Running on very little sleep, so I went into epigraph mode when I saw that today’s prompt was farewell:

Nay, I Have Done, You Get No More Of Me

[pace Drayton]

Why yes, I have been spanked by the doors of rooms
I tried to depart from in a queenly huff:
it happens if you live long enough,
just as ancient dust outstays the newest brooms.

– pld

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My thanks to all of you who’ve read my posts this month, and especially to those of you who have taken the time to comment and encourage! It’s back to a more sedate (~ twice-monthly) posting rate for me, but do please stop by from time to time — I’ve some poems-by-other-people to quote and other tidbits to be shared…

Today’s PAD Challenge: make “Never ____” the title of a poem and then write it.

Never Tell a Witch You Haven’t Had Breakfast

For she will not believe you
when you later try to insist
you aren’t hungry at all
while your eyes keep straying
toward the bowl of hot broth
and the glass of sweet tea
and the plate of perfect morsels
all waiting for you to surrender
to the invitation you stumbled into.

– pld

Late

I want to go home, but I’m not yet done
with either my current can of Coke or the slides
I still plan to hammer into sequence tonight,
but my veins are fuzzy with lack of sleep,
my focus leaking every which where
except upon the topic at hand. Oh, to possess
the command of crystalline logic, the grace
of cut-glass concentration — my task
is neither Sisyphean nor any other
incarnation of impossible, and yet
as daunting as not turning around when told
not to turn around. Behind me are the shards
of shattered piggybanks, the shreds
of a lunatic’s leathers, the specks
of myself — for yes, already
I am crumbling, a tale of salt
trailing away from the very water it sought.

– pld

[Prompted both by PAD challenge – “longing” – and today’s words at Read Write Word (thanks, Joanne!). That, and I really do want to head home soon. *wrenches attention back to work*]

The Poetic Asides prompt for Sunday was “miscommunication”:

Verbal Tender

Not wanting to talk,
Ron pretends he’s asleep,
hoping that Dan
will read him as “exhausted”
rather than “mad”

but when Dan drops onto
his side of the bed
without even a sigh
to suggest a considering
look, it is all Ron can do
not to demand right then
that they un-fold all their cards
and agree to new stakes —
to something able to light
the same fire under their tails.

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This week’s Fifty Two Pieces prompt: Dzunuk’wa Feast Dish:

From a Woman At the Fork in the River

You cannot flee from emptiness, for while
it may devour you without its many lips
grazing upon any part of your skin,
your life may depend upon its gliding grasp,
its darkness rich with teeth
that will tear from you new eyes.

– pld

[P.S. Mary, when I saw the image and read its caption, I confess my first reaction was, “That is so a marymary poem in waiting…” 🙂 ]

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]

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