It is my intent to create 365 pieces of art this year. Genre doesn’t matter. A short poem counts as one. A chapter in the memoir counts as one. Each copy of a new print counts as one. I’ll note the “score” as we go. Oh, that and FAT. I should count the loss of one pound as a piece of art.
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APRIL 30 WORDLE POEM
The EARTH’s BARDS have bourne
The CARGO of human KARMA since
A wise old mother wasp
buried her eggs in her prey,
that each LARVA
could enjoy its own
Charcuterie.
Well done, Bard.
Well done, Wasp.
The WORDLE Saga
It’s May First
And you want the whole thing, don’t you?
The full-blown, authentic experience?
In language that excites
Both memory and anticipation?
Ladies and Gentlemen!
Allow me to introduce to you…
WORDLE HAIKU
EARTH
BIRDS
WORMY
FORGO
The EARTH will provide:
Wet soil and plants, BIRDS and dirt.
My WORMY feast, I’ll FORGO.
Here’s a link if you need it: https://www.nytimes.com/games/wordle/index.html
WORDLE PROMPTS
An idea emerged kind of organically on Brett Axel’s FaceBook page. The idea was to use one’s WORDLE words as prompts for poems. Further, we (at least three of us) resolved to do this daily through May for some potential book deal later. I put another layer of “rules” on the experiment in that I will endeavor to use the clue words in the order I used them in the WORDLE puzzle.
Book or no book, it’s a fun experiment which I have begun. This might be the first keeper.
Schrodinger’s Kitty
So, they threw me in jail
like a THIEF.
Locked me in a box
and left me.
Pitch dark, silent.
It smelled of tin cans
and ESTERS of cardboard glue.
No room. Could take no STEPS
left nor right.
I do not mind.
I take RESTS.
I admit, after forever,
I panicked
and let loose
lusty howls and
ZESTY yowls and
whimpering mewls.
With each breath,
all of what is/was/
may never be
outside the box
winked into and
out of
existence
.
Dead Children in the Spring
Nothing breaks
a grandfather’s heart
more completely than
even-toned news reports
of bombs being thrown
on children.
It breaks his heart,
then breaks the pieces,
then pulverizes the little pieces
then grinds the scraps to dust
then throws the dust in the littered gutter and burns it.
The Lungs of Youth
Young Poets
are certain they see and know
all the things wrong in the world—
all the various injuries and injustices—
all the shadow forces at work on the human condition.
They bring hearty lungs and hale voice
to bear with lusty demonstration.
–
Old poets
know
treachery and
deceit and
iniquity in hearts and
the crushing weight
of patience.
Judgment Day
As my life turns into a glide path,
Coming in for a landing
Here at the end,
I look forward to finally walking up
To The Pearly Gates
Where St. Peter will ask me,
With the most intense and sincere interest,
After a lifetime of joy and struggle,
“Did you ever get a 1 in WORDLE?”
And with tears in my eyes,
And hope in my throat
I will say,
“No, St. Peter, but I got a 2
And that is as near to perfection
As a human can come.”
And St. Peter will smile gently
and pause a lifetime,
Then say,
“Did you ever get a 6?”
And the fear of eternal damnation
Will dawn in my heart,
But knowing this is not a time to lie
I will confess, “Yes.”
And say nothing more,
With my eyes diverted to his feet,
While i wait to learn
If God is about flames of judgment
Or the cool spring of forgiveness.
It’s a Trick
Caution: frank talk of suicide. Not a plea for personal help.
There is a moment every morning
when I decide not to kill myself today.
It might be after making coffee, not always.
Or after the under-blanket stretch which brings
a shudder of bladder awareness.
It might be after toast,
after email,
but sometime in the morning,
I elect to to go on with the mundane
and put off the ultimate until tomorrow.
I may be lazy—
just can’t get motivated to finish.
I may be forgetful.
It often doesn’t even occur to me until nearly afternoon
by which time it would be irredeemably irrational.
Why go through the mundane start of another mundane day
only to end it after News at Noon?
I may be fearful that leaving such a mess for someone else
in full daylight would be an act of terror.
And some days it’s too cold to go outside. Or too hot. Or raining.
By the time dinner is over,
there seems no point in doing more than going to bed
in service to Depression.
No one gets out of bed to kill themselves.
Behind closed lids,
I listen to the background hiss of the universe,
which I just discovered doesn’t exist.
My doctor says it is tinnitus.
I also learned the sense of hearing
may last beyond the loss of consciousness…
meaning
it is possible to hear your own dying breath,
if it gets past the tinnitus.
I do not get out of bed
except to pee.
No one commits suicide in their sleep.
Maybe there should be a prime time show
where the sleuth sets off to find
why the old man committed suicide
in his pajamas,
or his boxers,
or with his wherewithal hanging out.
I never think about suicide in my sleep.
No More Right Now
Some days
depression is a determined dog
and
I am a rag doll.
Can’t blame the dog/Can’t blame the doll.
They Speak to the Poet
They: Poet, speak of truth.
Poet: No poet fails to color the words.
They: Poet, speak of death.
Poet: No poet who writes is dead.
They: Poet, speak of love.
Poet: Do not love like a poet.
They: Poet, speak of grief.
The poet is dumbstruck.