resonant rash

resonant and dissonant leadership
are connected concepts

whether it’s because of a person
or an incident or the weather in general

in the summer,
a diaphanous silk dress
is often the go-to frock

shop outside the big box
for iridescent hair clip
from thousands
of independent designers

unique fabric is the velour
printed in pretty designs
as a combination

I’d estimate that one third
of all the handbags
and purses we receive
have ink stains
on the interior lining(s)

an oil based one-step stain
that provides durable protection

shade painting
is caused
when there is
a constriction
or narrowing
of small blood vessels
in the surface
layers of the skin
creating a mottled
lace-like rash

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the twelve words at Sunday’s Whirligig.

Process notes: This is a found poem. I paired dissonant weather, diaphanous velour, iridescent clip, ink purse, shade stain, and mottled lace. I ran a search on Google on each of those two-word phrases, and then used words in the search results to craft this poem.

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.

since language

since language
is the basis of learning

wait

is it?

my sons learned to walk
without my talking

the future keeps coming
and we keep learning

we call it experience

some of it we can put into language
some of it we cannot

some of it we put into language
and no listens to us

experience will teach them
the hard way
the test and then the lesson

that seems backwards
but I can walk backwards
into the future

teeth break through gums
and we learn to eat

all without language

there is language with magic
i call it poetry

and there is magic without language
i call it love

show it
feel it
let it be

let it be

/ / /

This poem was written to the “Since (blank)” prompt at Poetic Asides. I also incorporated some words from Elizabeth’s blog, 1sojournal. I took them from day three.

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.

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.

Wordle 101: Nicolaas Edvard

Nicolaas Edvard

had been disguised for so long
he had forgotten himself
and his country of origin

he walked across the sand
and as the water swirled
memories stirred in his mind

but they slipped from him
as quickly as they formed
as from a cracked pottery jar

he wound his way up and down
this beach again and again
just as he had yesterday

he was not in a hurry
he knew he could not jar
those memories loose

his wounds were too deep
and too wide
his mind half-asleep

his true self continued to elude him
so beneath a cypress tree
he sat and wept

/ / /

This poem was written using the dozen words in Wordle 101 at The Sunday Whirl and using Warmup 3 from Miz Quickly’s Impromptu Poetry Month.

Wordle 100

for this month only
change your name
to reflect your share

how can one master
love? it moves
and changes so much

master of my fate
I drop the
die on the table

share what you master
train our ears
for all the faint words

parallel, the train
runs by my
street and calls to me

memory places
are faint calls
compared to the now

she places her love
in my hands
and I want to faint

March comes to an end
and words call:
month for poetry

on this quiet street
the tumult
of people marching

it is not a stretch
to create
it is a calling

I will die someday
but bits of
me live on in words

/ / /

These lune were written in response to Wordle 100 at The Sunday Whirl.

Wordle 94

he’s counting on you

make no fuss
again for the man
making those
impotent
sweet miserable wishes
that always go wrong

the genie
will grant them again
of course to
prove to him
the futility of goals
without any work

the genie
is banking on him
going bust
counting on
the figures going straight down
to miserable

yet again
the genie’s interest
is not in
the riches
but in making him truly
see what is enough

/ / /

This poem was written to Wordle 94 at The Sunday Whirl.