what he knows now
one has to pick oneself up
by the bootstraps and work

driven by a restless mind
he sought to ignore
his scorched soul
the scars and sores
invisible to most
the only balance he knew
that of the bank account

and so he found himself
nestled in his lonely bed
visited one night by three ghosts
with bizarre, unearthly powers
he tried to whistle
and wheedle away his fear
but he found he could not

and what he came to know
was a wealth of kindness
few, if any, thought him capable
for now what he set on the balance
was not money

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 44 at The Sunday Whirl.

Purchase or trade
I don’t care which
But I never use stickers
for prices
Too tacky

And I keep all purchases
strictly confidential

All sorts of charms
A monocle to see through fog
A handkerchief to control weeping
A mirror for visions
A belt that will guarantee
you a successful interview
A jacket that will make you a blur
at night or in dim light

Our location?
Oh, I’m sorry, dear,
if you don’t already know,
I can’t help you

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 43 at The Sunday Whirl.

And isn’t that the problem?
The things we don’t do.

I wish I had bigger shoes,
shoes to kick the shit
(I warned you)
out of racism, homophobia, you name it,
man’s inhumanity to man
and woman
and child.

They wouldn’t be comfortable shoes,
but then that’s the point.
The right things aren’t often the easy things,
but, really, how hard is it to be kind?

My bigger shoes would have a tread of compassion
that left a mark of kindness,
kindness that would lead to action,
rather than the non-action of fear.

I’m not trying to be holier than thou.
Trust me – I know I’m not.
I’m just trying to wear bigger shoes.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Big Shoes prompt at We Write Poems.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Lying in a Hammock for Tuesday’s Tryout at Margo Roby’s Wordgathering blog.

This poem is based on a real event, a poetry field trip, which my Introduction to Poetry teacher, John Lovas, did with his students. We left the campus, drove to this spot that had this amazing view of the valley, and we read poems to each other out in nature.

I tried to use the senses, to make it descriptive, and to move toward the epiphany… or, rather, the epiphany interrupted, by Robert, a fellow student in the class. He happened to be a good poet himself; he just talked too much.

when our culture is in ruins,
the land a scar, the rebels
billows of ash and dust,
the grid gone, the fuses worthless,

I will dart for my underground shelter,
latch the lead-lined doors,
and surround myself with the metallic
staccato of my typewriter

and write a poem before I die

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 42 at The Sunday Whirl.

I haven’t hit old age / this is just mid-life

I’ve got some gray that makes me look old
but I blame that on the young

I am the oldest son / and the oldest grandson

I haven’t aged / like whiskey or brandy or wine

I’m old enough to know better / but not old enough to be wise

I don’t talk about the good old days
I think the days now are just fine

I might be an older model / than some others you’ve seen
but I’ve managed to keep the mileage pretty low

I’m an old hand at writing
but the writing keeps me young

I wouldn’t say I’m an old soul
but I’ve always acted older than my years

I still like it when old students
come back to say hello

And I am not quite old enough to remember
The Flintstones and their “gay old time” in prime time

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Prompt #41 – Old Relatives at Poetic Bloomings.

id sit at th end
uv uh trumpet
and curv th notes

sendin them out
for u to hear

spelin dont mater
in jaz
nor gramer neether

it haz to swing
thats al

just maik u
tap yur toes
snap yur fingers

just maik u smile
for Miles and milz

/ / /

This is a poem I wrote yesterday while my students were writing their poems. The prompt from Susan Sibbet of California Poets in the Schools was to use sound. My first thought was to play with homophones, words that are spelled differently but sound the same. I brainstormed a list of those, and somehow that got me thinking about the spelling of words and how they sound, so I tried to spell them as they sound, rather than worrying about spelling.

The other inspiration was “If I Were a Bell” by the Miles Davis Quintet, which I had happened to hear on my iPod yesterday morning on my drive in to work.

the shocks and startles would come, but later,
when the world ended, whimpering,
and the fields were frozen or of flame.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 41 at The Sunday Whirl.

What does it hunt
with its claws?
What flesh does it rend
with its teeth?

Or does it live
on air, earth,
fire, or water?

That sound I hear
as I fall asleep -
is that dragon song?

Do dragons curl up
at night surrounded by clouds?
Or do they sleep upside-down
underwater, like whales?

How must it feel
to have such a long tail?
Do they chase their own tails
when they are young?

Are they born wise?
Or do they learn
like us?

/ / /

This is a poem started last Thursday in my classroom, and finished this morning. Susan Sibbet, of California Poets in the Schools, was teaching a poetry writing lesson, inspired by our talk of dragons, connected with the new lunar new year, and using Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” and Steven Siu’s “7 Ways of Looking at a Butterfly” as inspiration for form.

But my brain insisted on recalling
those images of that horror-dream,
mocking my hopes and feeble wishes.

The truth is that time will twist that wish
and when my memories, my trusted recall
fades, I will want again that fearful dream:

That broken dream I’ll wish I could recall.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Tritina prompt at Poetic Asides.