Clarification

The post from 9/18/11 was NOT meant to be dirty. I gave it a nice, literal title to tie up the metaphor in a neat little bow and to put those filthy minds to rest (though I admit, I should have known better when I titled the poem, "I can almost taste it.").

Anyway, it's now "freedom rings," check it out and see if it strikes you in a different way.

I guess it would have been bolder to roll with the evocative message, but I'm not feeling too brash this evening.

An Experiment in Collaboration

First of all, I missed a week. Shame on me. So this is either last Sunday's post six days late, or this Sunday's post one day early. We'll see how tomorrow plays out.

This post is the initial step towards a collaborative poem between Rbannal and myself. It's an exercise in cops and robbers. Mostly robbers. I've stolen a line Rbannal's "love song for the end of summer" and inserted it into my own poem. Presumably, he will then follow this by stealing (a different) line from my poem. I'll then snag a couplet from that poem, and so on and so forth until the poems progressively more intertwined. The end result should be an nifty sequence, beginning with "love song for the end of summer" and ending god knows where.

Find poem #1 in the sequence at: permanentstrangerladyhand.blogspot.com.

Here's my "reply," or poem #2 in the sequence. Rbannal's line is italicized.

Morning in Late September

Driving East on Huron,

I catch the end of the sunrise

orange, gold rays linger

just minutes as the sun drifts

deep into the overcast sky.

It won’t be long now

before I’ll only see

the tender halo of light

creeping along the horizon,

breaking the dawn.

Gray hours claim more

of each successive morning

as the Earth shifts.

The city shrugs uncomfortably

close to winter.

In a month, the morning commute

will be in total darkness.

A chill will sink into my chest

and stay there, not breaking free

until next spring.

Frost will line the inside

of my bedroom window.

It will be next to impossible

to ignore my toes. Even so,

summer’s death is a welcome one.

For a moment, the trees

blush yellows, reds, purples

until, realizing themselves,

the color drains from their branches,

the leaves fall

brown, crumble,

decay

feed the soil

and nourish the roots

from which they rose.

Morning dew shimmers

at the brink of frost,

caught between water

and ice.

The air clears,

no longer burdened with

heavy swarms of mosquitoes,

flies, gnats, and the sticky

sweat of humidity.

Gusts of wind move freely

dancing along each nerve

on my face and fingertips,

sharing a hushed warning—

soon.

freedom rings

freedom rings

the word

will never be

big enough.

the mouth

will never remain

full, no

everything must

go down,

down,

down.

a stomach gurgles,

teeth gnash.

The Day the Sky Fell

The Day the Sky Fell

It sounded like rain. That's what woke me:

the patter of bees, mosquitos

flies and gnats crackling against the sidewalk,

exoskeletons like pop rocks.

I rushed to bring the dog inside.

Dead insects smattered across my cheeks.

The clouds sinking.

A bird broke its neck on the grill.

A white haze surrounded us.

Water beaded up on my arms and forehead.

As I struggled to drag the dog inside,

a power line fell and everything went electric.

The cicadas have gone

The cicadas have gone

The air stops buzzing with

the first cool whisper of fall.

The wall of voices is silenced,

leaving only the faint scuttle

of leaves swept across the

concrete by my boots.

Gone is the throttle of wings

constant as the sound of my pulse:

usually imperceptible, but

impossible to ignore once noticed.

The silence won’t last.

The song of a thousand

drunken violins

does not simply die

with the coming of fall.

In 17 years the offspring of

this summer’s cicadas will emerge

from the dirt. They will pick up the

song where their parents left off.

Carbon Dioxide (revision)

Busy studying the science curriculum for my future students, so just a revision for today. I think it may be time to pitch this darling, but that's another story.

Fresh work next week, I promise...

Carbon Dioxide

just after its fire

has been snuffed

a small twist of smoke

winds upward from

the head of a match.

oxygen becomes CO2.

exhale.

600 muscles

rack the body.

sink toes, heels into earth.

600 will bever be enough.

exhale.

no one dies

with air in their chest,

not even bad air.

Smoke Flees the Flames of Its Birth

My first prompt driven poem in at least 2 years. The prompt was, "Someone's house is burning." I'm still sorting through the line breaks, they seem awkward long, and perhaps even more awkward as they are now, in short snippets.

Smoke Flees the Flames of Its Birth

From up here I can see

the entire west side of the city,

a great cross hatched web

of black asphalt, interrupted

with rows of green trees

and dark rooftops.

In the distance,

deep inside the grid,

a house burns.

Even nine stories up,

I can hear the sirens.

Can almost smell the

plastic melting,

paint bubbling,

the carpets that hiss

as they burn like

ribbons of tissue paper.

Smoke rises in the distance,

curls between the trees

like a hand that reaches up

to touch the sky.

On the sidewalk below,

a man with a single crutch

pushes a shopping cart

full of bottles and cans.

Wheels rattle over cracks

in the concrete. Plastic

and aluminum rubble as

they bounce. Everything

is the same, in tact.