Misura Crescente

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I

Am

Able

To fathom

Multiplication of

Sun-shaped “leeches”seeking new homes.

Each Pair of lungs becomes weaker, times two, doubling, infinita infinitis.

Isolating—hiding from Aching, Burning, Coughing, to hide our Aching, Burning, Coughing—Isolating even when it is too late and not enough—Ice. Soul. Late.

The crescent curve on the graphs/charts/maps that total the tolls and count the cases represents the exponential misery that cannot be totaled, because there is more ahead and the numbers keep growing. We can measure the growth and measure the growth, always, always watching the crescent point towards more.

Where is Your Crown?

National Poetry Writing Month, Day Two


From http://www.napowrimo.net/
“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

Happy writing!”

Where is Your Crown?

Do you know that you descended from kings and queens?
Can you see that you are regal?
How will you realize that you will inherit the Kingdom?
Do you know how much you are worth?

 

Do you know that you are a survivor?
Can you see that you are strong and brilliant?
How will you recognize that beauty that lives inside you?
Do you know that you are loved?

 

Do you know that your dreams are valid?
Can you see that you are on the way up?
How can I help you see your value?
Can you please put back on your crown?

How to Write a Poem

Day One — National Poetry Writing Month http://www.napowrimo.net/

“For our first (optional) prompt, let’s take our cue from O’Neil’s poem, and write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something. It can be a sort of recipe, like O’Neil’s poem. Or you could try to play on the notorious unreliability of instructional manuals (if you’ve ever tried to put IKEA furniture together, you know what I mean). You could even write a dis-instruction poem, that tells the reader how not to do something. Happy writing!”

 

How to Write a Poem

Sit down.

Scribble ideas.

Scratch the surface—

Pen to paper.

Miss the mark.

Pause.

Stand up.

Walk away.

Go outside.

Rake leaves.

Talk to neighbors—

Witty exchanges,

Clever words,

Flowing.

Remind yourself

That you

Were searching

For meaningful words.

Go inside,

Return to task—

Poem-planning.

Dig deep

For expert expressions,

Figurative phrases,

That tell

A secret

Or celebrate something.

Try for a metaphor that

Falls flat,

Like a

Scanty simile.

 

Scratch.

Scratch it out.

Start again.

Stack short sayings

One upon another—

Expressions

That may

Topple over because

There

Is

No

Meaningful

Foundation

On

Which

The

Blether

Blather

Babble

Gabble

Prattle

Chatter

Jabber

Can

Stand.

Parcel

Today’s Napowrimo.Net prompt is to write a haibun, which combines prose and haiku.  

 

Sliding out the side door, you step onto the deck to smell spring.  Worn wood tells the tale of quiet days reading in the sun. Summer soon shows up.  Before you set up the patio furniture, tulips have come and gone.  Lilies crowd around each other comparing their outfits and gossiping.  Before the sunburn cools, a brisk autumn breeze rustles the foliage and reminds you how quickly time flies.

Overfilled fire-pit
Branches, grass clippings, leaves and

No promise of s’mores.

Response to “Waiting”

The beautiful and brilliant Nikki Grimes wrote the following poem today:

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While I know it was not about me, it hit home so hard.  Hard.  After crying, I put my warrior pen in hand and wrote this response:

Julie no longer plays into the big hand,
     The heavy hand, the upper hand,
The hand that silences, shames, smacks.

She used to plead, “Pick me! Pick Me!”
     In a rush, she’d cast her heart into pools of abandonment—

Pearls to swine, like clockwork.

They could count on her to bear the secrets,
     The stains, the scarlet paragraphs and

Chapters that chronicled cries and crises.

But in the hour of need, past half the darkness
     The second hand clicked into place. . .

Safe hands and second chances surfaced.

This is her day in the sun. Love won.
     Flourishing, fostering freedom and hope,

Counting on truth—not time—to heal her wounds.