Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Day 18 NaPoWriMo Sons of Sinew

The poem I used for my prompt was Nightstick by Kevin Young.

Sons of Sinew

sinew of sun
hands cover the earth
in a horizon gilded 
in the cage of skin
bone and blood
reborn into a sphere
honey ribbons down
upon the peacekeeers 
with their weapons 
made of God and glory
we see you in all the spaces 
the blood bleeds rivers
because handcuffs only work
if the living still live
who will blow the brain 
of a red heron into the lake
dark with death skin
the wrong direction
angles us all onto choices
don't bare your skin
but bear with me my
blood weight heavy arms
stretch up say shoot shoot
we're ready when it arrives
the end will feel breathless
like a horned beast 
that punctures your faith
or a revolver made of skin
the barrel smells like new money
sharp enough to cut a finger
and music plays down the street 
with all the forks and spoons
on the dinner table set for zero
only one heart beats in a room of death
but all of them have lungs
and skin like book covers
their bodies lined up like notebook paper
all of them old humans except one boy
three hole punches in his stomach
that blossoms into violets 
too many to count
but they glisten wet with blood
their petals a raw flesh
delicate and thin
daily weekly they bloom 
more and more on new boys
as they lay down without thoughts
praise the peace the quiet
nothing happens here
in temples to worship
the god of skin
reborn as violets 
fear and loathing
the sons of sinew 
lay upon the death slab
nothing new happens here



Monday, April 16, 2018

Day 17: NaPoWriMo - Adventures at Dammasch


This is for my mother who has stories of her life growing up in foster care in Oregon and about her mother who loved her, even if the system wouldn't let her.


Adventures at Dammasch*

She’ll tell you stories about piglets,
rubber boots, rotten eggs
cracked

over the head, and deep purple bruises.
She’ll tell you about a girl who had
dreams,

who pitched soft ball with arms made of steel,
wilder than the Oregon frontier in the
rain shadow.

She’ll tell you stories about hunger,
eating mayo warm from the
cupboard,

stories of a girl who died by darkness
in the valley of the snow
melt river;

a girl whose mama was strapped with leather
over breasts, arms, legs and
forehead;

convulsed in a stigmata of electrodes;
smothered by people in
white.

She didn’t fly over the cuckoo’s nest;
she lit up like foxfire in the rain, in the
dark.




*Dammasch State Hospital in Willsonville, Oregon was a mental health hospital founded in 1961 and closed in 1995.

Day 10: NaPoWriMo...Threads

Still playing catchup...

Threads

In the street, laying on a wool blanket
out pours jasmine tangled with marigold;
the street seller lounges and smokes his pipe.

A boy begs in the monsoon rain, his shirt
torn, his mouth tired; his lips hold guava
a memory of his mother’s sweet milk.

Silk wraps women into their own smooth skin,
their bindis pools of vermillion,
bangles move music into their bodies.

A woman mixes water and wheat grass,
soaks their threads, forms patties, dries them on
rocks, then chews and eats; her body a blade

a sharp knife in the
              wind.

Day 9: Coin Purse

I'm playing catchup today. With exams and team work, it's been a crazy couple of weeks!

a coin and a purse
come together; one
carries the other.

Saturday, April 7, 2018

Day 8 NaPoWriMo: Arrivals and Departures

For Day 8 of NaPoWriMo, I wrote a fantastical poem. A poem of nine lives and nine deaths.

Arrivals and Departures

in your first life a cobra struck
your back right paw
the poison felt
like bath water
that lost its warmth
when you came back
you danced with
that same cobra and found
that it bled blue in
the afterlife
you painted the world
with its blood to celebrate
your next death
how your lover
fed you to the rats
or your third where
a butcher mistook
you for a meal or the next
when a mortal shaved your fur
until the blade cut bone
you bled blue and your skin
forgot how to make fur
you grew scales instead
and swam and swam
and watched Bastet
drown beside you
in the modern river
asphalt so black
it could be blue
the forth you didn’t drown
but you shivered furless
and curled up cold
your fifth you climbed
a great fir tree
to catch your prey
but you never found
a way back down again
your sixth you curled
next to the engine of a car
the seventh a coyote
caught your tail
and ate you whole
your eighth a little boy
dropped you from high up
to see if you landed
on your back
or on your paws
your ninth you ate
your last meal
hunted your last squirrel
and counted down all
your afterlives and inbetweens
and found a cobra
a young one
to let you bleed

blue and               depart

NaPoWriMo Day 7: A Wife on Writing and Men

Day 7 of NaPoWriMo, I followed the prompt and created two lists. One that lists all of my identities and another that lists how I feel powerful or vulnerable. I am a wife and a writer and my husband makes me feel powerful and encourages me to grow as a writer, I know that not every relationship is this way.


A Wife on Writing and Men

You chose well even if you didn’t know it at the time.
It only matters that you know it now and
That he knows how much you appreciate
The hours of solitude at your little desk.

It only matters that you tell him by writing a poem
And leave it in his lunch for him to find.
You know you could have chosen a man
Who wanted to keep you back.

You could have chosen a man who didn’t see the point
of writing your words on a page or
You could have chosen someone who
Burned your words with envy.

But you didn’t, so never forget how he holds you in place
When you sit in your chair and gather doubt
Around you like a sickness. He washes it away.
His voice is rare, but it is full of words
most men don’t have the courage to say. 

Friday, April 6, 2018

NaPoWriMo Day 6: A Small Revelation

For day six of NaPoWriMo, I followed the prompt and tried out different line sizes and experimented with space.



A Small Revelation



you pick up a rock and it’s a rock
but when you feel it
its edges
                smooths
                                roughs
it becomes         more
it becomes c o l o r

when you take your finger over it              take your
                                                                                        time
                                                                                                  pause in its crevices    
                                                                                                                                 indents
                                                                                                                                            caverns
its becomes more than a rock


when you            sip          its grains and scratch off its pieces          it becomes    

               


a landscape




a piece of something large           but

                                                           no less significant