identity is a mathematical construct.
identity is a plastic card.
identity conglomerates me and teeth and titty.
identity is how you see my pigment
which is a differently loaded word than color
because being colored means something
different in South Africa than Mississippi than Crayola headquarters.
Quarters are a mathematical concept.
You have four: one
from each grandparent
who each identified themselves as being
from somewhere, some land mass, some quivering village
on the Mekong or Yong or Vistula rivers
but which no longer exist
due to meandering
or concrete, in the same way they no longer exist
except in this sentence, or in the air we breathe,
or in the dirt.
Identity is a quarter is a head is a word is nothing
more than what you say it is.
I am me. You are not me. You are me. You are you
which is the same as me is me.
you are me, and I am you
to everyone who doesn’t know us.
a day late for Susie’s cool prompt on
identity, and so offered to The Tuesday Platform in the imaginary garden with real toads.
Day 26, NaPoWriMo 2016, though not to the call and response prompt
Toblerone white chocolate
I had a dream about Toblerone
but instead of chocolate connected at the hip
it was a rainbow of butterflies
and each one would break the link itself.
First white, the hue of hope, broke
then pink – lust (in this dream)
succeeded quickly by envy green, sorrow blue,
rage red, fearful yellow, muck-yuck brown
and finally depressed black flew off.
They each spread wings wide – translucent seraphim –
fluttering to the four corners of a round earth
and I was left
awake without chocolate
which may not normally be breakfast
but one should always begin the day with hope.
off prompt to
Day 25, NaPoWriMo 2016, where Maureen suggests beginning with the line from another poem.
not written to Susie’s excellent
prompt on where do we come from, in the imaginary garden with real toads, so not linked, but pay a visit…
via real toads, and Shay
So, I’m behind
I’m behind, so
I’m so behind
the grace of thick skin
and long eyelashes, and a drink
/er is always near
we have many grey days.
they are the best days
when there are many greys.
but I don’t forget
so that is the hope of thick, grey skin.
that we may remember
us. remember us.
we have fewer grey days.
these are those days,
with fewer greys
so we cannot say
these are the better
Elephant prompt, in the imaginary garden with real toads
Day 22, NaPoWriMo, where we are asked to write of Earth Day
14 to 16 hour workdays have cut into writing time… but I’m hoping to make a push to catch up next week, when I have a brief respite…
Being a parent has not been the same as being apparent. I struggle
to remember 17, and why I forgot – the brick wall towering
between that child with a fearful heart and the exposed-nerve world
and this one, here, raging again
/st those profanely boring comfortable shoes
worn by his teachers, and their teaching
to the tests.
Where was he happy?
Is, I suppose. Is.
Maybe by flipping the
bird lid and asking the most obvious question:
how to cut through the poetic bullshit
the candling words, the license to lie
because turning a noun into an adjective is cute
but doesn’t show him happy.
Maybe it’s this backflip into the waves. Maybe it’s the fine arc
inscribed by a frisbee, from his hand to mine. Maybe it’s not
any of these, just the steady breathing that you hear
when sharing the same room, which isn’t something
you can do when you live apart.
Maybe here’s the switch: to take the lines on this screen
Turns of the Tale: Poetic Surprise prompt, in the imaginary garden with real toads.
and linked to
, NaPoWriMo, where Maureen prompts us to look for the sound of home. This would be its antonym, perhaps.
the Blind Melon version: 3 is a Magic Number
one’s too lonely
two’s quite homey
but three make family
it’s always 3
for bad news or babies
not to conflate the 2
three the witchy nipple
I shouldn’t go on. It’s past 3. But something wrinkles
the blanket, burrs the saddle, spurs the flank
even when little’s left in the tank
more fragments and NOT haiku, this time for Hedgewitch’s
Poetry to the Third Power prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads.
off the almanac prompt, but linked to
Day 17, NaPoWriMo 2016
image by Karin Gustafson, via real toads
tongues. get lost in tongues:
French say ‘main’ for hand
so is remain
hand it over again?
over your eyes a visor
under your pits: cold
wave in the air like you just don’t care
is the main thing
main once meant open ocean
so is remain
being again at sea?
do you squint at the distance?
or shiver in her somber embrace
as each wave brings you closer, takes you far
from the main thing
fragment for Karin’s
In the Remains of the Month prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads.
, NaPoWriMo 2016, if not really to the prompt
for the remainder of the month I’ll count
backwards, reverse, but if I start
today I’ll be one short
and not know what to do
at the beginning, at the end
with one shiny day
perhaps you’ll tell me: start
there will be enough light
a 55 with a twist on the doubles prompt for
Day 15, NaPoWriMo 2016
not linked, but visit Angie’s challenging
word list prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads