Tag Archives: poetry prompt

Poem for We Write Poems Prompt #99: A Fairy Tale Poem

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13

Fairy History

She never knew why
she was born. No one asked
about her day at school.

On the road home birds
pricked her shoulders.

The white blankets cleared
and the man took a wife.

Sisters
always up to no good.

Their strutting shoes
filled with blood.

As the twig grew into a tree
white birds settled in the leaves;
they knew the answer.

They saw it all
through the window.

Grandmothers sitting
in living room chairs, douring
over no one, who never calls.

Mothers extracting
elaborate vows
from their daughters.

Around them
is rooted
an arbor of misery.

When the men
leave, they take
too many pills, scream
from their windows.

When the men
stay, they drink
too much.

They fry the phone lines
with their complaints.

When they walked the aisle
white birds pecked out
their eyes. They never had sex,

they just got married.

Gave birth to daughters
who never left home.

For We Write Poems

Poem for We Write Poems Prompt #98: Signs

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17

This is a story taken partly from my own life and partly from the stories of a friend.

CAUTION

There are signs that surround the prison
where my brother serves his sentence:
Caution. Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers.

I accept their presence as I’ve come to accept
the jail itself, spreading flat across the onion fields
with brick as dry and red as river ash;
as I’ve come to accept his ineffective attempts
to live his life within the law, repeated terms
that fail to teach him the avoidance of transgression.

Like the time he drove an eighteen-wheeler
into Matamoros, got busted at the checkpoint
when Border Patrol found the trailer packed with pot.
He hadn’t thought to ask about the cargo,
had not considered all the detours of the past
colliding him against his own recklessness.

Like the time he picked a hitchhiker up
off Interstate 10, drove with him to El Paso, telling him
about the tract of land he owned in the Valley.

Next day when he heard about the prison break
at the unit, the all-points bulletin and red alerts
issued throughout the county, maybe for a moment
he understood that there are signs that apply to him.
And yet, months later, when his passenger was found
just beyond his house, drowned face-down
in a shallow river, my brother was already doing time
for his alliance with a drug ring in the Valley, for leaving
his barn door unlocked and unattended in the fields.

My brother says he is innocent, says it never occurred to him
to lock his doors, says he never knew about the smugglers
slipping in at night to store their stash. Was that unlocked door
another mere omission, another veer down a long road
pocked with irresponsibilities? No way for me to know for sure.

But, if I saw him out some day on the side of the road,
I’d pull over. We’d talk of onion fields and river water
as we drove back to his shack in the Valley, park the car
out front, leave the keys alight in the ignition, brush
the river dust from his box-spring mattress, and settle
to sleep. Leave the front door open to the mercy of the moon.

For We Write Poems

A Healing Art – Poem

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14

A Healing Art

A girlfriend found one in her breast
while still in college. One day
a woman read her palm and tarot cards,
pressed a hand against her chest,
another to her back, applied white light
and made it disappear. One night

my fingers touch my skin to prove
I am still here, and here, and here –
to forgive a body less than loved or trusted.
I find I cannot keep my hand away, slip my fingers
between lace and blouse, seeking proof
of what I own. I want to take hands

and press them close, say:
here is truth of what I’ve been.
I want to feel white light, the warm remedy
of touch against the poison of my skin.
Instead the surgeon snips me open,

allows the wound to spill like sugar
from a packet, instead the surgeon tells me
that my scars will heal, rubs his hands together
like a cartoon villain on the verge of stealing,
says: I want to warm my hands before
I touch you, and smiles, assuming humor,

pressing palm against my chest.
I want to hold him there, the weight
compressing tape and flesh, say:
I’ve given you nothing. Say:
I only let you take
what I no longer wanted.

For the We Write Poems weekly prompt.

Rewitched – Poem

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18

Rewitched

Tell Derwood to fuck off. Leave him
to his billboards, let him write
the words. Let the stove overflow
with smoke and lift your broomstick
from the floor, put it back
where it belongs (where he does not
belong) and fly away again
with Mother. Let the warlocks do
the dirty work. Let them take care
of their feebler selves. Kick off
your sharp toed patent leather pumps
and teach Tabitha to turn red-headed boys
into toads. Teach her to conjure swamps
and leave the toads in. He hates

what makes you woman, not witch,
the breasts you funnel into cups,
the blonded spell of your sex, your super-
nature, all your gendered tricks.
He didn’t see the blood
when you gave birth, just chewed
the wet cigar. He knew you could create
a thousand devils in a day
without the need for pain. You mop
the ground he walks on, cook & serve
his courage, wash & dry his success, but this –

is just a phase. They’ll dim the stage
before his time to age, before
the contrast shows: your husband in a rocker
with a blanket across his lap. A woman
should not live to see her husband die
but you will. Then it’s out
of Technicolor houses, off to Africa
with Doctor Bombay to heal the sick
and starved. Shake your hair
in Paris fountains. Take your shirt off
on the beach. Make love with life
and strangers. One day

you’ll forgive them. One day
you’ll come back
and reclaim the moon.

The prompt at We Write Poems this week was to create some fabulous version of yourself, then project that fabulous alter-ego into a familiar situation, such as that from a TV sitcom. I chose to be the saucy sister of Samantha from Bewitched – Sabrina. But she’s even saucier when she’s me (And in my version, witches are immortal, cause I want them to be).

diary – Poem

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20

diary

frantic scribbling
into story, a plea
for words. soon

i will unpad
the lock, twist out
its heart, spread ink

across pages, dry
as a gourd, white
as a scar. here
i will try

not to lie. i carry
you with me, never push
you out
into the world,
never give birth
to these small miseries.

For One Single Impression’s prompt, Notebook.

Sharkie – Poem

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16

Sharkie (a somewhat true story)

My brother had a fish that would leap out of its tank. He’d come home each day and check
behind glass, search and crawl on hands and knees, fingers cast into seas of blue shag.
We found a piece of screen to cover water and prevent escape, but the fish would batter
his silver body against its mesh like hard rain until it slipped enough for him to fit.

(One day my mother found him with her foot, half-dead again and flopping, the wire screen
nudged over, the tank still bubbling with colored rocks and plastic sea-divers, and she said: enough already. Left him there, didn’t pick him up until he was still.)

I kinda told the truth in this poem, and I kinda followed We Write Poems‘ Wednesday prompt requiring parentheticals. My brother did have a fish named Sharkie that used to leap out of its tank on a regular basis, and Sharkie did occasionally get stepped on. My mother, however, never tired of putting Sharkie back in his tank, and while I’m not sure how he died, I’m fairly certain it was not from one of his out-of-tank experiences. On, and the prompt required three lines, with a fourth line in parenthesis.