a funeral in my brain

"Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now  rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it! "

Felt a funeral in my brain

mourners kept treading

tromping, threading

winding frayed embrace

until it seemed each sense was breaking

when they all were seated 

a service like a drum kept beating

until my mind lost place

then i heard them lift a box

and creak across my soul

with those same boots of lead

then space began to toll

all the heavens were a bell

and being, but an ear

silence, some strange race,

wrecked solitary here

then a plank in reason broke

i dropped down and down

hit new worlds at every plunge

cracked barriers of sound

and finished knowing then  

Day Four: The prompt to write a love poem

No More Better




Caffeine jangles, frays, revs nerves
can't drink anymore
though the distant scent
from neighbors' morning brews
arrives with dew and fog strolling
mist shined streets, is welcome
once our time for once more
how I now greet grey dawn
sniffing for the chocolate scent
of unforgotten thrills
shared brews after shared
brewings

Mountains, Valleys, Forests, Music

Prompt 3 4/4

p. 37 from the 7 Types of Ambiguity

I began with crossing out, then used an OCR and rearranged.

Mountains, Valleys, Forests, Music

Is meaning possible from these notions?

We are at last in possession of all that might have been

Morning brings hope, light and labour,

evening rest, play and despair

They are the variety of Nature,

Venus, whom one dare not name,

and Mercury, who will bring no news of her

Mountaines, haunts of Pan for lust and Diana for chastity,

to both of these lovers appeal

for banishment; impossibility and impotence,

difficulty and achievement; greatness –

They give you the peace, or the despair, of the grave;

They are the distant things behind which the sun rises and sets,

the too near things which shut in your valley;

deserted wastes, and the ample pastures

to which you drive up cattle for the summer

Vallies hold nymphs, yet are the normal places

are your whole world, your voice can affect the whole of them;

places of shelter and comfort,

places of humility and affliction ;

rich with flowers and warmth,

dark hollows between the hills.

Forests, valuable and accustomed, are desolate and hold danger;

though wild and sterile, there are both nightingales and owls

Their beasts, give the strong pleasures of hunting;

Their burning is useful or destructive

They give freedom for contemplation,

Their trunks are symbols of pride.

Music, at once more and less direct than talking,

may please or distress,

belong to despair and the deaths of swans

It may share living beauty

be an inmate of celestial spheres,

illuminating occasions

on which each Nature is used

if we had understood

purple

 Purple

blueberries cooked with apples,
maple syrup, a dash of cinnamon
a trace of mace

errant echinacea
reclaiming their color
refusing those planted white

what the blue bruise becomes
before it heals

favorite jumpsuit worn
for performance, power, strength

the cape mommy made me
with a bright blood lining

the long hour awaiting night's end

when can i stop crying for the gone? 
never and again
when can i stop singing
for the gone?
never and again
when will i stop praising the gone?
never and again
when can i stop remembering
the gone?
never and again.

Adrienne Cecile Rich
May 16, 1929 Baltimore, Maryland to March 27, 2012, Santa Cruz, California

April 1, 2012

This blog was created for National Poetry Month 2012.
I'm still finishing work created in March for International Crochet Month.
I'm interested in merging my poetry and my crocheting --- crocheting poems
as well as writing poems about crocheting.

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hands, hungry for hook and fiber
want to taste again the twirl of frame
wrapping, upside down, turn around
the satisfaction of feeling full
and dextrous, holding the big red needle
as you dress it, thread by thread
lifting over its width to make
rows of loops, another lace,
a fabric of figured connections,
script in space, document of motion.



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by his fetid breath
heavy with petulance and
the unfulfilled hunt
i know the cat sits next to me