slogging along

Today’s PAD prompt was to make an event the title of a poem and then write it.

Marathon

This morning, a 26-year-old man
died after crossing the finish line —
a terrible echo of Pheidippides’ collapse —

but later in the day, four women over 70
completed the full 26.2 miles.
Nenikekamen, said the messenger.
Nenikekamen, I write
in water across your skin,
our sun-reddened limbs
on the shoreline
of sleep.

– pld

[Nenikekamen – “we are victorious” – Pheidippides’ last words]

Seriously, I’m about to die.

Progress: This is today’s poem, another pantoum (a bit broken, and without the changing meanings for the repeated lines that make me so love pantoums), written last night. I figure since it’s too slight to be published, I’d post it here where some people might get a kick out of it. The entire poem consists exclusively of things I overheard him saying.

 

My Husband Plays World of Warcraft

 
There’s me, dying.
I’m going to need some heals here.
Seriously, I’m about to die.
Shit, I got hit.

I’m going to need some heals here —
not to tell you how to do your job or anything.
Shit, I got hit again.
Yeah, 300% damage.

Not to tell you how to do your job or anything,
but I’m getting my shit knocked here:
300% damage,
alright? I understand how this works now.

I’m getting my shit knocked here —
seriously, I’m about to die.
Alright, I understand how this works now.
And, I’m dead.

 

Prompt for today: from the P&W Speakeasy, “the scent of ______.”

Mirrored at joannemerriam.com.

PAD 24

Today’s prompt at Poetic Asides is “travel,” in any sense of the word.

I started out by reminiscing about a blue-and-black flogger I’d brought home from Amsterdam, but this is what remained on my screen once I was done:

Souvenir

Last summer, while in Chicago, I gave away
two pairs of long black satin gloves,
one which I’d worn to a party in Detroit
with a leather mini that now no longer fit,
and the other — I don’t even wear gloves
to rinse dishes, I don’t know why
I thought I needed a second pair
considering how I like to fondle olives
with my bare fingers, which I love
men raising up to their lips to kiss —
so that had been a stupid splurge

so it cheered me up, to see those gloves
on the hands of other women, both
beautiful as they danced, one who purred
as her velvet sheath rustled against
the scarlet folds between my legs

and while our fingers didn’t trepass
beyond self-imposed hems, I will
never relinquish that night, for
its sweet heat rushes back
every time I open my closet. The dress
is neither baggage nor keepsake:
to touch as we did was neither
a secret nor a sin of distance.
Yet, it speaks to me not only of Chicago
but of valleys I chose not to visit, and how
I travel with what-might-have-beens
mingling with my mementos of bandits —
those marvels that overtook me unawares
long before I acquired sufficient wit
to treasure whatever they would leave of me
once they left me behind.

– pld

that goddamn suicidal squirrel

Progress: I’m caught up! I wrote a decent poem about marriage with a few brilliant lines, including one about the squirrel I killed on the way in to work this morning, and a very short, slight rhyming thing which is a bit of a squib.

Prompt for today: Writer’s Digest does regret.

In other news, Amaze: The Cinquain Journal has just published one of my sonnets. No, I’m just kidding, it’s a cinquain. Also in this issue are two by Peg Duthie.

Mirrored at joannemerriam.com.

Take a bow

After a lot of thought, I’ve decided to take an extended break from the Internet in most areas of my personal life.  Unfortunately, this extends to VTL, and since poetry month’s been interrupted already for me by some
time-sensitive non-poetry writing that I’ve had to do, I’m going to gracefully bown out at this point.  I’m sure the other contributors here will keep Vary the Line alive and flourishing.  Best wishes to all!

pace Bill Williams

Today’s PAD prompt: regret

Worse Than Booze

I stayed up past four,
trying to catch
what my imaginary friends
would say next

and I’m trying
to squeeze out
a few more lines
with breakfast.

Forgive me.
Their voices
are so delicious
and cold.