane
over this red monster.
Mission accomplished,
the rest was tame.
Erthona
©2015
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
Posts: 444
Threads: 285
Joined: Nov 2011
(04-24-2015, 09:43 PM)Todd Wrote: Loved the poem especially the ending
Being from Texas and living there now, I can relate. If you added a John Wayne commemorative plate or two and a stuffed Bobcat (I have the pictures) you could sum up a large portion of my family. Probably the same damn plate. They've got pictures of Ronald Reagan, signs that say "We
don't call 911" with drawings of shotguns, have purses with a hidden holster compartment, and
argue over which gun is the best for personal protection. They also, when they think they're among
the 'right' people, readily use racial epithets of every shape, form, and description.
They also, if you meet their specifications, are kind, generous people who will go far out of their way
to lend a hand in helping repair your house, bring you food as long as it takes when there's sickness
in your family, and in general behave like Christian Samaritans.
Ambiguous humans! (All of us, not just those Texans.)
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
Posts: 751
Threads: 408
Joined: May 2014
The Abstracted Jackhammer
He's sick of concrete;
sick of belittled gems
angling prayer toward the sun,
to one day again, reflect more than grey.
He's sick of huddled grains of sand,
squatting between the toes of content,
rallying to erode rest;
drunk and conceited with numbers.
He's sick of Styrofoam salads
promising the sun,
while the earth forever gives birth
under a cloud of speculation.
He's sick of barnacles
lobbying for free trade at low tide;
stowed away on apathy—
under Titanic immunity.
He's sick of dull words
playing whore in a Bull market;
seducing both mammon and men
with the same loose lips.
He's sick of us pitching disaster
to terrified men—
just to get them to work on time.
Posts: 444
Threads: 285
Joined: Nov 2011
Good poem.
These two lines:
He'd raise his voice
like the world was deaf.
Are the best ones I've read in years.
(04-25-2015, 01:37 PM)Tiger the Lion Wrote: The Abstracted Jackhammer
He's sick of concrete;
sick of belittled gems
angling prayer toward the sun,
to one day again, reflect more than grey.
He's sick of huddled grains of sand,
squatting between the toes of content,
rallying to erode rest;
drunk and conceited with numbers.
He's sick of Styrofoam salads
promising the sun,
while the earth forever gives birth
under a cloud of speculation.
He's sick of barnacles
lobbying for free trade at low tide;
stowed away on apathy—
under Titanic immunity.
He's sick of dull words
playing whore in a Bull market;
seducing both mammon and men
with the same loose lips.
He's sick of us pitching disaster
to terrified men—
just to get them to work on time. How can you do this?
The poem is solid (as I've come to expect),
but the depth, interplay, and just sheer fucking quantity of metaphor reels my brain!
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
Posts: 751
Threads: 408
Joined: May 2014
04-25-2015, 04:25 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-30-2015, 01:37 AM by Todd.)
(04-25-2015, 01:37 PM)Tiger the Lion Wrote: The Abstracted Jackhammer
He's sick of concrete;
sick of belittled gems
angling prayer toward the sun,
to one day again, reflect more than grey.
He's sick of huddled grains of sand,
squatting between the toes of content,
rallying to erode rest;
drunk and conceited with numbers.
He's sick of Styrofoam salads
promising the sun,
while the earth forever gives birth
under a cloud of speculation.
He's sick of barnacles
lobbying for free trade at low tide;
stowed away on apathy—
under Titanic immunity.
He's sick of dull words
playing whore in a Bull market;
seducing both mammon and men
with the same loose lips.
He's sick of us pitching disaster
to terrified men—
just to get them to work on time. How can you do this?
The poem is solid (as I've come to expect),
but the depth, interplay, and just sheer fucking quantity of metaphor reels my brain!
[/quote]
Thank you Ray.
Posts: 444
Threads: 285
Joined: Nov 2011
The poems above...
I could just attribute them to a good topic (which it is);
and, contrary to my usual self, I seemed to have read them all (all)
so many times. They're like an album of music you can't stop
listening to. A poem-a-day means compromise in most places,
but not here. I've NEVER seen such consistently excellent writing.
Though just to comment on 'writing' is like commenting on the quality
of the paints, the brush-strokes, even the use of color in some sublime
painting. Those are just the mechanics. The places these poems take me,
the feeling, the experience; some sort of living exists in them...
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
Posts: 294
Threads: 4
Joined: Sep 2013
Unfortunately, that's why I've been intimidated to write one on this particular topic. blergh. Maybe I can come back later.
Posts: 294
Threads: 4
Joined: Sep 2013
so not happy still but here goes...yes Mel was born in Melbourne.
Melbourne Beach, FL
There is no dirt
where I come from--
only sand.
Faerie dust tickling between toes--
grains of a million would-be mirrors.
It got everywhere--
invaded my body
and my home.
I used to catch its fleas
and periwinkles.
But tidal pools help miniature galaxies
and I was an eager astronaut.
There is no sand where I am now--
just red mud clay perfect for molding
and views of green mountains.
Whatever sand remained in my soul
has long been lost
and it is sorely missed.
|
