Day 8
National Poetry Writing Month

I stood listening
to the flag chiming.
No other sound
but the soft clang
of the metal clip against the pole.
But not a clang really,
yet infinitely reassuring;
not to be mistaken.
A comforting note,
heard yet unheard
in its familiarity -
forever in our lives.

These words are all wrong
to express the feeling of comfort-
of all’s well with the world
in this place, this old village,
only a church, a library,
a grange, a cemetery, and a flag.
What else do we need:
a place to worship, to learn,
to dance, and to rest
when it’s all done.

Day 7
National Poetry Writing Month

Quarterly Report

He sent me a letter, asking again
for what I have given him many times.
I don’t know who he is, only a guy
in a stuffy back office somewhere,
doing the state’s bidding, like the SS,
torturing me, making my temper flare.

I called once, had my documents ready
to settle the thing on the telephone.
No, don’t bother, just send me the coupons
with the barcodes the computer can read.
I was incensed - I just hung up the phone;
wrote a nasty letter I never sent.

He’s waiting there for me to make a move.
His reply to my note just a yellow
highlight of “3rd Quarter 2012,”
fired right back to me on the same form.
Clearly no copy was made to show proof
that I had responded to his request.

Are we two hermits sealed in our own rooms,
brandishing our words like the little king/
boy-ruler rattling his long range missiles
in North Korea? We should get out more,
watch the world; curse the rude drivers we see
through the glass of our cruising enclosures…

It’s a disease, a poison in the air,
in our blood, our minds, our hearts; in the soul
of our country and all around the world.
Madness rages through civilization.

I need a final line for this last stanza;
________To Be Determined________

Day 6
 National Poetry Writing Month


Photo from Google Images

Sterling rings, black Madonnas,
fireside brass and rose Limoges,
Mother of Mankind golden icons
share space on an altar with dolls.
Teddy bears sit in a bishop’s chair;
hide from the stare of the gargoyles.

     A hand waves a constant blessing
                    over pews in the auction hall,
     numbers chanted in quick succession
                    lest the celebrant lose a soul.
     Bidder paddles boldly raise or tip discretely down
                    in perfect synchronicity
                    as the carousel spins around.

I am a skin horse cracked and worn,
too tired to rock anymore; too puzzled
to know why the nursery toys are sold
with the holy things; if I should be praying,
or bidding, or trying to grab a brass ring,
                    as a church whirls round in circles
                    while the priest or the auctioneer sings.

Day 5
A Cinquain


Still dark.
I flick the switch;
she stands beside the rock
in her soft robe of black and white -
and gone.

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