by James Brush
Poems, thoughts about poetry and links to places that have published my poems
We drew maps showing river deltas,
our path predicted by the contours
of our fingerprints, and we followed
our spirals forever away from home.
Where there was water once,
we marked those places on the maps
and gave them names from dreams.
We camped beneath aircraft carriers,
marooned a hundred miles inland,
and spent nights watching our flames
flicker and dance
like tortured acrobats
laughing us to sleep
against the rusted hulks
of ruined navies.
In the mornings, we watched
the sky for clouds or crows
and threw rocks at the sun.
The rains never came.
We moved on.
—
This began as a response to Read Write Poem’s NaPoWriMo prompt # 17: Something Elemental provided by Neil Reid.
gasoline fumes
open highways
through memory
endless skies
& stars
asphalt
& awareness
we’ll never be
this way again
—
This is for Read Write Poem’s NaPoWriMo prompt “What’s that smell?” provided by Julie Jordan Scott.
As usual my NaPoWriMo blogging for the weekend will consist of micro-poems over at a gnarled oak.
When I get up, it’s coffee and donuts,
(It won’t be hard to find the death of me)
And more honey on that pile of biscuits,
And, oh Lord, yes, more sugar in my tea.
Daily, I stop for ho-ho’s or ding-dongs;
For my chocolate fix: a Hershey bar.
The convenience store is where I belong,
And I’ll gladly try anything by Mars.
Vegetables look good and green and all,
But processed snacks fulfill my sweetest dreams;
And always at the food court at the mall,
There’s caramel-drizzled fudge-nut ice cream.
I’ll run long endless miles for exercise,
But those miles never match my sugar highs.
—
I wrote this during 4th period today primarily for the amusement of my students. We’re writing sonnets and being the good teacher that I am, I wrote during class as well so they could see me revise it and also as a reminder that poems need not be serious all the time. The meter isn’t quite there, I don’t think, but they got a kick out of it, and it’s always good when they see their teacher doing and therefore valuing whatever they’re working on.
he heard the wind proclaim,
it’s not much farther now
saw the killdeer land in a ditch,
its feet running as they met the ground
studied the fading stains of
roadkilled armadillos
threw the bones of the library
on the sidewalk
picked through the oracles
divined messages
from broken patterns
and torn pages on
concrete
knew this all meant something
(knew it so deep it drove him silent)
these revelations he never
understood
—
This is a response the the Read Write Poem Prompt: Secret Codes provided by Carolee Sherwood.
We walked long hours following sacred stars
and watched for signs of certain darkened stars.
The moon rose thin and razor-like, slicing
a course across the meridian stars.
You traced the secret constellation lines
on my homemade maps of fallen stars.
I followed the moon’s trek across the void
and through the gaseous graves of ruined stars.
You talked about explosions bursting with
a thousand evolutions born in stars.
The atoms in our fingertips trembled
as we pondered our origins in stars.
Our hands met as our thoughts lingered on strange
dim memories of long forgotten stars.
I looked into your eyes—saw new worlds and
the echoes of eternity in stars.
Lowering storm clouds,
the grey rain intensifies.
Everyone rushes to
stand under the canopy
& listen while drainpipes rattle.
—
Attempted tanka for napowrimo today. This weekend, I’ll just be doing micro-poems at a gnarled oak. They cross post at Identi.ca and Twitter for anyone who is into those things.
I didn’t hear a word the priest said,
but I saw the vultures circling
rising
in the air above the lake
outside the windows
beyond the altar.
Things looked clearer out there,
and it made perfect sense to see
God skipping church that day
just to ride thermals with the angels.
—
This isn’t exactly a NaPoWriMo poem. It’s one I wrote almost a year ago, but I decided to come back to it and do some reworking. For one I wrote today, you’ll have to visit a gnarled oak for my daily napowrimo micro-poem.
Were dandelions tall as
trees
would we follow the
meadowlark
into such a yellow
forest
where flowers tower
overhead
and the only thing we
hear
is the clamorous buzz of
bees?
—
This morning while I was outside with my students observing nature so we could write haiku, we saw a meadowlark land near some dandelions and walk into what could only be described as a forest since most of the stems rose well above the bird’s head. I listed it as one of my observations.
Later, looking over my list, I wanted to write a poem that was basically just a sentence and then play with different ways of breaking the lines. I tried several permutations but settled on something resembling “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams, which I had just read in Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook.
Two other versions:
Were dandelions tall as trees
would we follow the meadowlark
into such a yellow forest
where flowers tower overhead
and the only thing we hear
is the clamorous buzz of bees?
—
Were dandelions tall as trees, would we follow the meadowlark into such a yellow forest where flowers tower overhead and the only thing we hear is the clamorous buzz of bees?
I ask the egret what makes him great. He smiles his bird smile and tells me of forbidden passion and how he loved and lost a snowy egret once. Held great roosts on the other side of the pond, invited all the shorebirds, hoping—just hoping—she’d maybe wade up his shore. At night he stood one-legged in a tree, ignoring the herons all around, while he studied the faint light reflected in the rippling water across the pond—I stop him there, tell him it sounds like he’s cribbing this story from Fitzgerald. Yes, he says, returning to the present, it’s true, it’s true, but there is no copyright for the heart, and besides… she was so beautiful and it was spring and the stars were bright and we were fledglings in the days of love.
egret reflections
ripple the still pond
echoes fade