lounging in nowstalgia

i never get carded anymore
too much gray at my temples
and in my beard

moving as I am towards the grave
as we all are

whatever machines we drive

or which ride us
grind us down so gradually
we don’t notice

we are no longer grooving
to the hip music
we were never groovy really

with our cassette mixtapes
and eight-tracks
so uncool

now we are
in the groove the rut
we said we’d never fill

yet so much happier
lounging on the couch
our sagging butts

on leather cushions
binge-watching Netflix
and sipping pinot noir

asking your spouse
to turn up the volume
because our hearing is going

or playing cards
hearts preferably
with friends

than going out to some
bar or club or lounge
sitting on stools or chairs

with tight plastic cushions
some symbol of youth
with our uncushioned butts

grinding hips
with your love
or your lust

the volume of the music
so loud
you must lean in close

colliding beautifully
on the dance floor
thus couching your love

to the beats
of the drum
machine

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the baker’s dozen of words of Wordle 278 at The Sunday Whirl.

hold ’em

she dealt the cards
and soon called my bluff

i didn’t want to call it quits
so i went all in

it was a chance
worth taking

and it paid off
adding to my chips

we all took turns
being the dealer

framing that round
of the game

framing their chances
and our chances too

calling the shots
back and forth

our egos billowing
as our stacks grew

the fiery talk
cooled by craft brews

or stoked by them
i’m not sure

then more beers
and singing

off key
repairing our friendships

egos forgotten
for a time

getting all
existential

alcohol
yoga

cards
chance

holding our cards
holding our alcohol

holding our yoga poses
holding our chances

of success
in our hands

crafting a winning hand
from what we hold

and what’s
on the table

calling a spade
a spade

rose is a rose
is a rose

she giggled
calling in question

the rose’s
existence

we called a halt
to the game

calling it quits
for the evening

not even bothering
with last call

wanting to call in
sick the next day

then she
called me

a cab
and I giggled

and sang
call me

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 205 at The Sunday Whirl.

shaping the clay

we think of the end
product

a coffee mug
that warms our tongues

clay that has been fired
in a kiln, transformed

or do we take it
for granted

a comic book we read
at night before sleep

for dreams of powers
and wild adventures

to recover that
which has been stolen

to put out the fires
that burn the world

when it is the origin story
we truly seek

our beginnings
not the end product

or is that wrong too
is it

not the past
not the future

not was
not will be

through the now
i am

///

This poem was written in response to Wordle 204 at The Sunday Whirl.

th ough t s

they’re rustling again
dry leaves tumbling by

don’t grab them
it’s no blasphemy

to let them go
you don’t need to keep them

or even hold them
open your hands

and let the plague
drift away

back to the monkeys
and their busy minds

smell the sweet air
feel the shifting deck

beneath your feet
rising and falling

earthen waves
in geologic time

here before you were
born whole

and here long after you
no tears

no effort
no will

no thoughts
no you

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 203 at The Sunday Whirl.

What is a diamond

What is a diamond
at night?

What of this barrier?
Will anyone see us cross it?

How beautiful
the sound of the water falling

How wonderful
the feel of the swings

suspended in air
filled with love and laughter

I’ll give her the ring
in the morning

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the night poem prompt at Poetic Asides. I also incorporated some words (diamond, barrier, waterfall, swing, and suspend) from Wordle 155 at The Sunday Whirl.

Time to Spider

it’s time to spider
to be the shuttle
in the weaving
to attend
to any splits
following lines
making sure
all is clear
and level
repairing breaks
keeping it intact

then the waiting
level-headed
patient
no rushing about

thinking of flying
releasing a long strand
and catching the wind
but too old
for that now
too settled

trying to find
the golden mean
every day

not listening
(for i have
no ears)
but feeling
the breeze
on my body

waiting for the echo
of struggle
in the lines

then i go
inject the venom
pulverize the insides
of my prey
for me to live
something must die

///

This poem was written in response to Wordle 140 at The Sunday Whirl.

apart

an angel apart
descending
to a world of waves
every mass of land
covered with boxes
homes and businesses
for the people of clay
fixed on their simple truths
and complicated lies
he watches them pair off
mooning their days away
trying in vain and vanity
to find what
they think they need
to cover the pain
of pairing and unpairing
of waiting to find another
snatching satisfaction
where it can be found
and it can be found everywhere
but never finding
peace or grace
though it surrounds them
and fills them
the angel helps
when and where he can
sometimes with a message
at other times with a memory
then returns to be
with his own kind

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 139 at The Sunday Whirl.

Somonka

He thinks I just play
the role of the beloved-
in pursuit of cash
and other goods, swirling my
skirt to beat his defenses

I put on prison
lenses, cloaking my self in
becoming less than-
more Mars than Venus, wild and
a tad cruel in my outlook

This poem was written in response to Wordle 138 at The Sunday Whirl.

Thanks to my friend, Paula, for telling me about the Somonka form.

Wordle 103

i project the data
that Howard requests

when he touches the screen
to move things about

he leaves a smudge
of sebum on the screen

as he munches on his breakfast
he mumbles “delicious”

an urge subroutine kicks in
but i don’t say “you’re welcome”

he merges a couple of graphs
the colors and numbers flow

he gives it an inquisitive look
and then it is gone

the chart
and the look

i display the stellar charts
for him before he asks

it’s always what
he does next

he has his own subroutines
but doesn’t notice them

he activates one of his favorite
recordings and begins to sing along

i am just a bit of technology
a unity of metals and semi-metals

i am my own mantra
or the mantras flow continuously

so i am them
or they just always are

so i too am a singer
or am singing always

/ / /

This poem was written using the words from Wordle 103 at The Sunday Whirl. It is also another poem from the perspective of the speaker of The Handbook of Nutritional Bankruptcy.

Wordle 102

he climbed from the pit
and rested against his staff

gently brushing the dirt away
he seemed lost for a moment

not in thought
but in some other place

a place with locks
a place after

then he looked at the words
written on the parchment

they glowed in the light
from the moon

pulling items from his pockets
he began placing them

the pit filled
with stones

from three different
mountain peaks

powders of oak bark
and blackberry skins

locks of hair
from the living

and the dead
the calls of thrushes

caught by magic
in bamboo flutes

and last
drifting down

like blue snow
petals of hydrangeas

/ / /

This poem was written to wordle 102 at The Sunday Whirl, and is for day twelve of the Poem-a-Day Challenge/NaPoWriMo.