Consider the color.
Consider it red, the
red of sriracha
behind a white rooster.

Consider what I see.
Consider what you see.
I call it red, the
red of sriracha.

Suppose you see green
when you see sriracha.
Then what is the color?
And what does red mean?

This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Two prompt, which was to write something about synesthesia or at least about the senses. This doesn’t exactly fit the bill but it does speak to my fascination with color perception and how it might differ from person to person.

Are you well? Well, are you?
If you say you are well, why
do your eyes well with tears
unshed and why do you wander
well away from home and hearth,
a heartbeat away or a day away,
still well away from those who
love you and wish you well?

Your well-being, your being well —
same or not the same? “All’s
well that ends well.” But
does it end at all? Well?

A bit of a a cheat on this one, since this was a previously discarded riff on the word “well” from the Day Seven challenge, but I tweaked it to echo throughout the response here to Day Twenty-One. Thanks for another day of poetry, Miz Quickly.

She came to Book Club, unanticipated,
even though she said we should expect her.
Paler, thinner, but receiving and returning
our hugs despite her own fragility.

Later, her comments were few,
the small glass of wine untouched.
Only the dainty lace cookies tempted her —
“Nothing tastes good anymore,” she sighed.

The book? Forgettable, uninspired.
“A beach read,” some said dismissively,
as they played the game of casting the
inevitable movie to come.

Our own stories, quiet, yet more dramatic
than any novel, each confronting our own
mortality over wine and cheese and
fragile cookies of delicate lace.
 
 
This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Nineteen challenge, in which we were to write about a reader.

 

To my right, a clear expanse
lets in light and even heat.
I look out, but I scarcely see
except for the wide sky, the blur
of colors, an occasional sign, my life in brief
through the window of my car.
 
 
This one is in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty challenge, “Consider the Window.”

Passing on the mother —
A mother’s wisdom, her
treasured recipes, not just
for food, but for life.

Passing on the mother —
her quirks, eccentricities,
superstitions, all the things
that made her who she was.

Passing on the mother —
her faults, her subtle way
of criticizing the things
she couldn’t understand.

Passing on the mother.
Passing by the mother.
Not quite making connection
until the mother passed on.

 

This poem was created for Miz Quickly’s Day Eighteen prompt, suggesting that we create a poem from the phrase, “passing on the mother,” or something similar. Once this was completed, I realized that I had inadvertently written a poem that could stand as a response to the Day Fifteen challenge to write a kyrielle, a series of quatrains each containing the same repeated line. I am not inclined to duplicate my efforts, except that I now see that these quatrains are supposed to rhyme.  Aaargh.

“I was a Goody Two-Shoes all through school.”
The one with all the answers in class, but
polite enough not to raise my hand every time.
The one who spent Sundays at church, even
in the evening, the one who knew about the
beer at the party, but never took a sip. The
one whose skirts never fell above the knee.

Hard to fathom that transition, though, to a
freshman year of Marlboro’s, black coffee, scotch
(neat) and the splitting of innumerable
pitchers at Mayola’s, with boys who fancied
themselves men, their names now forgotten,
the tendency toward profanity, even when,
especially when, things were going well.

“I was a Goody Two-Shoes all through school.”
So they reminded me fifty years later, that
high school reunion crowd, over wine
at the country club none of us could have
been part of, no matter how well-behaved.
And I suppose they were right,
for all they knew of my life back then.
 
This poem is a response to Miz Quickly’s Day Ten challenge in which we were to use a sentence from a book we’re reading as the first line of a poem. My quote comes from Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones.

 

 

Eleven pieces of clay
molded by a master sculptor,
a master with a sense of
humor (and a love for cats)

Now they wait, faces raised
innocent, expectant, in
wonder at what is to come —
that breath of life or perhaps
a remolding, a breathless
rush into an unknown world.
 
 
This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Seventeen challenge to write a poem inspired by the picture above. Thanks for a nifty prompt, Miz Q.

The writing thing, the poetry journey,
an insistent yearning, a shadowy itch,
demanding your response.
“Just get your feet wet,” they said.
“Come on in, the water’s fine.” Their clichéd
implication that anyone can do it.

But getting just your feet wet,
when the undercurrent of
danger is omnipresent?
Danger of drowning, danger of losing
yourself in that madly rushing stream.
You tell yourself to find a way
to jump into the deep end, immerse yourself,
get used to the frigid water until
it’s warmed with your own warmth.

Stand toes poised at the edge of
the pool, ignore your cold, cold feet.
“Just get your feet wet,” they say, but
you know that won’t be enough.

 

Still catching up with Miz Quickly’s November feast of prompts. This poem is for Day Twelve, “Talk about Getting Your Feet Wet.”

 
leaves flutter and dance
a special delivery
in brisk northwest wind
 
 
This was written after my morning walk and in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Thirteen prompt, the single word “Deliver.”

It entices, it promises.
It grips, then slowly strangles.
Its seductive bells and pings,
tiny hints of the reward to
come, the bait to lure us in.
The net, the web we can’t escape,
eater of minutes, hours, days.
A vice, but also a vise.
 
 
This is in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Nine Challenge, in which she asked us to write a poem about our favorite vice. The internet, hands down, the wicked world wide web.