Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)

Friday, April 6, 2012

The Crow

The prompt today is to write a poem in the style of Marianne Moore, with the suggestion of writing about an animal.

In a pink and yellow dawn,
          comes through the opening
                 in my silver lit window the koww koww,
metered and numbered echoes of the crow,
          who my wise father referred to as
                 Old Indians and taught his children to dutifully respect.

                             Crows hear frequencies lower than humans, which complicates study of their vocalizations and given man’s propensity to know and communicate with other species, at least to                    
understand them, frustration is the baffling consequence.

Crows keep secrets only crows can know.

Cherished by some for demolishing grasshopper eggs; worshiped for sparing crops, the flip side of this adulation is being called tricksters , thieves…they are humiliated, lied about, destroyed.

               Why then is it said crows are kind birds that feed their old and weakened parents?        Amusing that this           
old bird might be so blessed and fortunate.

call him what you will.

To me he is liege.



Thursday, April 5, 2012

Openings and Closings

Tonight there will be no poem. I spent the evening with old friends in The White Horse Pub in Post Alley and laughed so hard I thought I might crack a rib. That's living. I was to write a poem about opening day. I missed opening day but we were quite good at closing night. And so I will meet you all tomorrow, and rise to a new challenge. Thanks, Tammy and Michelle, for an evening to remind me what I'm really doing here. Kiss. Hug. Happy poeting.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Azula's Blues

Today’s prompt is to write the blues. The traditional blues song is the 12-bar blues. Perhaps this will lead to an illustrious songwriting career. Ya think?
My blues is written from Zuzu’s POV. (She, once a jungle cat, now lives indoors. In an apartment. With a seven year old girlchild.)

Once I was a jungle cat, I lived life on the edge;
Say, once I was a jungle cat, living on the edge.
Now I chase dust balls from under the bed.

You know, I owned a neighborhood under the palms;
My neighborhood, yes, it was under the palms.
I was taken from my habitat like a melody from the song.

Siestas I was famous for, my dreaming it was deep;
I dreamed while I siesta’ed; my dreams, yes they were deep.
Now in this lackluster life, all I do is sleep.

I roamed around with lizards, scorpions and snakes;
Still the queen of the jungle, I’m not afraid of snakes.
You know, people, I’m a jungle kitty; I’ve got what it takes.


So if you come to see me in apartment two-fifteen;
I invite you to visit me in number two-fifteen.
Hide your children and your money, beware of the jungle queen.

Other cats they know me, they could tell you of my legend;
Corridas sung about me, this cat is legendary.
I spit a mean hairball and I am quite contrary.

I’m Azula, singing my blues for you.
Yes, I am the mighty Zuzu, I sing the jungle blues;
My story is sad but true…ooh ooh ooh.



Tuesday, April 3, 2012


This is the prompt for today: an epithalamium /ˌɛpɨθəˈleɪmiəm/ (Latin form of Greek ἐπιθαλάμιον epithalamion from ἐπί epi "upon," and θάλαμος thalamos nuptial chamber) is a poem written for the bride on the way to her marital chamber, a poem celebrating a wedding.

Having nothing more to say,
he scratches the shiny surface of parchment
with a pen that scarcely allows ink to flow,
his name stuck inside the barrel,
to leave a trail
that joins him
with her.

The member of the wedding
in an event he alone effected;
he, in his moment of fervor,
words rolling down his throat
to land on her surprised bosom,
she whispered I do, I do, I do.

Sweeping his hair past his blanketed eyes,
he turns and sees one bride,
as he has never seen her before.



Monday, April 2, 2012

Heart of Damone on the Day I was Born

Number One song on the day you were born
"You’re Breaking My Heart"
Vic Damone

The slow dying ember
Continues to smolder
The skin will remember
The hand on the shoulder
The night tore ahead
Of a moon on the rise
I denied what you said
Didn’t open my eyes
My fear filled the dawn
The lark gave no warning
And you… you were gone
In the vacant white morning



Sunday, April 1, 2012

Comes April

Winter gives way to spring
In the most begrudging way

Bare trees that trembled
Under weight of
Anticipate transformation

Earth bursts
Infants shove their way
Arms stretch
Reach to the sound of

Returning home
Open throated
Extol the opportunity of the season