Seven thru Twelve

The important part about these writing challenges is that I keep my hand in the game. The poetry I’m writing this year does not strike me as particularly appealing on any level,  but it’s critical to just plug away. Part of the difficulty is just that work is pretty intense and grad school takes a lot of time. Life is just busy right now. But that busyness firms my resolve to get things different enough in my life that I have the time and space to do what calls to me, to make use of the gifts I’ve been given. Enough maunderings. Here we go:

Day 12: Where I long to be. 
Jagged peaks cut crystal blue sky,
rising sun cast upon shimmering snow, a
glowing welcome.
Climbing stone knees,
deep green pines keep tight grip —
aspen tremble, whispering in chill wind.
Sinuous snakes the river tracing
open valley floor; look to the mountain’s edge.
I can see forever.
Day 11: The challenge is to write a poem in the Sapphic form.
Pink becomes the burdened limbs of spring’s delight
a nesting ground of life reborn, a promise filled;
hope is born in violent thrusts of beak and claw —
soft bundles of fluff.
Day 10: The challenge is to write an abecedarian poem. 
Another day came slinking in
beneath the golden streaks of hope
copper-hued grey fleece, the
dancing tendrils
escape, they
flee, they
groan in
horror – or is it ecstasy?
Imagine, if you will
just for a second or two, the
kiss midair, of Solaris and his
lover. Luna is a
maiden fair, but
never so much as when she dares
opine,  to gently preach
pursuit of freedom, her
quest for liberty
ringing in Solaris’ ears, a thunderous
statement, a
testimony to
unmet need, to her
virginal dreams of no longer being tied to the
westward setting, a
xylene solution that breeds only
zealots, filled with keen fancy.
Day 9: Try your hand at a calligram (i.e., a poem or other text in which the words are arranged into a specific shape or image.)
So, here’s the poem:
What interrupts the slow ripple
out and beyond the sinking stone of decisions made?
What diverts the wave of consequence from lapping against
the shores of yesterdays and yesteryears still to come?
And here’s the crude hand-drawn shape:

Day 8: Write a palinode (i.e., a poem in which the poet retracts a statement made in an earlier poem.
The original poem:
Sticky fingers was afraid
to let go of her cherry pie.
So, she clung like a burr,
and caused a sore that slowly died.
The palinode:
Sticky fingers was not afraid
to let go of her cherry pie.
She tossed it in the garbage bin,
and wiped the crumbs right off her hands.
Day 7: The challenge is to write a poem about money.
It’s all about the money, luv’ –
too little too late, and you’re
past the expiration date . . .       
too much too soon, and they
call you a buffoon.
Money doesn’t handle you, luv’ –
you handle it. There’s a dress code, quite strict with
kid gloves for the delicate trades
of favors and goods;
bloodstained boxing gloves
when reclaiming your soul.
You’re the money, luv’ –
never forget
what you put into it
is all that you’ll get.