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!