April poetry challenge #1
The photograph above is one of five that will be posted, one each Wednesday during April 2014, in commatology’s April poetry challenge as part of National Poetry Month.
The challenge: Write a poem about (or inspired by) the photograph above and submit it using the comment box at the bottom of the page. You may use your own name or make one up. Don’t worry if you’re “not a poet.” The idea is to have fun.
All entries must be submitted before midnight Pacific time on April 30, 2014.
At 8 a.m. on May 1, 2014, I’ll randomly select one entry. The lucky poet will win a $25 gift package (your choice of five packages) from Brick Books.
Enter as many poems as you like, but make each one original.
Photo credit: Ladyheart, MorgueFile
16 Responses to “April poetry challenge #1”
Time out chair.
Where do you go to have a time out?
The garden to pull weeds
And deadhead the flowers.?
A City park with an umbrella,
to dance through the showers?
To children this was punishment,
for doing something wrong.
For an adult nowadays,
it keeps us mentally strong.
A quiet chair in the corner,
With a good book to read.
Sounds like a good place,
A good place, indeed!
Thanks for your poem, Amy. 🙂 My time out chair is a purple Adirondack pointed at the Sisters. Where is yours?
One Last
Irene and Henry helped Uncle Tom pack the wagon, every
last bed
last chair
last plate
last hope that life would be better here
piled high
strapped down
and loaded onto a freight car
bound for Chinguacousy.
Father sat with his back to the door,
holding the
baby, shell
shocked.
“No soldier should be allowed to think that loss
of nervous or mental
control provides an honourable
avenue of escape
from the battlefield.”
So he endured the
shellfire snipers’
bullets rats explosions gas infections
stench
so he could come home
to Pearl and the children.
We’ll buy a farm in British Columbia,
Pearl decided.
Make a new start.
Raise turkeys, grow apples.
He stared a thousand
yards and said
nothing
so they came.
Three years came
and went, three
seasons of growth, three
harvests, three
snow-muffled winters, three
children flourished and a fourth
burst
hopeful
onto the scene.
Slowly the light
returned
to Father’s eyes. The intoxicating
fragrance
of lilacs in June. The way
the turkeys advanced
up the north
slope in August to nibble
on peavine. The eagle that swooped
to snatch
the hat from his head as he sat on Bandit’s
back. He was a/part
of something
here.
And then Pearl took sick.
Tuberculosis in her kidneys, the
doctor said. She grew
thin
and weak
one last
chilled
feverish
week
and she was gone.
Henry doesn’t want to leave and he
thinks that Father
sits with his back
to the door because he can’t
bear to watch
Uncle Tom
lug their meagre
belongings
from the house.
But Irene knows
that Father’s thousand-
yard stare is trained
up the north
slope
waiting
watching
for the turkeys to fly home
one last
dusk.
I like to sit on the back deck with a pair of binoculars spying on the mountain goats as they come lower in the spring to graze…. The whole property is my time out spot…. I just love coming home to the quiet peace away from the hustle and bustle of work and town….
Someone Else
I tiptoed but still couldn’t reach.
Why was it put up so high?
I wasn’t going to break it, I knew it was fragile.
Everybody else just ignored it… couldn’t they see?
No of course they couldn’t, it was darkened in the hallway.
They went about their business, waiting for someone else to do something about it.
I stretched as tall as I could,
It just wasn’t meant to be.
I needed to find something.
Something to make me just a little bit taller.
How else was I going to be able to reach it?
I was determined to be that someone who was going to do something about it.
I looked to my left, then my right,
there, over by the wall, I spied
A chair that would do the trick.
I moved it to sit in just the right spot.
And with the goods held tight in my hand,
I climbed up on that chair and replaced the bulb.
Thanks, Amy. I keep hoping to see mountain goats on our slopes, but I haven’t yet.
Q: How many poets does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Three. One to curse the darkness, one to light a candle, and one to climb up on a chair with the goods held tight in their hand.
My Treasure
Years ago a good chair I sought.
I found an antique that I bought.
It’s sturdy and oak
And though I’m now broke;
Part with it? I surely wood knot.
I once met a poet named Judy
Who was artistic and by no means moody.
She liked to have fun
Quite oft’ with a pun
And her antique oak chair was her booty.
🙂
I sat next to the mirror never looking in, afraid of what I’d see
You’re short, too wide, even though you’re glazed in lipstick and rouge
you’ll never hide the stain, Miss Born, that covers up your bruise
Took years to understand I’m strong and sturdy
and layers of paint have left me kind and smart and funny
My awkwardness behind me forever creeping in
Naked, bare and paying penance for someone else’s sin
I see your eyes, they’re mine, the same
You, my love, have change me
Stripped me, took me back to the grain
To show my raw mahogany
My words, my thoughts had become my truth
But they will not be yours, not words for you.
I love these lines. Thanks for your entry, Jennifer!
Alone at last
a quiet corner beckons
smells of cedar
worn planks
looking to touch
and be touched
I close my eyes
the room enfolds me
letting me
let
go.
my chair holds one side
the other is there
listening and laughing.
I sit, I send, I am with you.
The wall is my
drum, thrum, strum these words of joy
against the strong boards.
reverberation, shared with friends
‘Said the Lonesome Chair’
roses are red
i’m quite brown
don’t just stand there
come in and sit down
Not quite alone
in the cedar-planked room I
drum, thrum, strum
Anne is here
Jewel, too.
Thank you, matilda magtree
I don’t mind if I do.
“Said the Lonesome Chair” made me chuckle! Maybe poetry is not that hard after all!
😛
Don’t overthink it, Diana. 🙂