Idols of March

(Thanks to Miss Snark for this idea. It was a fun exercise, and apparently I created something with "a certain unexplainable charm". I'll take it.)


In Bed with Dan Lazare

Dan Lazare--not Dan Lazar--loves his last name. Letters mostly common and soft, but for that sharp ā€œzā€, like a griffin's beak surrounded by feathers, or the moonbeam couched in diffuse light that shot through the tiny hole of a window above his bed. The window had been an impulse decision, which seemed snazzy at the time, but now was rather silly and useless and annoying and required a special reacher to close the tiny blinds. Lying on his back in his bed, he stares at the window and cringes. In the distance, a helicopter is heard.




Walking, for the first time,
my daughter is steady
and smiles with pleasure.
By the standard measure,
I am told,
this is slightly early
though she still won't speak,
as though "Dada"
would be the famous straw,
as though her knees are too weak
to carry both body and voice,
that she would break in two.

Given the choice, of course,
I would not handle both just yet;
I think too much praise
would make me hoarse.
Besides, she has much more to get
her mind around
and there are, still to come,
so many days.

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The poems are coming! The Poems are coming!

That is, NaPoWriMo is right around the corner. This is me, warming up.

Lost Poem

I lost another poem, today.
Blame it on laziness,
blame it on craziness
or haziness,
just don't blame it on me.
The man who loses his poems
is not the man I want to be.

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Staring (at Anything Other than My Computer)

It's two-ten
going on nine a.m.
A rally-towel hangs by pushpins
on my cubicle wall.
When, oh when
will the stubborn sun fall?



Office Space

a workplace hay(na)ku sequence

cubicle is
surrounded and alone

the suffocating
endless gray winter.

have three
different bosses, and

am mad
at the printer



What I remember from college


The carpet was blue
and stained;
the chances of making it back
from the shower,
towel in place,
varied from hour to hour.


Who had the biggest
hard drive,
and who did not
(I'm still happy
with the one I've got).




This weeks theme at Poetry Thursday is "red". My entry is merely a trifle, and it only qualifies because the themes are optional and because it uses the word "red" twice. Enjoy!


I pricked the infant Poem, watched it bleed
onto the page for me to read.
It was not ornate or complex, but fine
and simple; its blood was red, like mine.
I tended the small Poem as my child
and watched it grow up tall and wild.

I left Poem once, briefly, on its own;
when I returned, it weakly moaned
and cried for me to feed and hold
and love.

And when my Poem is old
long since gone out into the world,
its body strong, its mind unfurled,
and though it long will bleed as red as I,
I know someday my precious Poem will die.
I only hope that then, I too am dead,
so as not to dig my child's last bed.

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Listening to Kashmir. Monday.

"Let the sun beat down upon my face,
the stars to fill my dreams,"
where a woman walks whom I've not seen
much, though I'll always wish her face
was near

my own. Oh, LORD, be my guide
into the evening hours as skies now darken,
lights fill windows, and beggars hearken,
to tonight's new dwelling place to hide
in fear.

revised from the Jan 23 post.




(photograph not my own - click for link to original)

What spear is this I wield?

What fear to slay?
Let a river of blood flow red and cold,
And let tomorrow differ from today.

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From the Balcony, Thursday