A found poem, comprised of lines from a Trader Joe’s sales flier.
Fearless,
out of this world
Go—
You’re not quite done.
No, you need
one that stands up
but never overwhelms
every night.
Look no further than
every night,
every night.
Months on end,
not in a hurry,
you’ll find it.
And then, simple,
Spoon sweetness
with anything you desire.
If the world throws cheap sweaters
and ten dollar comforters
into your path, checkbook collision
is inevitable as a crash.
Your closet reinvents itself,
dresser drawers line themselves
with lavender, giddy anticipation
for anything made of silk.
Merriam-Webster calls this
“An unrestrained indulgence
in, or outburst of an activity.”
as if you burst into song
in the middle of the street,
turning round and round
in that new skirt,
the pink one that twirls.
A temporary madness.
Ever practical, the bottom drawer
reminds you to stop dancing
and buy some socks
Quickly
before the fever passes.
“In the course of acquiring all this so-called knowledge, I’ve lost something. I’ve lost contact with something that I had. I wonder about myself now. I haven’t shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ for a long time, you know? Can I do it once more? I would like to believe that.” ~Athol Fugard, South African playwright on NPR’s Morning Edition
Every day, I hear something fading in and out
I must remember.
Today, it’s NPR on my way to work.
Static and the road don’t matter.
I copy this down—
a South African playwright
in the business of words since before apartheid
Says, “I haven’t shouted Hallelujah for a long time
Can I do it once more?”
The question always before us.
Of course, he can. He does.
Today will swallow me whole,
nagging details, brilliant smiles, meetings,
nothing on the order of saving
a country’s soul with my words.
So I write his down with frozen fingers
Eyes on the long straightaway
One shining sentence to stand for this man
who I won’t lose now,
even in the deluge of the day.
Stay tuned for more on that story,
says the radio newscaster.
Sip your cappuccino,
examine How They Live
from the comfort of your commute.
Congratulate yourself
for being so sensitive
for noting their Existence
on this spinning planet.
Which will blossom first,
clutch of daffodils in their brown pitcher
or you?
Together, whispers that voice
outside the windows
Lift your heads and blossom
to This World
Trees whisper flying dreams
to the blackbird against the
blue sky, the still-furled branches
folded wings waiting for a sign
Listen for the trees to
breathe out, Bloom.
This life we wove as I raised you
fine wool of moments
into this pattern of what is
pattern of comfort knotted
to threads that trap us
hold us till we repeat
all our old mistakes
no matter how weary
the stitches are familiar
Here, a quickly written poem based on a list prompt from We Write Poems— a site I just discovered and look forward to exploring soon. Try it yourself!
When you hear those tangled blue dreams of knowing, begin—
First, turn to vapor all the words tagged Nightmare by your soul:
Carapace, chrysalis, cocoon all spiral away into the dark
With all the winged truths they held. Not these.
Next, Soul, nurture the witch in the cathedral of your center
Drop into your inky cauldron the striped filaments
Of all those years of rain and roots and nurturing.
As sunlight stripes the stone floor, turn to those watchers
Stoic demons, blooming angels and honeysuckled geishas
In gowns fragile as fortunes.
Together, marvel at the brimming cauldron
How the rising smoke of a million votives
Twists with seafoam air from a thousand long-stemmed hookahs
Into the invisible future you built,
cradled in its mystery, opaque eggshell of time.
Not masks or suits
fins or nets
Go naked, with your bare hands.
Dive
again
for words
just out of reach
who bury themselves
in sharp blooms of cutting coral
or hide in deep caves, silent
subterranean mansions
or those words over there,
Taunt and Tantalize
Worry and Wonder
See how they flit
between shadow and seaweed
Patterned, their very skin
a disguise
Iridescent scent
Elusive shine
Plenty of champagne
and company
and canapes
Glittering gowns
wait in wardrobes
hang on hangers
Shaped for Later.
First, there are the gardens
hills beyond
beds to nap in
notebooks to write in
while the jazz band on the veranda
warms up for the night ahead
when nobody is allowed to be dull
but must continue till they sparkle.
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
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A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
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