the last poem

farewell spark

there is no more breath,

no flame to trapeze off,

morning is coming, the

planet is sliding our side

to the sun again, beside

her you are nothing, a

wisp, a gleam, a thing

blinked out of an eye.

:::::::

For today's prompt, I want you to write a farewell poem. After all, we are saying farewell to another wonderful National Poetry Month. Say farewell to this month; say farewell to a vacation spot; say farewell to a bad relationship; say farewell to work; say farewell to school; say farewell to saying farewell...

::::::::::

The thrill is gone, I'm glad this is over.

the cat will live

Yesterday I had a dramatic morning. My ex-cat (but still cat of my heart Icarus) was sick.  Icky lives with my parents but he used to be mine.  I went over to my parent's house and Icky was lethargic.  He had been weak for days so we took him to the vet.  Poor baby kitty had a fever of 106 and a lung infection.  The vet was shocked at how sick he was and scared for the poor kitty's life.  But, yay for antibiotics, he is going to make it.  I was going to freak out if he died. The weirder thing is that my dad, who hated cats his entire life, was devasted that Icky was sick.  According to my mom he had been up all night with Icky.  My mom got up at 3am to check on the kitty and my dad was sitting in the living room with Icky in his arms, rocking him.  Freaking adorable.  Macho on the outside, total sweetheart on the inside.

Poetry poetry tonight.  Last night I had my first night "off" in ages.  I've been out and about or social for a couple of weeks straight.  I had a nice evening of solitude.  Of course, instead of enjoying it with a glass of wine and a book I spent three hours cleaning like a madwoman.  La Creep and Baby D are coming down tomorrow for the weekend so I must clean the place so Baby D can destroy it.  Kidding, I love that kid.

I need to get out of town.  Not to LA or anywhere close.  Soon.

The last poem of the day may or may not be posted later.  I have been writing them but really liking them.  Today's is be a poem of farewell. We will see.

Sunshowers

Chris Cornell

generous ars poetica

As much as I've enjoyed it, I'm glad National Poetry Month is almost over and I will no longer have to write my poem a day.  It was a good exercise but I'm beat.  Writing to prompts is fine but like anything else, too much is too much.

Even though I can't find it on the internets, Jeffrey McDaniel is reading tomorrow evening at SDSU at Scripps Cottage at 7pm.  McDaniel is one of my favorite writers so I'm looking forward to seeing him read. Come down if you'd like, say hello and listen to some great work.

My insomnia was a bastard last night.  I've been up for hours.  Its been a few weeks since I had a night like last night.  *sigh* What is it in my circadian rhythm that is tweaked?  Why is the cuckoo in my inner clock such a freak? I crave a full night's sleep the way other addicts crace their addiction.  Eight consecutive hours is a fantasy.

My Baby Just Cares For Me

Nina Simone

The sugar part is at least right.

My poesia will come later, after a nap perhaps and some cardio.

disappear some

we could have been a sestina

if only your words were scattered

in a better refrain instead of

strung together, your 

I’m 

could have been lovely attached to

crazy about you, your 

sorry

would have been better had you 

followed it with its taken so long, the

I

hooked with an adore you, your 

not 

laced to anyone can compare,

in 

could have been anything, awe

would have summed it up nicely,

love,

(the word in that context was

a stone hurled at my lips)

with,

could have been sandwiched a 

sappy valentine between you, me,

you,

I wanted to be all of

the above, I wanted to

be a better poem then this.

:::::::

But wait! Today is Tuesday, so you have one other option. You can write a poem about the sestina (your love, hate, frustration with, etc.).

::::::::

Play with abstraction, it feels good.

We Let Her Down

Chris Isaac

Also, I want to feel like Chris Isaac's voice.

here is some poetry, baby

long

as it takes the phone 

to ring after 

giving it up too

soon again.

as the four minutes

after peeing on a stick &

praying for no second

pink positive line.

as the ladies line after

the third pint in a bar

that is a Southern California

Columbia snowstorm.

as it takes the receptionist

to call to clear after the 

yearly straddle in the 

bad-girl stirrups.

as however long it

is until the clothes have

been gathered from

where they fell.

as the years since it

became a glass-topped

wall guarding whatever it

used to be before.

:::::::

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of longing. You or someone (or something) else should be pining for someone or something. Maybe a cat is longing to get outside the house. Maybe a teenager is longing to get away from his or her small town. And, of course, there's always the longing poem of love

:::::::::

the poet yawns

Exhausting weekend.  Yesterday I went to the LA Times Festival of Books. I am tired and want to be quiet.

Adrift

Jack Johnson

the poem, people

amateur night 

frightened of the revelers I

stay indoors, listen to the bullets,

wondering where they will come

down. every day is another day

closer to whatever it is I will

face, there in no one to kiss

anyway, not at midnight, not any

other hour of the day. I unplug

the phone, wish the 

well-wishers wouldn’t.

:::::::

For today's prompt, I want you to pick an event; make that event the title of your poem; and then write a poem. Think birthday. Think holiday. Think whatever.

::::::

butterfly knife stomach woes

Too many options this weekend.  Artwalk in Little Italy. Chicano Park Day.  Art shows.  LA Times Festival of Books and I am just feeling lazy and woozy from being a bit sick last night. Don't drink expired milk, okay?

This time of year is always weird for me.  The end of April always has all sorts of things going on that are tired to emotional memory.  Some are great, some are awful.  I find myself contemplating things, sitting with my history in my lap and wondering wtf.  April 2009 has been really good so far. I've been a off for a few days and somewhat cranky but it is passing.

Why do I love this song so much?

Hello Its Me

Todd Rundgren

F T P A D

Not posting it.  It was bad. But I did it.  

hello world

No dancing this morning.  Blogger is annoying me with all the font  selections and size and such.

The poem of the day is to be about travel.  I know the poem  I want to write but will not allow myself to write it. B and I were talking last night about my writing.  He mentioned how surprising it is to see me writing so much poetry since in the last year or so he has only ever known me to write one poem, and it was for him.  I put a moratorium on my own poetry for a while there.  I refused to write.  I didn't want to and when I did want to, the things I wanted to write about were things I refused to write about.  Not the best cycle. But I'm back and more or less happy to be producing work again.  I love the poem I wrote yesterday, the language is all up in my head.  

LA Times Festival of Books this weekend, going to try to make it on Sunday.  Jeffrey McDaniel will be reading in town next week, I'l post more information as soon as I get it.

Each Coming Night

Iron & Wine

baby you are just another parasite

the succubus explains

emasculation is such a pretty thing,

this proboscis stellar and suckling,

the glazing over of those under.

survival is no cruel thing, love, each

organism abuses another to thrive, it

is arrogant to believe you are above

being used as a host as you use &

use, your thing flinging seed at the

willing anemone, your hunger akin to mine.

it was arrogant to assume what was taken

was not used for some good, you were too

at home in your skin of man anyway.

you are lessened in such small ways, consider

the space a gift, fill yourself with better things

than weeping and regret. go into the world

renewed, offer yourself willingly, be loved.

:::::

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem, though it's fine if you do.

::::::

Yeah, weird I know.  I must admit that this poem comes out of a long-running conversation and joke with my favorite anarchist.  Yesterday while walking on the beach we were discussing the life cycles of parasites. My favorite anarchist made a hypothesis about succubi being parasites seeking hosts; I bit down happily on the idea and decided to regurgitate it for today's poem.

like a sweet Magnolia tree

I woke up really happy with Stevie Wonder in my head, despite some really bad dreams right before I woke up.  I was happy to wake up and realize my dreams we not true. Yech, even in my last dream I was telling myself this ain't right, what the hell are you doing here, Lizz? Are you a glutton for punishment?  Clearly and thankfully not.  *sigh* 

Stevie Wonder songs are completely uplifting.  The morning is gray and cool.  I am in my black bathrobe intermittently writing and dancing around. 

The poem of day is to be about regret.  My  first thought goes to the New Order song but no, that won't do. I'll figure it out.  But for now, dance party with Stevie Wonder!

I was made to love her

Stevie Wonder

spelunking

A couple of pictures that survived from the spelunking trip this weekend at the Arroyo Trapiado Mud Caves in the Anza-Borrego Desert.  It was really really really fun.  If you go, make sure the batteries in your headlamp are fresh or you will be like I was, stumbling around. We only explored a few caves because we ended up drinking more water than we expected and followed the desert rule and turned around when our water was half gone.  Next time I'm taking a brighter headlamp, a marsupial pack of water and knee pads. 

Spelunking

Laura Viers

man up if you will

working to understand

Little Hector and I were wire

brushing the wrought-iron

fence that surrounded the

graves of Otis, Miles and

Dolly, all award-winning

beauties; blonde, postured,

blood-lines of royalty if

the humans who owned

them were to be believed.

Little Hector was telling some

tale or another of back in

the day when he drove for

the cartels until he fell

in love and didn’t want to

end up headless or raising

pigs to sell for slaughter 

to the corrupt, so he

followed the trails north,

passing more dead bodies

than he had ever seen while

working for the men the

songs on the Spanish station

were written about.

He asked me why people 

in this country I was born

into erect fences for their

dead animals but those

who built the fences and

dug the graves received less

respect than the piles of

fur and bones decomposing

beneath our feet. He asked

me who would bury him if

he died in the canyon or fell

from a roof he was tiling. 

I had no answers.

He half-joked if he were a

dog he’d have papers, a home

to live in, he wouldn’t have to

be a beast of burden anymore,

strangers on the street

would stop to love him.

:::::::

For today's prompt, I want you to write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow. And remember: There are different types of work. Of course, there are the activities that gain you fortune and fame (or not), but then, there's also housework, exercise, volunteering, etc. I'm sure you'll "work" it out

:::::::

To those of you this poem pisses off I suggest you boycott fruit and vegetables in protest.  While you're at it you should not eat any meat that has been packed and request dirty dishes when you go out to eat. Thanks!

hot as balls

the Haiku writer

said

something about seasons,

something about transience

something I was too busy

being young to listen to.

he said something about

the leaves or petals or

rivers drying or emptying,

something about a bird maybe,

something about how if I

didn’t stop to notice these

and more details than these

I would one day find myself

wasting the last precious

syllables of life living as 

someone who used 

to be beautiful.

::::::

 Write about the haiku. I know there are some poets (in this very group even) who are anti-form. So, I'm giving them the option to write their anti-haiku manifestos. Of course, if you pay attention to this 2nd prompt, it doesn't need to be anti-haiku; your poem could be questioning or even praising the haiku. Or somethinG.

:::::::

I chose "something."

 Hot hot hot out for April.  Psychologically I am not prepared for summer so early.  I was being stubborn about refusing to act as if summer has arrived but ended up hauling the a/c out of the closet and using it last night.  Spent most of yesterday afternoon at the beach with my favorite anarchist and B.  Not a bad way to spend the afternoon with two of my favorite humans on the planet.  Except is was so hawt that I stayed under the umbrella the entire time.

PAD 20

note to quitters

one birth is enough

for one lifetime,

anvil head breaking

through, shoulders

wedged, feet pushing

off the ribcage, mouth

full of mama, I do

not need to be born

again to feel clean, I

plan to go out as

dirty as I came in.

:::::::

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of rebirth. There are many different types of rebirth available, including the changing of the seasons, the beginning of the day, religious or spiritual rebirth, a reconfirmation of good in people, re-learning how to love, etc. So think on it a bit, and create a stellar rebirth poem.

yes summer, right here

It is stunningly beautiful out today, hot and dry.  I am thinking about the poem of the day prompt on rebirth.  *sigh*  I am over cliches and such, or I've never really been into them at all.  I don't know what to write about rebirth.  I don't wear purple or worship dolphins.  I guess I'll fake it 'till I make it.  But first, I'm going to the beach with my favorite anarchist.

well then

rumor

I heard you

grew a pair,

six years

after the

ragged end

of us.

I wish 

I cared

enough to

rile up,

rage that

it took

you this 

long to

and that

you didn’t

when it

could have

done us

some good.

but I’m

tired and

I’ve wasted

enough life

putting words

together to

piss you

off the

way you

did me.

:::::::

Perhaps appropriately, today's prompt is to write an angry poem. That is, a poem about someone or something that gets angry. Could be a person, animal, or even them there angry clouds. As usual, I'm excited to see which unexpected directions y'all take with this prompt.

::::::

Just back from the  desert and am really tired.  I had a blast and a half with my friend Andy.  We camped, explored caves, sat in the sun and read, and had some off road adventures.  I'd post pictures but both of our cameras died out there.  I'd like to give a shout out to the HUGE white scorpion that was under the tent this morning.  Thank you for making me look like a wuss when you showed up.  That scream I let out let everyone around us know that I am not at all as rugged as I seem. Yeah, I let you live but only because I was on your turf.  You show up around here and it will be game over.

Desert Sunrise

Brett Dennen

general electric

half/half

blend into my morning coffee, cream.
swallow you down with the warm earth
so easily disposed of in single-serving capsules.
balance this restless tincture.
smooth over the aggression of the Americas.
I want to be your friend.

::::::::::
For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem with an interaction of some sort. The interaction does NOT have to be between people, though it can. For instance, you could write about the interaction between a bee and a flower; or an owl and a field mouse. Or just write about a traffic cop getting into an argument with a speeder. Just as long as there is some sort of interaction going on.
::::::::::

Holla holla holla, oatmeal and granola.


Breakfast
Le Le

one half to one every night

all I want is to stop wanting

evolution, I am above these buses you throw
me under. I ask, reptile brain, that you end these

irrational impulses to chase worthless options,
namely stud, loner, the tasty aloof and emotional

inhabitants of never-never land I can’t
seem to stop digging my teeth into. despite

what my hips broadcast I am not the kind
of woman who wants to be filled with kicking

feet or ever have to deal with teething or any
other bones fighting their way out of flesh.

enough then with the hunters grunting around,
enough with my dumb tongue hanging, I’m no

bitch in heat scaling high fences, let me live loosed
or let me begin believing in safer things than you.

::::::::::
For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem with the following title: "All I want is (blank)," where you fill in the blank with a word or phrase of your choosing

::::::::::

Leaving this afternoon to the desert to go camping. Excellent. I have way too much to do in the hours between now and then but poetry is a priority. My selfish little lizard brain saw that there is wi-fi in the desert, therefore there may still be poesia tomorrow.

This song is one of those that just kill me in such a good way. It sort of fits with today's theme. I had a silly idea to write a poem about sequels but I was dorky enough yesterday with my poem to the Jolly Green Giant. I am really enjoying writing these poems every day. It makes my days happier, I feel like I have accomplished something. I should do this more often. I am still fighting my irrational impulse to write a poem about a certain wookiee I have been loving my entire life.


Talk Show Host
Radiohead


Love and thoughts to my cousin Michael the Lion who is in the hospital with (or without, now) an exploded appendix. One day I will tell the story of why he is called Michael the Lion. One of my favorite family stories.