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Month: August 2015

The Well-Made Bed

The Well-Made Bed

(for Nancy)

She is like a well-made bed.
Clean, crisp, and stylish
and always appropriate.
Syncing with the decor.
Waiting for me patiently.

And I am more the morning after:
sheets tossed about, nothing left
unmessed. With a blanket bunched
up as if a body remained beneath or
a shadow slunked in the dark below.

 

#### Poet’s Notes ####

For my lovely fiance, Nancy K.

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment below!
(I won’t delete rude comments, I’ll just reuse them in a poem — with attribution. ;-))

The image of the initial draft is below:

The Well Made Bed

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The Honeycomb

The Honeycomb

August 21, 2015

What is it about fear that so flusters?
I can sit and pick out every fiber
from some, a weaver unmaking a rug.

Other times, I am shaken by wells
of damp and gloomy dread that wash
over me when I’m most alone.

Lately I have found a honeycomb
of cells built in trepidation
of releasing unknown selves.

Whether threads or waves
cascade in me, I won’t know;
but the superstructure must go.

 

#### Poet’s Notes ####

!! I had another poem chosen for today, but wrote this in the morning and
decided to go with it. First time for a same day write!

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment below!
(I won’t delete rude comments, I’ll just reuse them in a poem — with attribution. ;-))

The image of the initial draft is below:

The Honeycomb

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Son of Fortune

Son of Fortune

When I consider all that I’ve man mangled,
began and foreswore, left half-assembled,
started and quit, started and quit,
a kid riding a bike for the first time
and bashing it for a scraped knee;
All that I’ve unjustly darkened in
frustration or despair, some weird
wellspring of the worst animal fear…

And I step back and look at what I’ve kept.
Then I believe I’m the son of fortune,
one of the luckiest people alive.
To damage so much and yet
to build well, too. And to continue
to nurture what has earned its attention.

 

#### Poet’s Notes ####

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment below!
(I won’t delete rude comments, I’ll just reuse them in a poem — with attribution. ;-))

The image of the initial draft is below:

 

Son_of_Fortune

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The Whistler

The Whistler

At daybreak on Saturdays
the enchanted music rose
to my bedroom window.
Deep and melodious,
its origin, mysterious.

One morning I leaned
out as the whistler
walked up the driveway.
I spied an older black man
and thought it my secret.

Then I was a boy unbeaten.
Though Selma and Montgomery
had rocked a nation’s conscience,
and Newark fell in flames,
I still didn’t know a thing.

Nothing I’d ever heard
in church or our grand piano
approached its power.
Whistled by a tall thin man
stopping to pick up our trash.

Decades later the memory
of the whistler continues
to inspire me: how the soul
insists on making great song,
even in hatred, even at war.

 

#### Poet’s Notes ####

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment below!
(I won’t delete rude comments, I’ll just reuse them in a poem — with attribution. ;-))

The images of the initial draft are below:

TheWhistler

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