NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Thirty

Star Wars Haiku

Stormtroopers: One face.
Give them matching uniforms.
Much less confusing.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty-Nine

This poem appears in the Boston Poet anthology, Bad Ass. Order it here.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty-Eight

Opportunistic Haiku

Here's the horse I rode
in on. This I cannot watch,
so can I go first?

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty-Seven

Laughing At Stones

It's easy when you meet the right ones,
like those who relunctantly double
as benches for weekend hikers,
the offa-my-lawn old men type
of rocks who fancy themselves gods
because no one's ever had to move them.

Or the ones in the middle of a wall
outside some neighbor's house
are a hoot. They feel the weight
above and below and still try to
roar their way up the ladder, on top of
the heirachy that's all but cemented
in place for all time (though this
can remind you of your job too much).

My favorites are the pebbles
who get all televangelical
when a child or love-struck teen
skips them, and these missles
proclaim "Look here! I'm The Messiah!"
for three to four skips,
but don't make across to proclaim
bragging rights on the shore.

Imagine each failed thrown pebble
settling at the bottom with similar
defrocked inmates, who watch the
fallings ones, jokingly declaring
"Behold the messiah!?"
for each one that plummets.

Does a collective bitter cry
at water's end, sounding off
underneath, cause some fish
seem to starve at the top
desperate to plunge onto a hook?

Or is collected arrogance
curtailed, smoothed out over time
into quiet wisdom, explaining
why children skim the edges
of a crashing wave's imprint,
gathering the smoothest stones
in their hands, origins unknown,
like treasure chest jewels.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty-Six

Haiku

Away with clean air.
G.W. desperately
needs a new smoke screen.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Five, Poem Twenty-Five

Poem

The noseless king has fallen.
Never will he thrust
his self-gouged, unclosed wound
to others, selling it to himself
as their reflection,
roaring in such a manner
that some believe it.

Our emperor, his new wardrobe
from a while back
was his own blood.
His historians revised that fact
into him having nothing on,
a youthful indescretion
without the youth.

His potential mourners
have long since revised him
into nothing there.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Five, Poem Twenty-Four

Homebuying Haiku

The buyer's version
of Glengarry Glenn Ross film
would have more swearing.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Five, Poem Twenty-Three

Haiku

Windshield in moonlight.
Raindrops blotch shadows on map.
Where the hell are we?

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Five, Poem Twenty-Two

Haiku: Eileen Tabios Let's Me Have It

All of your haikus
should be hay(na)kus instead.
You go too far, man!

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Five, Poem Twenty-One

The Graduate: Another In a Series of Poems
Substituting for Movie Review I Never Got
Around To Writing
For Maria

Few movies are clear by the end,
only obvious in the beginning.
But Just look at the last scene on the bus,
the rows of onlookers.
Make no mistake. They hate him
and her by default.

She didn't have to be wearing
a runaway bride's atire
for them to recognize a person
playing outside of their typecasting.

Maybe one of them searches
for a change of clothes for an ersatz bride,
some sign of a masquerade,
becoming more outraged
when there isn't even any luggage.

How dare they walk out on their roles
of dowry-minding betrothed
and silent son, waiting in
unrealeased anger to be
a Shakespearean villian eventually killed
by one of his betters--
roles the observers
died to audition for,

Even if they regretted getting their parts
later, the two are deemed
uppity for not accepting misery.

I imaging his bride, staring back,
thinking out for another door
to run out of, stopping when she realizes
there's nowhere left she can run to.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty, Poem Twenty

Something more substantial coming later.

Deadline Hay(na)ku

Shoot
me. I'll
write later. Honest.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty, Poem Nineteen

The Shawshank Redemption: Part of A Series of Poems
Substituting for Movie Reviews I Never Got
Around To Writing

I go back to the part
where hero prisoner Andy, prior
to that great escape, successfully
walks past his boss, the warden--
an actual warden, mind you, not
the pretend ones at your job--
without him noticing that Andy
is wearing his shoes.
A big flaw, I've come to realize
after being around bosses
who like to pick at your clothes
like balls of lint on their sport coats.
Once, they said my lab coat
made me look like a butcher,
so they had me wear a size
so small and tight, my shirt sleeves
stick out like the heads of children
spying behind theatre seats.
They commended me, made side bets
on how long I could work
with my breath held in.
A boss isn't happy with your dress
until he catches you walking while
looking at your shoes, despairing
that you'll need new ones soon
or gazing at the reflection in your shine,
trying to stare down your own face,
strained from it's own constant adaptation
losing, turning away, just before
the boss tells you good-night.

NaPoWriMo, Day Eighteen, Poem Eighteen

Making Up

Together again, meeting up
at the Stone Soup reading
following an arguement,
Lynne sits behind me during the show
but not to avoid.

She leans against me,
says I smell good.
I remember later:
she does this to hunt for
this sliver of a soul
I call my own
that often goes off to hide
like money in a sock.

No, more like subway tokens
in a small pocket you forget about,
even forgetting how to hear
its clinking as you walk.

Such an ardent searcher,
I'm always the last to know it's there
and the first to be surprised.

NaPoWriMo, Day Seventeen, Poem Seventeen

I never learn.

Haiku For My Boss, Who Said Wearing A Tie Helps
Cover Up Mistakes Before Making Me Wear One

You say I'm covered
in my boss' blood? That's just
my funky new tie.

Exhausted

I can't believe I was able to bang out those three poems and catch up. Yesterday afternoon, my back pain returned just in time for my trek back home with Lynne to bond with family and see friends. It was hard for me to be pleasant company when visiting Mike and Karen. Thank God Lynne helped to pick up the slack (it's the first time she's seen Mike since he left for Iraq back in October 2004).

Today, I barely made it through the Easter meal with a crooked frame and medication making me drowsy, though I never quite slept even when Lynne drove home. The only reason I'm up now is my determination to contribute to NaPoWriMo, even if it's badly.

Reviewing my contributions to the month-long event, it's easy to see that I've changed from when I resolved to try more with poetic forms. That resolution came from me viewing my tendency towards free verse as a crutch. Now, I've done a 180 where any form I use is a bit of a crutch, as I'm loathe to do anything for this month unless I have predetermined boundaries. Something to think about as I play around with a new poem in my head. I'll try to loosen up a bit more as I head towards the end.

NaPoWriMo, Day Seventeen, Poem Sixteen

Another Hay(na)ku. This time apologies go to Eileen Tabios go before kudos for creating the form.

Year End Hope

Bush,
Cheney, Rumsfeld
in one bunker,

each
one with
gun to head,

One
speaks up
"Ready on three?

One,
two, three."
No click bang.

Repeat
until bunker
is broken into.

NaPoWriMo, Day Sixteen, Poem Fifteen

Work Poem: A Tritina

Your boss times it that you have to wear a tie
beginning the same week it gets hot as hell.
The building's thermostat has two settings: Off and Florida.

Most of your coworkers are from Florida,
angry to have emotional ties,
jobs, in boston, away from their paradise. Hell

is frozen over three months a year. Hell
is anything outside of Florida.
A Bostonian, by week one, you hang yourself by your tie.

Once in hell, your co-workers say, "Nice tie." It reads FLORIDA.

NaPoWriMo, Day Sixteen, Poem Fourteen

Taking a form that friends usually gather around to do stanza by stanza and butchering it by myself.


Lonely Man's Renga

People put matches
up to their face,
pretend it's summer.

People countdown to summer,
eager for ball sweat.

Ball sweat drips down
like rain, only not
as far down to go.

Sink water feigns
summer shower yet to come.

Why have it rain?
Sun makes our flesh change
such pretty colors.

People in bright summer clothes
easier to hit with rocks.

Rocks in summer sun
too hot to sit on,
cook nothing.

Renga goes nowhere with one.
Summer still sucks.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirteen, Poem Thirteen

Sarcastic Haiku 64: Dealine Poem Revisited

Poem-a-day challenge.
Sarcastic haikus flourish.
How does he find time?

NaPoWriMo, Day Twelve, Poem Twelve

Two of a set of haiku I will be submitting to Ryk McIntyre's project "Look Up In The Sky!" It's a set of Superman related haiku.

Superman's Calm

You never hear him
yell at crooks, "I'm Superman
you gun-throwing fucks!"

His bottled city
smells like hamster-cage sometimes.
Yet, he doesn't mind.

Why have we only
seen his best power--the kiss--
in Superman II?

His kiss can make a
loved one forget his secrets.
We've all wanted that.

I might go back and add to this.

Something more substantial tomorrow. Maybe.