Today's prompt invites us to play with alliteration, consonance, and assonance. I'm so sorry that it has come to this poem.
Assonance, assiduous, arrived at the bar, atlas in hand.
"Drink, dear sir!" No damsel in distress (duress too, one supposes) would be denied.
Dissonance, seated to her left, hissed soundly so to as to dismiss, longed for conspicuous lists of
trysts from beyond the mists.
Consonance, concerned with copious conundrums, cornered Assonance and clarified his callous conjuring: "Love is long in the legumes. Reeled in with reason while writhing in the reeds."
Grandpa Alliteration is at his trusted stool, sipping sloppy from the Sapporo bottle again. A man who knows his mettle, seated on metal, salt like the earth long settled, wilted like petals. "UGH." he laments.
The writer falls face first in his filet. This failed farce has gone on too far. The sound police, along with those with reason and taste, are chanting their disdain for what he has done. May God grant him grace.
May the Gods of Poetry load their righteous lightning bolts(TM), or soliloquy cannons(also TM), or whatever it is they shoot, strike down this war criminal. Put him in the Poetry Hague.
For what it is worth, he is cackling maniacally. Who will win Assonance's favor? Will the writer ever finish his steak? Are the Gods Poetry Wrathful, Just, or Merciful? Why is this poem written in couplets?
They've lost the plot, sir.
They've lost the plot.
Today's prompt. I opted to write a new set of questions without answers.
1. What is your favorite occult happening? You may not choose one that has happened in the last 73 years, even the really juicy ones. Yes, even that one.
2. If happiness were a bird, how would you cook and present it for your friends?
3. If happiness were a bird, how would you cook and present it for your enemies?
4. If happiness were a bird, how would you cook and present it for a stranger?
Choose EITHER question 5-6 based on your current level of happiness
5. If you are not happy, what amount of monetary gift would make you forget your unhappiness?
6. If you are currently happy, what amount of monetary gift would make you set fire to your favorite possession, poison your flowers, and give your dog to a mortal enemy?
7. Will you give me exactly seven dollars?
8. What if I told you seven dollars is enough money for me to achieve my lifelong dream of meeting Celine Dion at a random Cafe and to buy her a seven dollar coffee?
9. Do you think seven dollars is an inappropriate amount for a coffee?
10. Pretend you are Celine Dion: would you feel uncomfortable if your self-professed "Number One Aficionado" presented you with a seven dollar coffee?
11. Setting aside Celine for just a moment, would it be accurate to say that I have the bluest eyes you have ever seen?
12. Do you think that I am making this questionnaire too much about myself?
13. Who is your anti-hero?
14. Have you ever touched a hot stove as an adult because you listened too well when you were a child and wanted to see why everyone made such a big deal about it?
15. What is one secret talent you possess? For this question, it is imperative that this secret talent is one you definitely do not want other people to know about it.
16. Are you interested in participating in a Secret Talent Show?
17. If we were at a dinner party, and I'm talking about a fancy one with multiple forks and smooth-ish jazz playing in the background-at least a business casual dress code, would you demand ketchup for the appetizer if ketchup were an appropriate component to your enjoyment of the dish?
18. If, at this dinner party, there were a celebrity, say Celine Dion, would you walk up and put your arm around her and sing "My Heart Will Go On" into her ear with tenderness?
19. Would you choose a different song?
20. Which writer of critical acclaim would you most like to invite to a dinner party and feed poisoned food?
21. What hours are you most likely to be away from your home?
22. Is it more appropriate to live to work to work to live?
23. How do you feel about those fake rocks people buy to hide a key to their house on their property?
24. What is my greatest strength? Note: I am asking about myself.
25. Approximately how much wealth do you possess and what percentage of it is "lying around" the house and easily accessible?
26. Do you plan for retirement?
27. What would you like engraved on your tombstone?
28. Would it be appropriate to say that you and I are closer than friends but certainly not a sibling or a lover?
29. Is there a safe anywhere in your home? If so, what is its security rating?
30. Will you remember me when I'm gone?
31. Will anyone?
32. What is a nightmare of yours that has come true?
33. Can I have that seven dollars now?
34. Are you happy?
35. Now?
Today's prompt is based on a line I stumbled upon in a perusal of Poetry Foundation's website. The poem is called "Transformocean" and it is by Samuel Gregoire and translated by Forrest Gander.
There is no way to end the story
without more words
more pages
the sentiment's quick dulling
with no whetstone in sight.
Little flecks of gold
all over the character arc,
careening towards
this impossible
resolution.
Beseech the muse?
How many sacrifices
of livestock to quell
the burning, to extinguish
this minor conflagration?
The chord resolves itself
in unclear harmony,
followed by shuffling of feet
and coughs
from an audience left
unsatisfied
Today's prompt features a hero that we all deserve and is totally made up.
From the sky, a whinny from an unsatisfied wood chipper.
Dropping to the ground, a spectacle, flailing man,
chartreuse cape, Bright yellow, form fitting, jumpsuit. Icarus in gaudy linens. The robin dropped
too soon from the nest. A penny from the skyscraper that kisses
clouds. The missile that knows its time has come to a close.
This man, yelling for dear life, dropping from a point unknown
has forgotten his wings, again. Not for the first time.
Hoping for the bailout. The trees are growing larger. The ground's features
more precise. His shouts more desperate. His cape, still chartreuse. The observers,
mostly hungry for a spectacle, something new, are licking their lips. Turning the phone towards
the inevitable meeting point between ground and our hero.
Our hero. No stranger to desperation. Now sobbing, pleading with some invisible ally. Shouldn't this already be over? Falling for what seems like hours. Time does not flow ordinarily when this affront to fashion descends from a point unclear to the firmament.
Accepting his fate, he stretches his arms, shouts some attempt at a catchphrase and closes his eyes.
Landing with a thunderclap thud that echoes like a dull roar from a bored jungle cat who has just woken up from an uninspired nap. The ground projects a sad mushroom cloud of unimpressive dirt. Quick to dissipate.
"I'm OK." Comes a shout. The mixture of triumph and a sly grin.
He does this every time. When will we learn?
Today's prompt explores the disagreements between an Osage and Mandarin oranges.
Nature's barbed wire before the foreclosure. Lost in Merriweather's pocketbook. Left to wither with the other seedlings on an adventure that no one cares about except those interested in the deep cuts. The kids said you looked like a brain on the side of the road.
[Your ripeness repels me. Good for a salad, good for the gander. You're a top 40 hit, nothing more. They all know your songs and your words, but none of the feeling is really there. Background noise for the livestock to bleat to when something crosses their vision.]
You're only here because your wood burns well. You're only here because they don't know what do with you. Wash out my eyes, I think. You leak the milk of human kindness, but that kindness is not your own. It is the weakness of the 1900s when it should have set your orchard ablaze to warm the cooler nights.
[Vapor as a smile. Cool eyes showing nothing, my how your citrus lights up the palate of the chain's patronage! Their tongues alight with the dash of flavor you provide. I am an oddity, but you are commodity. Flavor appropriation. Exotic. Palate cleans before the boiled potatoes return to the food rotation.]
A feast for the deer. Found later, mangled in the grill of the SUV that ended the deer's life. Seeds spread far and wide by American Automobile Ingenuity. There is blood all over your branches. Those thorns can't keep the truth away forever.
[What truth lies past my defenses? What knowledge lies beyond your skin? The ease of peeling a piece of you away. Remove the excess, enjoy what is left, discard it all. I knew you before you knew yourself. They were never surprised either. Mass consumed, fondly brayed about in passing, and forgotten soon after. Compliments to the chef.]
Today's prompt is inspired by the color Smaragdine, which is number 7 on this list.
In a dull shadow to the luster of another,
whittling to pass the time.
The shavings accrue in molehills
turned mountainous.
A joy- oh, craftsman of the wild-
in the braying of the pack
in the whistle of the leaves
tussled by the breeze.
Dread knock of leaf crunch
the usurper has arrived
once more
to lay claim to the clearing.
Let it be another's,
be content as the tent is raised,
as the barking commences
as sun rises and casts itself to shadows once more.
you are something of a different
piece. Though this place, you are
much more than what will come from its lost reverie.
You are the deep sigh of the woods. Remaining.
Today's prompt. I had to resist the urge to write about one of the big inflection points in history and instead opted to go into "Deep Research" mode (aka Googling "Strange Historical Moments" and seeing what popped up). I found this.
Calling me, darkness burns
through the hole in my shoe, creeps
along my nerve endings. A twist
of hip, enterprising jazz hands
holds the feeling at bay.
settle the brushfire
jitterbugging on a
stage made for me. For you.
Bill's cousin's cover band
playing the hits, running through
numbers, eyes bloodshot, a
worried pallor. The fourteenth encore. This is
more than a gig. No more solos. Foxtrot.
Born to Die Hand Jiving. Paint-by-rhythm.
Even my prayers, a melody that
seeks relief. Take on the 1 and 2
of the bass-snare-bass-snare
and I genuflect on cue.
Up and down and up and down
bleed me in a waltz.
You make me want to shout.
I will never wait a minute again.
Choreography for the revelation.
The song begins again.
Act 1: Haunt Me
Slow motion hell wheel
on a unicycle piloted by death's
best man. Deny it to them, those
cracked-lipped, moaning bags of
bones with sonorous waking snores
doubling as a plea for another.
What used to be dreamed about
from childhood. All the way up, even,
to now. Until the promise of no more
has reared its ugly head, wearing a Tex-Mex
chain restaurant's sombrero, no less. Blowing
on a noisemaker that makes baritone saxophone
whale calls. Calling you home. Calling you away
Act II: Hunting Season
I've poached every today of mine
in the dead of night, snares and implements
of chaos all around my canopy.
Tomorrow, he won't be no different.
I'll find him, drinking some lamentable,
overpriced mixed drink and ordering
half price appetizers to make up for it,
holding court at the bar for anyone who
wants to listen. Nobody is listening, kid.
I'll take him by his scruffy novelty tee shirt
and look him straight in his eyes, my hand around
his gullet. I'm not blinking either. Go ahead, I'll say.
Now's your chance. Come and let me hear your
timeshare pitch. Then when you think you've got me,
wrecked and sobbing, ready to hand you the keys and
let you walk me on out of here, I'm going to hoist you
into the air and wring you like a rug after an overdue
washing. You ain't taking anything, friend. Not today.
I'm not giving this to you. No chance. This is still mine.
Today's prompt. I gave this one a half-mulligan and this is what shouted out of the old brain cave.
From a sense of dread. Stop. To a sense of comfort. Stop. A simpler time. Stop. Where words mattered. Stop. The running of the words, like bulls chasing the courier. Stop. Essential transmissions. Stop. Text message would have saved Romeo and Juliet. Stop. Probably Oedipus too. Stop. Ruin all of "the classics." Stop. Tear down the walls of time and place to make everything The Flat Now. Stop. Loosely, an arrival, the space keeps collapsing in on itself from the weight of (stop shouted, in drone) no interruptions where everyone is happening at the same time across a single timeline that is not extending left or right but it is a dot where infinite multitudes squabble with one another at the same time no place (stooooopppp...) no time like the present as the present is the only time and another yapper yapping into the other yapper's serious yap about their relationship with yet another yapper as the yapping chorus swells in dissonance and beauty and perfection existing in a side by side shouting match between the whispers and general anecdotal greetings we are here and we are unable to STOP
it never stops
Today's prompt is inspired by a TV on the Radio song.
Each moment is closer than we think to
an unraveling. Near catastrophe!
narrowing the river, sharpened rapids
and the current shifting from gentle
to demanding to controlling. Done
in a blink of the camera eye, unmade
without mercy, a draft held by
aqueous interests. who will be selected?
taken under or kicked out
to the river bank, cast out
like a spent grape
to dry out in the midday heat.
Out at the curb,
the can waits for the mothership
as lesser satellites pass in
both directions to and fro
rolling between homes,
errands, occasional revelries,
the like. Breeze, undecided in
its rhythm, playing cymbal splashes
or percussive thwaps meant to shake down
to the marrow. The can, patient in its vigil,
beneath another half-sunned afternoon,
waiting for a moment to be useful.
Today's prompt. Veered slightly in a different direction, but definitely enjoyed the oddities of postage.
letterbox empty again
what once was overflowing
[river after rainy season] is now
parched like dry earth's croaking
demand for water.
sliced oranges and almond bits
arranged on a platter
[behold, a feast] for you
my peace offering
on children's party plates.
a room untouched
austere and dust-settled
[monument in waiting] space
for the eventual
point of return.
black cat mysteries
truth in shadow and light's
[fooled you again] malfeasance
where I am left questioning
most of everything.
We, given rise to the feeling of discontent, try a bold, new direction. Robust finery, loads of ribbon and flowing outerwear. Snappy, professional, a sense of control.
We, reacting to said discontent caused by bold, new initiatives, placed a large audio horn into the office. A hard plastic megaphone with pipework, terminating in a horn-like speaker in my office, designed tow help our colleagues speak truth to power, namely me, through this series of tubes as it travels to the management floor above them.
We, and I'm talking about me here, have listened to said sounds and are happy with the decisions I have made for the group. The hand signals have really cleaned up the communication process. The mandatory trust falls in the breakroom have avoided major injury and lacerations, minus the one that happened in the aftermath of the "thrill of falling," though the lawyers tell me that this case will be dismissed in due course.
We, the organization, are a monolithic crab robot that has escaped from the Artic Ocean to seek revenge on those who have interrupted our crab robot reverie. Also the lawmakers who are claiming that this is a monopoly. Also the debt collectors looking to charge early interest on the crab robot's Bluetooth speaker system, which, if we're being honest, isn't as advertised; perhaps we'll take this argument to social media. Also, the people who criticized our new work attire. Also, the delivery man who stole a Boston Cream donut from the breakroom during the "thrill of falling" confusion. Also, our former CEO who absconded with a large settlement for saying that we, and I'm talking about me here again, are a power hungry robber baron with a vengeful streak that borders on the sadistic; in addition to the proof of my elicit dealings with various foreign nationals to get the audio horn at a reliable, read: cheaper, price; and, we admit this with transparency, my now-reformed view on several OSHA requirements.
We have known adversity. We know success. We will know perfection. We, and I am talking about all of us, will board this crab and march into the glory this company is due.
