April 2024 Poetry Madness April 15 to 20 Poems

April Poetry Madness 2024 April 15 to April 2024

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This is the third batch of my April Poetry Madness challenge poems, (for April 15 to April 20), following daily prompts supplied by Poetry Superhighway, Writer’s Digest, Writing Com Dew Drop Inn, and NaPoWriMo.  I am not posting any more PSH poems as I need to keep some unpublished for future submissions.

I have included the poem, the prompt, and occasionally a bonus poem or comment or two. I am also cross-posting this on  All Poetry, Blog Lovin, Cosmos Funnel,  Facebook, Fan Story, Instagram, LinkedIn, Medium, Substack, Wattpad, Writer’s Digest, Writing Com, and Twitter. This is probably my last time doing this.  Just getting too old to keep up.

You can find my previous entries here:

April 1 to April 6 Poems 2024 Poetry Madness

April Poetry Madness 2024 April 7 to April 14

PSH April 2023 Poems

April 2023 Poems

Writers Digest April 2023 Poems

Comments are welcomed but keep it civil.

Part One

April 1

PSH Ode to Durian

WD  Optimistic Letourneau

WC Dew Drop Inn

Easter Bunny -warm up March 31

Sarang pabo love fool

NaPoWrMo Springtime Flowers Blooming Love

April 2

PSH The Words of the Year 1955 PSH

WD Sad and happy days

WC Dew Drop Inn

NaPoWrMo  Cage

NaPoWrMo It Can’t Happen Here

 

April 3

Berkeley Mad Pyscotic Pineapple Burns Sonnet

PSH 2 AI Version Traditional Sonnet

WD  My Musical Street

WC Dew Drop Inn

NaPoWrMo  Ode to Coffee

 

April 4, 2024

PSH The Cosmic Dog from Goa

WD Don’t Make a Mistake Vote for Jake

WC Ending Daily Shaving in Retirement

NaPoWrMo The Parliament of Owls Decree Death to All Humans

AV version The Parliament of Owls Decree Death to All Humans

 

April 5, 2024

PSH Love Expressed Through Food

WD Tell Me No Lies

WC Make Baseball Great Again!

NaPoWrMo Resurrecting the Dodo Bird

April 6

 PSH  Cosmic Dog From Goa

WD  Meeting My Fate Minimum Poem

WC Daily Ritual Drinks

NaPoWrMo Only In SF

 

Part Two

 April 7

 

PSH  Visiting My Father’s Grave

Bonus: Yakima Dessert Blues

WD Meeting My Fate Minimum Poem

WC  Why Trump?

NaPoWrMo  Planetary Nut Re-Configuration Program

 

April  8

 

PSH Area Codes

WD  My Lucky Number

WC Economic Perception Delay

NaPoWrMo  Wish You Were Here

 

April  9

PSH  Dearly Beloved

WD the Major Event of My Life

WC Death to All Humans

NaPoWrMo My Dysfunctional Family

 

April 10

 

PSH You Can’t Write That!

WD Better Political Discourse Needed

WC Green Trees Don’t Make It

AI Bing Version

NaPoWrMo  Ode to My Coffee Pot

 

April 11

 

PSH Quote Poem About 9-11

WD Crazy Love Nonet

WC April 11—Eclipse/d two Lunatic Lune Poems about the Eclipse

NaPoWrMo   Tribute to John Dean

 

April 12

 

PSH  Subway Journey

WD Old Man Lost In His Old Memories

WC  Civil War 2.0

NaPoWrMo  11 One Liners

 

April 13

 

PSH First Time to Eat Kimchi

WD Five Trumpian Humor Poetic Fragments

WC April 13—Discovery Shooting Down the Alien Visitors

NaPoWrMo  Saga of Big Daddy

 

April 14

 

PSH  99 Haiku TBC

WD life worth Living

WC  Tech Peeves

NaPoWrMo  Shy Man Fishing

 

Part Three -This Posting 

 

Not posting PSH saving them as “unpublished)

 

Writer Digest Poems  

April 15  New Middle Poem  Middle Of Political Silly Season In The U.S.  Trigger Warning Mild Political Rant

April 16 Trump Shardona Poem

April 17 New Tuesday prompt write a Shadorma poem about recent tech layoffs CEO To Labor Units of Production Shardona – You are Not Wanted

April 18  WD pessimistic Poem -not the Way to Fire People New Rules in the New Corporation World

April 19 Emotion Poem -fears of falling

April 20 The circus bear escapes

Bear in collar  hears praise while rambling

alt. bonus poem Met And Married My Dream Lady

 writing com Dew Drop Inn Prompts

 WC April 15 Lament  Drifting Towards Civil War 2.0

WC Prove Something – God’s Demented Sense of Humor

WC Question something -The basic  decency and sanity of Americans

WC Scumbagology

WC Comedy – The Donald Trump Show is Getting Old

 

NaPoWriMo Prompts

April 15

My stamp collection

April 16

late Night Earthquake blues

April 17

What is Hip?

April 18 It’s A Dog’s Life for Me

April 19

Hunting the Monsters in Hell

Day 20  Trail of Tears – My Family Connection

Begin Poems 

Writers Digest Prompts

April 15 New Middle Poem  Middle Of Political Silly Season In The U.S.  Trigger Warning Mild Political Rant

 

 

 

 

We are in the middle

Of the us political season

Unlike any other before.

 

The choice is clear.

 

Vote for the incumbent

Who is an old man

With good intentions

And a good heart.

 

Vrs

 

The prior president

Who is a narcissistic sociopathic

Twice impeached

Whose family is the real crime family

Nothing but grifters through and through.

 

Or RFK jr who is running

For his inflated ego reasons

And Cornel West as well.

 

Thinking that somehow

Lightening with strike

And make them president!

 

Everything all on hold

Until the dust settles

After the election.

After today’s poem, we’ll be in the exact middle of this poem-a-day challenge, which means it’ll be all easy writing from here, right?

For today’s prompt, write a middle poem. Some people feel stuck in the middle; others like being in the middle of things. Some foods are known for their middles (like jelly doughnuts and empanadas). So poem your way to, within, or away from the middle today.

April 16 New Tuesday prompt write a Shadorma poem about recent tech layoffs

CEO To Labor Units of Production Shardona – You are Not Wanted

 

new Memo

To all employees

redundancy

if you are on the list below

You are not needed.

 

the tech world is brutal people are being fired by impersonal quotes, Twitter or just hearing about it after the fact a favorite tactic is mass firing with selected people being asked to reapply. The underlying message in Corporate America is that workers are just disposable labor units, and this includes everyone except the top people who get golden parachutes or bonuses for showing how cruel they can be to their labor unit of production drones.

Write a poem every day of April with the 2024 April Poem-A-Day Challenge. For today’s prompt, we have our third two-for-Tuesday prompt.

For today’s Two-for-Tuesday prompt:

  1. Write a poetic form poem, and/or…
  2. Write an anti-form poem.

 

I recently discovered a poetic form called shadorma (thanks to P.J. Nights via Tammy Trendle) that I had no record of in my two poetic form handbooks. Shadorma is a Spanish 6-line syllabic poem of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllable lines, respectively. Simple as that

A bonus poem is included as an example of a Shadorma poem.

Also, you can link multiple shadorma (shadows? shadorma?) like in my example below:

“Miss Shadorma”

She throws birds
at the school children
on playgrounds
made of steel
who run intense spirals to
the chain-link fencing.

Sad teachers
watch as they spiral
into air
like reverse
helicopter seeds searching
for their maple trees.

April 18  WD Pessimistic Poem

CEO Fires Workers at Midnight by Email-Arrests Those Who Did Not Get the Memo

Welcome to the new improved

Corporate America

As more and more people

Become corporate wage slaves.

 

The CEO fired workers

At midnight via email

And arrested those

Who did not get the message.

 

They did not even get the customary

Meeting with HR flacks

Just told

 

“ Your services

Are no longer needed

“: F… Off, you are fired

You did not check your email

Before work – that’s not my concern.

 

They were not allowed in the building

Had their ID’s canceled on the spot

Told to go home.

 

Did not get a customary

Goodbye lunch

Or a chance

To clear out their desks.

 

At least he did not

Just blast a list of fired employees

On X

 

Which would have been totally

In character with him.

 

Perhaps he is a bit afraid

Of his workers now?

 

No doubt

Part of a new secret AI

Business management program.

 

The message is

 

“You are nothing but

Disposable labor units

of production.

Nothing more than pawns.

 

And I am the Chess master

And will decide whether you live

Or die.

 

Get used to it”

 

That’s the new America

And the world we are building.

 

While many people were appalled

At the craven horrid mistreatment

Of his workers

Wall Street investors were delighted.

 

Welcome to the new

“corporate America”.

 

Where workers are just

Disposable labor units

Of production.

 

And the wage slaves

Live in fear

Of losing their jobs

And joining the ranks

Of the homeless.

 

After today’s poem, we’ll be three-fifths of the way through this challenge. Remember in the beginning when we were all writing such optimistic poems? Well…

For today’s prompt, write a pessimistic poem. Think about what’s gone wrong, what is going wrong, and what will go wrong in the future. Some people would say this

 

April 17

Not the Way to Fire People New Rules in the New Corporation Dominated World

 

 

 

Not so long ago
corporations treated workers
as valued members of the corporation family
and were reluctant to fire people
once they were hired.

Only firing them for cause
or when unavoidable
but doing it with some dignity.

Managers taking them aside
offering to help them transition
to another company
even having a goodbye lunch.

But not anymore

In the new corporate world
driven by profits, and the ruthless bottom line
and AI-driven redundancy rules,

The new way to fire people
is simply this

Fire them impersonally
by midnight emails
or Twitter blasts.

Never by in-person meetings
or phone calls
who the hell has time for that
or even cares about the labor units?

Often while they are on vacation
because in the corporate world.

Workers are now nothing
but interchangeable labor units
of production.

Firing them the day before Christmas
is applauded
Firing them by public tweets
Good business model.

Firing them by midnight email
Sunday night

Brilliant movie.

As workers are the enemy
and must be controlled
monitored and constantly subject
to fear of being fired.

And once you are fired
the social safety net
is disappearing.

Soon unions will be illegal
safety rules gone
welfare benefits gone
child labor laws have gone
civil rights laws are gone.

Medicare gone
social security privatized
in a race to the bottom.

Homeless becoming a crime
as well
as redundant workers
are treated as less than human.

Sub-human animals

and vermin

trash to be deposed of.

The goal is to make workers
Like the disposable as labor units
in third-world countries
Fighting for table scrap wages.

All done by people
Who think that they
are Christians and pro-workers!

 

Write a poem every day of April with the 2024 April Poem-A-Day Challenge. For today’s prompt, write a Not Blank poem.

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Not (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “Not the Only One,” “Not Like This,” “Not Without Eating One More Piece of Pie,” and/or “Not Sure What I Was Saying.”

*****April 19

Emotion Poem -fears of falling

As one gets older

One becomes consumed with fears

Fear of almost everything.

 

Climate change, earthquakes

Monster storms, volcanos.

political chaos and war

 

The other day, I stumbled and fell.

Adding fear of falling to my list.

 

Write a poem every day of April with the 2024 April Poem-A-Day Challenge. For today’s prompt, write an emotional poem.

For today’s prompt, pick an emotion, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem. Possible emotions might include happy, sad, grumpy, angry, scared, and more.  Here’s.

 

April 20

The Circus Bear Escapes

The rambling bear

Woke up from his winter nap

 

Found he was now a circus bear.

Wearing a flared collar

Forced to perform

For his supper

 

Hearing praise from his owners

Who fed him

 

Until he rose up

Eescaping back into the woods.

 

prompt words used six words

Bear

Collar

Flair

Hear

Praise

Ramble

Or for extra credit, use all six words.

Also, as an alternate prompt: Write a six-word poem (doesn’t have to use any of the above words).

Met And Married My Dream Lady

I

Met

and

Married

My Dream

Lady

 

Writing Com Dew Drop Inn Prompts

 

April 15 Lament Watching the News

While watching the news
I am constantly lamenting
The sad state of political discourse
In these increasingly
Disunited United States of America.

Where we have retreated into enemy tribes
Blue, red, and purple states
With each convinced their tribe
Is righteous, patriotic, and pro-American.

Accusing the other tribe
As anti-american fascists
plotting to set up a dictatorship.

Some talking darkly
about Civil War 2.0.

That is my daily lament
Particularly when insomnia
Steals slept from me
At 0 dark hundred.

revised to make it less of a rant

“O Dark Hundred” is military jargon for the time two hours before dawn when operatives get up for dawn operations. I use it to denote the hours in the middle of the night I have nightmares.

April 16—Rain

 

No Rain

In 2025, the world ended
With the collapse
Of the worldwide climate system.

Monster storms of the century
devastated half the world.

But the other half of the world
Had no rain or snow
For almost a whole year
The once-green grass was dying.

Crops failed everywhere
And baked in the unrelenting
Blast wave furnace-like heat
Heatwave after heatwave.

Military coups took place
Fascism re-emerged
The public demanded action
The politicians played
The blame game.

With the collapse of trade
And travel restrictions
People stayed home
Making do the best they could.

Home-grown gardens
Proliferated.

Feudal townships grew
As people walled themselves off
To save their communities.

The rich build underground cities
While the poor starved
And civilization crumbled

Wildlife proliferated
As did neo-savage
cannibal gangs.

By the year 2030
It was all over
And the rains
Never came out west.

The prompt was “Rain”

April 17—Prove Something God’s Demented Sense of Humor

 

I sometimes think

That God if he/she/it exists

And created the Universe

It must have a demented

Sense of humor.

 

How else can you explain

Why did he create a parasite

That hides in your system

Inert but if you take

Steroids for any reason.

 

It blows up like a basketball

Bursting out and killing you,

In thirty minutes.

 

Leaving the doctors

Wondering WTF

Just happened.

 

Recording your death

As a medical mystery.

 

Very few doctors

Have ever encountered

Or heard about

This weird parasite.

 

Note: Based on a true story. Back in the day, I contracted this parasite in Thailand. A few years later, I was in the hospital battling an MRD staph infection and underwent 14 operations. Almost lost my life and my leg. The internal medicine doctor said that there was something else going on and finally told me I had this weird parasite that is inert, but I should take some medicine to kill it because if I ever took steroids it would blow up to the size of a Basketball and kill me in 30 minutes. I always said Thank God for that doctor. Nine months later, I developed a frozen shoulder because of excessive antibiotic use and had a steroid shot.  If that internal medicine doctor had not found the parasite, I would have died a medical mystery.

 

April 18—Question Something The Basic Decency And Sanity Of Americans Trigger warning – anti-Trump Rant!

 

These days I wonder about

the basic decency and sanity

of the American people.

 

How can 40 percent

Of my fellow Americans

Still, support him?

 

Still believe he was

The greatest President ever.

 

I  just don’t understand it

Why he is polling at 40 percent

And not 4 percent

Is beyond me.

 

April 19—Define or celebrate a word or concept -Scumbagology

Tucker Carlson

Scumbagology

is the study

Of the actions of a scumbag.

 

A scumbag is a narcissistic, sociopathic

Self-center person willing to do anything

to get ahead.

 

No loyalty to those who serve him

it is all about me!

The greatest person

in the world.

 

Unfortunately, there are so many

Scumbags in the world,

In a position of power

In business and politics.

 

Don’t need to name names

You know who they are.

 

April 20—Standup Comedy – The  Insult Comedy Tour!

Don Rickles
Don Rickles

 

 

 

 

 

 

How and why he

Remains so popular

With some Americans

Remains a mystery.

 

He remains me

Of an old-time insult

Comedian, Don Rickles

 

Who was infamous

For insulting his audience

Who loved his edgy comic styling,

As he cruelly mocked

everything and everyone.

 

But, over time,

people got tired of his routine

And his style of humor faded away

 

But the former President

has resurrected the insult comedy routine.

 

Going to his rallies

Is akin to a religious revival

For some people.

 

They delight in being

Part of his whole mad

Carnival scene.

 

But for many of us

the T comedy tour

is no longer funny

if it ever was.

 

NaPoWriMo Poems

April 15  My stamp collection

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a young man

Almost 55 years ago

I had a stamp collection

I inherited it from my grandfather.

 

I loved looking

At stamps from

Around the world.

 

I had a lot of African stamps

Caribbean stamps.

 

Costa Rica stands.

Korean stamps.

 

Vietnamese stamps.

Japanese stamps.

Polish Stamps.

Spanish stamps.

 

Even a few stamps

From 1860 or so

Including a rare

Confederate States of America stamp.

 

That was worth something

Back thirty years ago

When there was

A collectible market.

 

Sadly, no one cares anymore

The stamp and collectible market

Dying out as us old people die out.

 

As younger people

Just don’t see the value

Of stamps or collectibles

 

In a world of instant

Entertainment

streaming TV services

 

Fears of war

Fears of climate change

Fears of political violence

And economic uncertainty.

 

And fewer people

Even use stamps anymore.

 

I have not looked at it

In years, still have it.

 

And my stamp collection

CD and book collections

 

Will go

Into a trash can

When I die.

 

No longer of any value

Just the way

of this modern world.

 

And now for our prompt – optional, as always! Today, we’d like to encourage you to take a look at @StampsBot and become inspired by the wide, wonderful, and sometimes wacky world of postage stamps. For example, while it certainly makes sense that China would issue a stamp featuring a panda, it’s less clear to us why the Isle of Man should feel the need to honor 2001: A Space Odyssey in stamp form. From Romanian mushrooms to Sudanese weavers to the Marshall Islands getting far too excited over personal computing, stamps are a quasi-lyrical, quasi-bizarre look into what different cultures (or at least their postal authorities) hold dear.

 

And if you’re not on or able to access the @StampsBot account, fear not! You may find an inspiring stamp or two by perusing the online “International Philately” (say that three times fast) exhibit from the National Postal Museum.

April 16

Late Night Earthquake Blues

Often at night

At o dark hundred hours

I am wide awake

Thinking of things

As my mind drifts down

Endless rabbit holes

What if plays in my mind

As my wild imagination takes off.

 

Woken up by a real earthquake.

True Story

Based on my recent trip to Kyunshu, Japan, when I was up at night with insomnia about midnight. Then woken up by an incoming message screaming Earthquake over and over again, followed in 30 secnonds by a real earthquake.  The Japanese have a great diaster notification system – goes out to every cell phone in the country, in English and Japanese, within moments of either an Earthquake, Volcanic eruption, Typhoon  wild fire or the dreaded Tsunami.

O Dark Hundred is military intel jargon that is the period two to three hours before dawn when intelligence and special forces get ready for dawn operations depending on the time and day between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.  I often have insomnia at 0 dark hundred and get up to write down my wild poems and stories floating in my head at 0 dark hundred.

Finally, here’s today’s (optional) prompt, taken from our 2016 archives. Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does. The “surprise” ending to this James Wright poem is a good illustration of the effect we’re hoping you’ll achieve. An abstract, philosophical kind of statement closing out a poem that is otherwise intensely focused on physical, sensory details

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

April 17

What is Hip?

My favorite music

Has always been funk

The tower of power

The best funk band

Of them all

 

Formed in the East Bay

In the turbulent 60s

Still going strong

Almost 50 years later!

 

Their love song

You’re still a young man

Is perhaps the greatest

make out song

Of all times.

 

The first song I slowed danced to

Back in high school

A song I played

To seduce my wife.

 

I wonder how many babies

Were conceived because

Of this classic soul song.

 

Another classic song

What is hip

Which poised

An unanswered question

 

And inspired this triolet

 

What is love, tell me if you know

Love is what it is

Do you know what love is, Joe?

What is love, tell me if you know

And how can you make it grow?

Madness is what it does

What is love, tell me if you know

Love is what it is

 

Based loosely on the classic Tower of Power Song, “What is hip?”

 

What Is Hip Lyrics

 

[Verse 1]

So ya wanna dump out yo’ trick bag
Ease on in a hip thang
But you ain’t exactly sure what hip
So you started to let your hair grow
Spent big bucks on your wardrobe
Somehow, ya know there’s much more to the trip

[Chorus]
What is hip?
Tell me, tell me, if you think you know
What is hip?
If you’re hip
The question, “Will it show?”
You’re into a hip trip
Maybe hipper than hip
What is hip?

[Verse 2]
You became a part of a new breed
Been smoking’ only the best weed
Hangin’ out with the so-called “Hippie set.”
Seen in all the right places
Seen with just the right faces
You should be satisfied, but it ain’t quite right

[Chorus]
What is hip?
Tell me, tell me, if you think you know
What is hip?
If you’re hip
The question, “Will it show?”
You’re into a hip trip
Maybe hipper than hip
What is hip?

[Break]
Come on

[Refrain]
Hipness is. What it is
Hipness is. What it is
Hipness is. What it is
Sometimes hipness is, what it ain’t

 

You’re still a young man
Baby, Oo, don’t waste your time
You’re still a young man
Baby, Oo oo, don’t waste your time

Down on my knees
Oh, heart in hand
I was accused of being too young
But I’m not so young
I could make you happy
I’m not a bad man

You’re too young to love (If you and I could be together)
You’re too young to love (I’ll never never leave you alone baby)
You’re too young Ooo Ooo (No I won’t sweet lady)
Don’t waste your time

The damage is done
You see that you were wrong
You wake up wondering just
How well I’ve done
Well I’ve done alright
Yes there are some girls but you know
I dropped them on sight
Just for you
Because I love you

You’re still a young man
Baby, Oo oo, don’t waste your time
(Someday you’ll understand just what it means when a man
Comes to you with his little heart in his hands
Just to love you)
Don’t waste your time

You better listen to me
Sayin that I’m loving you yeah hey now baby tryin to tell
You that it’s you you you you you you you you talkin to you
Baby, I’ll never never never never I’ll never do you
No wrong no no lady if you would check my stuff out one time haha
Just to hold you, just to squeeze you and all I wanna do is to
Get next to you and please please please you baby
See where I’m coming from!

 

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Written by legendary sax players Emilio Castillo and Stephen Kupka, the song portrays a young man at the wrong end of a break-up. The situation is bleak because his lover pins the break-up on an age difference. In an interview with Songfacts Castillo said:

It’s based on a true story. I had a girlfriend that was six years older than me. I was 18, she was 24 and that’s actually what happened. She had kind of cut me loose because of the age difference thing and the whole plea in the story is the young guy’s saying, ‘I’m not too young, I’m not wasting my time and I do love you like a man can truly love a woman.’”

The song would go on to be the band’s first major hit defining their sound with a prominent horn section inspired by Curtis Mayfield:

“On that album, there’s a song called “A Woman’s Love” that starts with beautiful trumpets high. When we heard that we wanted to write a song with a great trumpet intro like that. – TowerofPower.com

Last but not least, here’s our optional prompt for the day. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is inspired by a piece of music, and that shares its title with that piece of music. Need an example? Here’s A. Van Jordan’s “Que Sera Sera” and Adrian Matejka’s “Soave Sia Il Vento.”

“Que Sera Sera”

In my car, driving through Black Mountain,
North Carolina, I listen to what
sounds like Doris Day shooting
heroin inside Sly Stone’s throat.
One would think that she fights
to get out, but she wants to stay
free in this skin. Fresh,
The Family Stone’s album,
came out in ’73, but I didn’t make sense
of it till ’76, sixth grade for me,
the Bicentennial, I got my first kiss that year,
I beat up the class bully; I was the man.
But for now, in my head, it’s only ’73
and I’m a little boy again, listening
to Sly and his Family covering Doris’s hit,
driving down I-40;
a cop pulls me over to ask why
I’m here, in his town, with my Yankee tags.
I let him ask a series of questions
about what kind of work I do,
what brings me to town—you know
the kind of questions that tell you
this has nothing to do with driving a car.
My hands want to ball into fists.
But, instead, I tell myself to write a letter
to the Chief of Police, to give him something
to laugh at over his morning paper,
as I try to recall the light in Doris Day’s version
of “Que Sera Sera”—without the wail
troubling the notes in the duet
of Sly and Cynthia’s voices.
Hemingway meant to define
courage by the nonchalance you exude
while taking cover within your flesh,
even at the risk of losing
what some would call a melody;
I call it the sound of home.
Like when a song gets so far out
on a solo you almost don’t recognize it,
but then you get back to the hook, you suddenly
recognize the tune and before you know it,
you’re putting your hands together; you’re on your feet—
because you recognize a sound, like a light,
leading you back home to a color:
rust. You must remember
rust—not too red, not too orange—not fire or overnight
change, but a simmering-summer
change in which children play till they tire
and grown folks sit till they grow edgy
or neighborhood dogs bite those not from your neigborhood
and someone with some sense says Down, Boy,
or you hope someone has some sense
who’s outside or who owns the dog and then the sky
turns rust and the streetlights buzz on
and someone’s mother, must be yours, says
You see those streetlights on don’t you,
and then everybody else’s mother comes out and says
the same thing and the sky is rust so you know
you got about ten minutes before she comes back out
and embarrasses you in front of your friends;
ten minutes to get home before you eat and watch
the Flip Wilson Show or Sanford and Son and it’s time for bed.
And it’s rust you need to remember
when the cop asks, What kind of work you do?
It’s rust you need to remember: the smell
of summer rain on the sidewalk
and the patina on wrought-iron railings on your front porch
with rust patches on them, and the smell
of fresh mowed grass and gasoline and sweat
of your childhood as he takes a step back
when you tell him you’re a poet teaching
English down the road at the college,
when he takes a step back—
to assure you, know, that this has nothing to do with race,
but the rust of a community he believes
he keeps safe, and he says Have a Good One,
meaning day as he swaggers back to his car,
and the color of the day and the face behind sunglasses
and the hands on his hips you’ll always remember
come back gunmetal gray
for the rest of this rusty afternoon.
So you roll up the window
and turn the music back on,
and try to remember the rust caught in Sly’s throat—
when the song came out in ’73,
although I didn’t get it till ’76,
sixth grade for me, the Bicentennial;
I got my first kiss that year.
I beat up the class bully.
I was the man.
A. Van Jordan, “‘Que Sera Sera’” from Quantum Lyrics. Copyright © 2007 by A. Van Jordan. Used by permission of the author and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. This selection may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Source: Quantum Lyrics (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 2007)

Soave Sia Il Vento

after Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

In the wobbly pirouette between song
& dust, dog-nosed living room windows
& a purple couch that should have been curbed
last July: Saturday sunlight cuts it all every
time you lean into some kind of ballet pose.
Your belly & knobby elbow & leotarded knee
wavering in a slim balance. Jeté, effacé
I don’t know what they mean & nod anyway.
You reach & spin & dog hair hangs
in the air like the start of heartfelt applause.

Copyright © 2017 by Adrian Matejka. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 18, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

April 18 It’s A Dog’s Life for Me

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a Dog’s life for Me

In my next life

I’d like to come back

As a dog.

 

It seems dogs

Have it made?

 

All they have to do

Is cute

Look at their owner

With love

Blazing from their eyes.

 

Listening to their owner

Blather on and on

Which is never boring.

 

Even though they don’t understand

Much human speech.

Still amazing to watch

 

And listen to

These foolish people.

 

Occasionally acting tough

When unauthorized people

Get too close.

 

And they get food

A walk

And their owner

Even cleans

Up after them!

 

What a carefree life

For a dog.

 

Yes, my next life

I want to be

A cute house dog.

 

And now for our (optional) prompt! Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem in which the speaker expresses the desire to be someone or something else and explains why. Two possible models for you: Natasha Rao’s “In My Next Life Let Me Be a tomato,” and Randall Jarrell’s “The Woman at the Washington Zoo.”

In my next life let me be a tomato

lusting and unafraid. In this bipedal incarnation
I have always been scared of my own ripening,
mother standing outside the fitting room door.
I only become bright after Bloody Mary’s, only whole
in New Jersey summers where beefsteaks, like baubles,
sag in the yard, where we pass down heirlooms
in thin paper envelopes and I tend barefoot to a garden
that snakes with desire, unashamed to coil and spread.
Cherry Falls, Brandywine, Sweet Aperitif, I kneel
with a spool, staking and tying, checking each morning
after last night’s thunderstorm only to find more
sprawl, the tomatoes have no fear of wind and water,
they gain power from the lightning, while I, in this version
of life, retreat in bed to wither. In this life, rabbits
are afraid of my clumsy gait. In the next, let them come
willingly to nibble my lowest limbs, my outstretched
arm always offering something sweet. I want to return
from reincarnation’s spin covered in dirt and
buds. I want to be unabashed, audacious, to gobble
space, to blush deeper each day in the sun, knowing
I’ll end up in an eager mouth. An overly ripe tomato
will begin sprouting, so excited it is for more life,
so intent to be part of this world, trellising wildly.
For every time in this life I have thought of dying, let me
yield that much fruit in my next, skeleton drooping
under the weight of my own vivacity as I spread to take
more of this air, this fencepost, this forgiving light.
Natasha Rao, “In my next life let me be a tomato” from Latitude. Copyright © 2021 by Natasha Rao. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, http://www.coppercanyonpress.org.

The Woman at the Washington Zoo

The saris go by me from the embassies.
Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.
They look back at the leopard like the leopard.
And I….
               this print of mine, that has kept its color
Alive through so many cleanings; this dull null
Navy I wear to work, and wear from work, and so
To my bed, so to my grave, with no
Complaints, no comment: neither from my chief,
The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief—
Only I complain…. this serviceable
Body that no sunlight dyes, no hand suffuses
But, dome-shadowed, withering among columns,
Wavy beneath fountains—small, far-off, shining
In the eyes of animals, these beings trapped
As I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap,
Aging, but without knowledge of their age,
Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death—
Oh, bars of my own body, open, open!
The world goes by my cage and never sees me.
And there come not to me, as come to these,
The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas’ grain,
Pigeons settling on the bears’ bread, buzzards
Tearing the meat the flies have clouded….
                                                                Vulture,
When you come for the white rat that the foxes left,
Take off the red helmet of your head, the black
Wings that have shadowed me, and step to me as man:
The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn,
To whose hand of power the great lioness
Stalks, purring….
                              You know what I was,
You see what I am: change me, change me!

Randall Jarrell, “The Woman at the Washington Zoo” from The Complete Poems. Copyright © 1969, renewed 1997 by Mary von S. Jarrell. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, http://www.fsgbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Caution: Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws and downloading is strictly prohibited. The right to reproduce or transfer the work via any medium must be secured with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

Source: The Complete Poems (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2001)

April 19 Hunting the Monsters in Hell

 

 

 

Joe Lewis woke up

In a dark forest

Haunted by my monsters

From his worst nightmares.

 

He saw in the clearing behind him.

Giant apes, space aliens, banshees, bats, Bigfoot, centaurs, Cerberus, cheetahs, crows, coyotes, Cthulhu with tentacles, dragons, demons, dinosaurs (raptors and T. Rex), devils, dwarfs, gangbangers, gangsters, gangster rappers. Gators, goblins, ghouls, ghosts, giants, giant ants, giant wasps, giant spiders, giant lobsters, gunmen, hellhounds, big game hunters, government bureaucrats,  holocausts, imps, Imperial Stormtroopers from Star Wars, naked incubus, leprechauns, jihadis, Lucifer, lions, politicians, mafia made men, ravens, monsters, orcs,  reporters, bewitching beautiful yet deadly sirens, Satan, satyrs, snakes, winged monkeys, serpents, special forces soldiers, tigers, werewolves, wolves, witches, warlocks, wraiths, wild things, yeti, and zombies all staring at him.  A half-centaur, half-pig monster with two heads–Putin and Trump led the mob.

 

He began running away from them

They were gaining on him

He saw a fort ahead

Ran inside.

 

The Grim Reaper  handed him a gun

Said,

 

“If you can kill the head monster

You will live

And be sent back

Good hunting.”

 

And threw him back

Into the fray.

 

Joe Lewis took aim

Hunting down the Putin-Trump

Two-headed Pig Monster.

 

The monster squealed

And died.

 

The other monsters

Ran away

Having seen who was master.

 

Joe woke up in his bed

Saw a note on his phone,

 

“Good hunting.

You have been given

Five more years.

Of life on earth.”

 

Your friend,

GR.

 

Finally, here’s our prompt – optional, as always! This one comes to us from Moist Poetry Journal, which posted this prompt by K-ming Chang a while back:

What are you haunted by, or what haunts you? Write a poem responding to this question. Then change the word haunt to hunt.

Happy (and potentially spooky) writing!

 

Day 20  Trail of Tears – My Family Connection

 

 

 

 

 

My Mother’s history

 

One day many a year ago

My mother spoke to me

About her family’s tangled history,

 

She spoke to me

Of lies, half-truths, and myths

Some of which may have been true

And throughout the evening

Her history came alive.

 

She was born in the hills

of North Little Rock

The 10th of 11 children

Of an ancient dying race.

 

The Cherokees

who had run away

Refusniks

Refugees who fled into the hills.

 

Part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee Nation

Part Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Seminole

and African Americans

Who fled to the mountains

To avoid the trail of tears.

 

Rather than join the rest

In the promised land

Of Oklahoma.

 

They did not exist

I did not exist.

 

The BIA told us

No Indian scholarship

For you

 

Since you can’t prove

You are in fact

Of Native American ancestry,

 

I asked my mother

What does this mean?

She spoke

 

No BIA money for you,

My non-Indian son.

 

Her family and Bill Clinton’s family

Were related

Bill Clinton and I are distant cousins

 

When I met him

I related my family history

He concluded that we were indeed cousins

Said I could call him Cousin Bill

And he would call me Cousin Jake

 

And he too was part Cherokee

Irish, Scotch, French

And African American

Part of the lost tribe

Of the Cherokee nation

 

I told my mom

This story

She spoke

It was true

 

She was a distant cousin

Of Bill Clinton

Still did not like

The lying SOB

 

Her people disappeared

From history’s eyes

DNA data banks

 

 

My history was over

As was hers

 

And so,

I learned at last

The painful truth

 

Due to the genocidal crimes

of politicians so long ago

My mother’s people

 

Lost their land, their culture,

and their hope

And became

downtrodden forgotten people

 

Hillbillies were called

Living in the hills and mountain dales

Clinging to the dim fading memories

Of their once glorious past

As proud Cherokees

 

Now no one knew their name

The old ways were forgotten

And the new world never forgave them

 

And they never forgave the new world

As they lived on

In the margins of society

Forgotten people

 

And I vowed that as long as I lived

Their history would not die

As I knew the truth

 

And I would become a proud

Cherokee

And make my mother proud of me

And my accomplishments

 

When I am down and out

I recall her stories and her warnings

And realize it is up to me

 

To live my life

To let the Cherokee in me

Live his life

 

And in so doing

My mother’s history does not die

 

It lives on in me

Until the day I die

 

Long live the Cherokee nation

Long live my mother

 

Note:  My latest DNA test analysis finally revealed that I do indeed have some Indian ancestry but less than 5 percent and African American also less than 5 percent, and the rest mostly Scandinavian, German, Irish, Scottish, English, Italian, French, Eastern European, Spanish, Mongolian (everyone who is part Eastern European has some Mongolian DNA) Russian,  Jewish and for some strange reason part Basque, and part Laplander (related to the Eskimos living in Norway. Sweden, Finland, and Russian arctic regions).

 

My family name is German, but they were originally French who fled to protestant Germany during the 100-year war.

 

The Lost Tribe of the Cherokees were also called Black Irish and were a mixture of Indians who had run away into the hills rather than go to Oklahoma, and intermixed with runaway slaves, Scot-Irish settlers, and others.  They were and are a small insular clan of about 25,000 people or so. Mostly living in Arkansas, East Texas, and Missouri – the Ozark mountains where they had fled.  My mother reported that her parents spoke Cherokee and one of her sisters had a Cherokee name.  I recently discovered a list of her siblings and indeed one had a foreign-sounding name.  I had the name of a great-grandfather who was born in 1831 about the time of the removal so I might be able to see if he is on the Cherokee enrollment rolls which were done just before the removal in 1832 I believe. I will follow up shortly.

 

 

Our optional prompt for the day challenges you to write a poem that recounts a historical event. In writing your poem, you could draw on your memory, encyclopedias, history books, or primary documents. If you’re interested in a little research, you might find interesting this collection of letters written during the American Civil War, or this collection of primary documents concerning South Sea voyages. Or perhaps you might find something of interest in digging through European, an online clearinghouse of digitized materials from cultural institutions across Europe.

Mary Aller Obituary

Mary Geneva Aldridge Aller Sept. 9, 1923 – July 31, 2007 Former Resident of Berkeley Mary was born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas, and came to the Bay Area in the 1940s and settled in Berkeley where she resided until 2003. During the 1950s, she was active in the labor movement, and served several years as the President of the Pacific Telephone Operators Union. During the late 1950s, she was a real estate agent and involved with the Berkeley League of Women’s Voters, and the “Save the Bay” movement. In 1952, she made local headlines when she told President Truman’s staff that she did not want to meet him unless he wanted to meet her. The San Francisco Chronicle wrote a big article with the Headline “Harry Meets Mary.” She was a long term political activist and active member of the Berkeley Co-Op along with her husband, Dr. Curtis Aller, who passed away in 1985. During the 1960s, she accompanied her husband to Washington, D.C. when he served as the Undersecretary of Labor. She returned to Berkeley in 1968 where she worked with her husband until 1984 as the business manager for the Center for Applied Manpower Research. Mary is survived by two sisters, Mildred and Robbie who live in Arkansas. She is also survived by six children, Roger Aller of Sebastopol, California, John (Jake) Aller of Washington, DC, Thomas Aller of Albany, California, Inga Aller of Gualala, California, Richard and Larry Wilson from her first marriage, and many grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. The family will have a private ceremony Friday August 3 for interment. Flowers can be sent to the Sunset View Funeral Home, 101 Colusa Avenue, in El Cerrito (510) 525-5111.

Published by Contra Costa Times on Aug. 3, 2007.

The End

 

 

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