San Francisco

[For today's prompt, pick a city, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem. Your poem can praise or belittle the city. Your poem could be about the city or about the people of the city. Your poem could even have seemingly nothing to do with the city. But the simple act of picking a city will set the mood (to a certain degree), so choose wisely.]



It’s like an island connected
to land. It has bay, ocean and mountains.
It feels tropical in some ways—
with palms, still modern and filled
with culture and all things urban.

There is a staggering beauty
from the Pacific coast
to the downtown skyline
with the Transamerica Pyramid
towering high above.

The bridges are spectacular
Golden Gate shrouded often
in a mystique of fog.
The low lying San Mateo
stretches out for an eternity
across the bay
linking east and west.

The weather is most congenial
cool breezes and shirtsleeve warmth
most days.
The city is alive in ways
most cities never imagine—
trolley or the wharfs
people move about
consigned from boredom.

A sunset any direction
is staggering—
you cannot deny
God’s poetic thumbprint.

Confession Tuesday

Tuesday’s come like clockwork now. That’s a crazy statement. Nothing has changed, just my perception.


It’s off to the confessional~


Dear Reader- I’ve been doing NaPoWriMo this month and I’ve cheated. No, I’m not stealing others writers work or anything like that, but I confess I’ve gotten into a pattern of starting late in the day on a poem and finishing it the next. This has happened several times and I keep looking over my shoulder to see it the poetry police a lurking behind.

I could say that I generally keep them within a 24 hour period it’s just that sometimes they straddle the timeline of calendar days. ~0~

While on the subject of NaPoWriMo I have other confessions to make.

• I confess that sometimes I really don’t like a prompt and I find that generally sets my mood and tone and tends to guarantee that I will not like what I write.
• I confess too that while I’ve been posting everything to my blog I don’t really like doing this. This stuff is much too raw to be considered poetry in my view and I prefer not to be judged by readers on it.
• This brings up another confession about my poems and my blog. Usually when I post a poem on my blog I’m sad to say it is not my best work even when we are not in NaPoWriMo mode. If it’s all that good I want to submit it elsewhere. If it’s all that bad, I don’t want to post it at all. So what gets posted is something teetering on the edge. This whole thing bothers me. ~0~

I confess too that I am overly tired this week. I’ve been dog sitting for someone out of town and so that has put me between work, home and a third location. More driving is required and it makes for a disrupted schedule. I don’t mind helping out… I’m certainly not intending this to come off as complaining, just stressing the point of why I’m likely overly tired. At least I hope that is why and not some other health issue. ~0~

My San Francisco Giants baseball team has been playing awesome…. they are 6 and 1! I confess this makes me crazy happy!

Lastly, I confess that I’ve missed being away from Cathy on the nights I’ve been dog sitting.

~ Book of Kells: Breaking News - Pulitzer Prize winner in Poetry Announced

~ Book of Kells: Breaking News - Pulitzer Prize winner in Poetry Announced


I was asleep at the switch and Kelle beat me to the punch with this news and I'm too tired and still have more to write so I'm going to piggy back off her post.


I have to admit the winner for Poetry, Versed by Rae Armantrout sounds deliciously interesting.

The Last Poet

[For today's prompt, take the phrase "The Last (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Some examples: "The Last Train," "The Last Kiss," "The Last Time I'll Give Directions to a Complete Stranger," "The Last Dance," etc.] * actually yesterday's prompt, I'm posting late.



If you think poetry is useless,
rather a bore—
and when the subject comes up
you're out the door—
then this poem my friend is just
for you—
it’s about all the things you fail
to realize you do.

The sunset in the western sky
the things you marvel
and question way;
Grand Canyon’s cavernous
cut-a-ways,
and golden wheat tops
that glisten and sway
with wind that howls
and storms that loom;
that darkened glum
on the horizon—

or Pacific surfs
at Monterey
and tides that come
Atlantic’s way…

all these wonders
of which we see
speak to the poet
that is both you
and me.

You may not write
down things profound
but you see them
you know them
they’re all around.

So when this all
comes to an end;
and all about this earth
caves in

be assured
that you too have been
a poet—

the last poet
please turn out
the light.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.........

It's Sunday night - 11:30ish and that's me on the left. Ok, maybe not but that's how I feel. It's been a long day and a long weekend and I'm waiting on the washer to go off so I can transfer clothes to the dryer.

I have a poem to post but I don't care to wrestle with it at this point. It will have to wait till tomorrow. It's my poem for NaPoWriMo.

I was able to catch the very last part of the Giants game. Their fifth win in six games. Wahoo!!

I read an interesting essay about Plath's poem Sheep in Fog and I'm too tired to go into it here, but perhaps I will in the next few days. Monday is coming way too quickly for my liking and I just heard the washer click off so I'm going to make the transfer to the dryer and maybe read for 15-20 minutes and conk out for the night.

Book Party for Nathalie Handal's - "Love and Strange Horses"

ANYONE IN NEW YORK    ~     This Thursday, APRIL 15, 2010

 A MUST to Put  on your Calendar

"Book Party for Nathalie Handal's Love and Strange Horses"

Gallery Bar - 120 Orchard ST. NY, NY

7:00pm - 10:00pm

I would so go to this if I were there.  Handal is a uniquely talented poet who has a very universal voice.  I loved her book Neverfield.

Sleepless Nights

[For today's prompt, write a horror poem. Make it scary. Make it cheesy. Make it funny. Whatever you do, link it somehow to horror. Who knows? Maybe someone will write the next great raven poem.]   


Sleepless Nights
Under light of the moon
the crackened earth moves
to modest gasps from below—
Dante’s hell whispering hello
unseen by human eyes
the souls like gas rise
their presence felt about
     by
        haunting
                   chilling
                            shout
that tosses and turns us out
of bed

Portrait in a Morning Mirror

[For today's prompt, write a self-portrait poem. Other artists study themselves to create compositions (not all of them exactly flattering either), so it is only natural that poets, who are word artists, write self-portrait poems from time to time. In fact, some poets make self-portrait poetry "their main thing." For at least today, make it yours..]


Peering into the mirror
I see a man in the bottom
of the fifth— two outs.

Brows raised
in seriousness,
intensity— offset

occasionally with a smile
even laughter
often mystifying.

There is a busy energy
about his head…
part bewilderment
part an ordering,
compartmentalizing
blocking off thoughts
in stanzas—
juxtaposing the many
incongruencies
that converge therein.

His eyes Capricorn blown,
earthy—

His hair transformed and still
a work of process.

He sees things as they are
and wonders why – and asks
why not, as to others.

Somewhere deep within
there is a pilot light that burns
the fumes of rage off. Sometimes,
sometimes when the stench
from injustice is too thick,
when things cannot just be burnt off
and the pressure cooker builds
he will not be silent. He will not be.

Rolling Pin

[For today's prompt, pick a tool, make that the title of your poem, and write your poem. There are the more obvious tools, of course: hammer, screwdriver, wrench, etc. But there also less obvious tools and/or specialized tools available as well. Before attacking this poem, you may want to just think about the various possibilities first. Or just write.]





With the flick of a wrist
the checkered cloth came off
the table exposed like a magic trick
down came the muslin cloth
dusted with flour
a lump of dough
and the strong arms of granny
against the handles
of a rolling pin.


With the legs of a runner
transformed to granny’s arms
she would slam the pin
against the dough
and roll forward
a mighty force laid flat
against the putty
flattened like new asphalt
repeated
over
and
over.


Each stroke an advancing army
flattening the territory,
advancing—    resistance weakening.
That’s how I remember granny.

Until The Geese Return

[The prompt for today - Until (blank)  fill in the blank.]



The dogs will bark
at people passing by—

and grass will grow
lush & green in the field
where they would rest
and strut—

the songs of lesser birds
will fill the morning air—

clouds will come and go
without their meticulous V—

the only honking
will be from cars—

and I will anxiously await
the reassurance
their familiarity brings.

After the Rain / Based upon an Art Print by Harold Silverman

[Prompt for today... write an ekphrastic poem. According to John Drury's The Poetry Dictionary, ekphrastic poetry is "Poetry that imitates, describes, critiques, dramatizes, reflects upon, or otherwise responds to a work of nonliterary art, especially the visual."]


Based upon an Art Print by Harold Silverman 
click above to see print


Cold naked bark
shivers in the fog
fingers wipe the glass air
heavy with raindrop
balled windshields
and glass puddles
reflect a higher profiled
reach of the out stretched hands
of oak and maple

Good News

This afternoon, as I'm getting ready for a Poetry Reading... I check my e-mail from my phone and the following pops up as new mail....

Hi Michael,

I am pleased to tell you that your poems 'The Face of Mount Rushmore' and 'She's Acryllic' have been selected to appear in the next issue of 'Cats with Thumbs'


This should appear in Mid-May.

This is the kind of e-mail I like...    More please!  More often!!! 

Confession Tuesday

It was when I reached the upper level yesterday at the ballpark, after hoofing it from my car parked on the edge of hell… my seat not yet even in sight, that I realized I seriously need to start going to the track again ore something… otherwise next season’s opening day they are going to have to roll me to my seat in a wheel chair. It is with this stark reality that I’m off to the confessional.

Dear reader, it has been a week. Yes seven days and it seems like only yesterday I was doing this. Where it is that time goes? I confess that sometimes I feel there is a hole somewhere that I am losing time out of. A hole in a pocket, a crack in an hour glass… it just keeps flowing like a sieve – sometimes I think I feel it trickle down my pant leg and leave this trail behind me.

I confess that time is my enemy. Or so I convinced myself many years ago. Time = life. I believe that, and yet I am not the best appropriator of time. There is absolutely no logic to it, but if life and time are interchangeable, I should value time all the more, but I seem to fear it. ~0~

I confess to enjoying the ball game yesterday. I confess I would have enjoyed it better if my wife were there. I confess too I am well aware she would not have enjoyed it very much. After the game, I came home and spent time sharing about the afternoon with her and hope that she was not bored by the talk. ~0~

I confess that Easter Sunday I ate too much before church. I not only ate too much but ate way too many carbs. I was hard to stay awake for Mass, in fact I physically felt horrible well into the afternoon. ~0~
I’ve been writing each day keeping up with NaPWriMo but I’ve not been especially happy with the draft/poems I’ve written. I can admit this, but I confess I am not particularly bothered by it. Normally this would bug me to no end. I’ve so far managed to not allow myself to beat myself up over them; figuring time will solve this problem. I confess I’m pretty happy keeping a positive spin on it. ~0~ 

This seems a good place to stop… on an upbeat note. 

Thanks for indulging me.

I'm Reading - 3:00 PM Tomorrow as the Longest Poetry Reading Continues

I will be reading as part of the history making LONGEST POETRY READING tomorrow at 3:00 p.m.




Prospero's Books
1800 West 39th Street - Kansas City, MO 64111-4402


if you can't be there...  you can watch on the live internet feed at


                      http://www.ustream.tv/channel/metaphormedia

Opening Day Crazy

[prompt is a TMI poem. Too Much Information]




So much to do,
to remember,
the winter months
away from the game
numb the mind--



The peanut bag, in shells of course,
ball cap; more then ascetics, got to
protect the face from sun--
score pad… and number two pencil.
Two in fact, check for sharpness
those tiny boxes require thin points
to surgically deliver the precision markings
that can be read when referenced
come September.



Cash, $10 for parking, $5 for program,
three draft bears $21 round up to $25 for tips,
hit dogs $7 for two- that's $47 - from the ATM
make it $50.



Game starts at 3:05,
it's 1:30-- a stop at the bank
and parking… should have left
10 minutes ago.

 Oh… the tickets!

11 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month With The New York Times

The New York Times has a great piece titled 11 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month.  Lots of interesting resources . A lot of things that would be suitable for school teachers, but not exclusively teacher orientated If interested, check it out here.

A Brief History Poetic Conception

A parasite in the mind-
sucking off our memory
and replacing it
with the scary
the romantic
the perverted
the beauty of
hallucinogenic
mushrooms
growing in the
bowels of a dirty
mind.


This tequila worm
wiggles its way
into our day or night
or fermenting
over several days
squirming
worming
churning
and learning to be
a figment
a filament
a fantasia
uncontainable

groping for paper
to postulate upon

Easter Mo & Journal Bits

Here is Mo in the annual back yard Easter Egg Hunt. Here he is still a little tentative about his find. Mo is just so huggable.

The brisk breeze this afternoon is a nice feeling. I'm concerned about tomorrow though as I have the baseball opener in the afternoon. We may have morning showers... long as they are out of here by noon time, I'm cool with that.

Now for some Journal bits for the past week... March 29 - April 3

• March 29 - (rough notes from a podcast A Conversation with Andrew Mitchell - at Stanford University on poetic language / Martin Heidegger philosophies) Paraphrasing - Describes poetic language as ambiguous ambiguity - language that is not frozen. The origin of the work of art does not  exhaust itself. Poetry as a way to expose unknowns... we become mortals through our encounters with poetry -Language is relationally defined by poets. Poetry gives name to the gods. 
• March 31 - I'm thinking about the fact that I'm sweating and its the last day of March. It's hot and I'm in a shitty mood tonight.  
• April 1 - National Poetry Month begins today and with it, my poem-a day- challenge. This is where it gets all crazy.
• April 3 - "Under the crush of an August sun / in the baptism of sultry shifting about / I opened my shirt for air-- / the two sides hung / like dead flags on polls / and there was no relief in this."
• "they walked the path to the creek abreast / as the woods crowed them, he took the lead, / his hand lingering behind in hers." 
• "If Kipling were here / I'd offer him a piece of mind. / Myopic, crumpled one--" 
• March 4 - quote by Martin Heidegger "Every man is born as many men and dies as a single one."

Partly Naked

His flesh is flush
with innuendo
a part clothed
a part exposed
leaving onlookers
stripped of what
to know

Prospero’s Books stages a 120-hour poetry marathon - KansasCity.com

Prospero’s Books stages a 120-hour poetry marathon - KansasCity.com: "Prospero’s Books stages a 120-hour poetry marathon
By TIM ENGLE ~ The Kansas City Star

GARVEY SCOTT (photo credit)
“Sometimes for poetry to be noticed, it has to be noticed in a big way,” said Connie Dover, who helped launch a marathon reading."



Five straight days and nights of poetry reading sounds like a colossal undertaking, but it all started Friday morning with one little boy and an even littler poem.

“Day by day the ghosts go past,” recited almost-5-year-old Riley Werner-Leathem, hoisted up to the microphone by his dad, Prospero’s Books co-owner Will Leathem. Riley dressed up for the occasion, wearing a paisley tie over his Prospero’s T-shirt.
Minutes earlier it wasn’t ghosts but an ill-tempered thunderstorm that passed by. Former Kansas poet laureate Denise Low of Lawrence acknowledged it with her work “The Bear Emerges,” part of which goes:

In bed we hear the rumble,
distant, as we find again
under blankets and skins,
the deep-set thud of heartbeats.

All through the hard winter
we forgot about rain and lightning.
Prospero’s, 1800 W. 39th St., is spending all weekend and part of next week celebrating National Poetry Month — and trying to beat a record for longest poetry reading. The round-the-clock marathon will feature 200-plus regional and national poets, most reading in 20-minute chunks and most performing their own work.

It got under way at 10 a.m. Friday with about two dozen spectators and will wrap up at 10 a.m. Wednesday. The actual record-breaking moment, however, should occur around 7 p.m. Sunday — that’d be the 57-hour mark. Organizers are hoping to wallop a record set in Cincinnati in 1978, when a poetry marathon lasted 56 hours, 25 minutes.

If all goes well, the local effort will rack up 120 continuous hours of poetry, more than double what those disco-era dudes did.

Complete Story





Read more: http://www.kansascity.com/2010/04/02/1853420/prosperos-books-stages-a-120-hour.html#ixzz0k4a3uMVP