PROMPT 9: Write a self-portrait poem.

Schooled

I have tossed aside my cover
to let the cool morning air
wake my skin,
my muscles,
my bones.

I stand.

In this moment,
this is all I am.

Later,
there can be organization,
a back up plan,
a process,
a sharing of my knowledge,
my theories,
my self.

Later,
students can prop up their heads,
upon their palms
interested, disinterested,
until the bell
or their blood
falls asleep
or wakes them up.

But in this moment,
this is all I am.

I have tossed aside my cover.

PROMPT 5: Write a poem about too much information.

My Glass Was Filled Again

Covers rolled over me
clouds billowed past
my distortion of day,
my mixing of night.

Dreams dropped the words
that slumber used to describe
my mixing of people,
my confusion of time.

Somewhere in the pillow
that holds my jumbled words
my poem was left in pieces,
my frustration wakes again.

I thought I would remember
all the feelings of the dream
my clarity of morning,
my forgetfulness of you.

PROMPT 3: Partly ___________.

Partly Showered

Enclosed within the span
my arms can touch,
my eyes are closed
to effort of standing.
There are no rubber grips
beneath my slippery feet.

Naked vulnerability exposed,
I step out into my morning
pushing aside condensation
till drops cry down my arm.
Through my veil of Vicodin,
I’m only partly afraid to live.

Waiting for His Return

How still the morning,
with the air not yet awake
to move our curtains.

In my husband’s chair
the cat is deaf to the sound
of my slippers.

He waits in a curl,
his head tucked into a memory
of my grandmother’s fox collar.
She pinched its jaw to bite its tail,
fur hiding cracks in her old chin.

In my husband’s chair
a slight fanning of matted fur
sinking,
lifting,
allows my breath
to slip in through my fingers.

I had thought him dead.

But he pinched another day
out of his old bones.

Tender Point

Morning awakes in a drafty mood,
dark and sleepy,
when fibro fog slips under
her blanket
reaching down to cloud the source
of her pain.

Her head, neck and shoulders
are again unsure
if the day’s plans are reason enough
to move
her tightly knotted muscles
into a façade
of normalcy.

Her fitful sleep only provided
exhaustion
and her stiffened jaw
has difficulty concentrating
on the words needed
to explain her pain.

The slowness
in her depressed eyes
cries quietly for each ligament
each tendon,
every soft fibrous tissue of her body.

He pulls off her blanket
as she tries to stand
wondering where he is allowed
to touch her
today.

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Guest Poet: Carrie Bailey

Guest Poet

CEBailey, from the Peevish Penman, writes Odes to macaroni and cheese, her spam folder, people who don’t read her Odes, and other highly significant subjects.  An Oregonian with a degree in Philosophy, she spends most of her time writing, traveling, and parenting her teenage son.

Ode to Nescafe

Yours, a scent saturating the mind
While dreams cling yet like webs
Allure of aroma, never ebbs
Coaxing all unto a world unkind
Those in shambles, drawn down the hall
Humbled by your whistling call
Condensation envelops a kettle now
Hands on handle, we pour, we bow
To cusp the cup, our only thought
The powder dark, from cupboard brought
And spooned does find it’s hollow home
More fecund than farmer’s loam

Gaze on black water, source of life
Wisps of steam that feed the soul
Graze the palette and make us whole
But do not burn! Avoid such strife!
Now, as a lover, with whisper blown
And shivers on the surface shown
Then in consumption two are one
Our morning ritual slowly done
Rhythmic sips from the curved rim
And with each motion, life less grim
Handle handles, fingers and thumb
Consciousness to us does come.

Awake! Alert! Alive once more
Oh, this is what we’re living for
A pungent taste, an aroma keen
This is what “to be” must mean
And an empty cup
Can be filled up
All the world a light with sun
From brown beans of lands unknown
And when the liquid’s gone and done
Inside a raging ember’s grown
Permeates to finger’s tips
Oh, joy encountered everday
The jitters brought by little sips
Our passions roused in everyway
Nescafe, to drink, to love
Source of life from those above

Read more of Carrie’s writings at:  www.peevishpenman.com

Stability of a Three Cornered Stool

Her mother told her
it will better in the morning.

Go to sleep, little one.

Comforted, she sleeps.

Morning was not sunnier,
her pain spilling awake
with runny eggs.

He had his fill
of both women,
wife and mother-in law,
cornering him
again.

Go to hell, both of you!

Washing his hands of the matter
he left her to sop up
with a triangle of dry toast.

Vindicated, he walks.

Hopscotch

The morning cold
makes me sidewalk hard
and dampness
taps me on my chest
to say it is my turn again.

I’ve tried to beat God
at this game,
but it doesn’t seem
like an even match
when he plays with clouds
and I only hold
a rock in my hand.

Saturday at the Farmer’s Market

Farmer tans are understandable,
a tag team effort with the sun
marking a man for a job well done.

But the white line left on your finger
where you have removed our ring,
lies about your futile effort.

Stop shopping at the open market.
Can we finish the job we started
before we both get burned?

Enough Already

I have been up since six
puttering around with this or that
doing trivial unimportant tasks
in a random leisurely way
making me stop and realize
that I should get in the shower already
so I can clean up, get dressed,
and finally get something done.

Forget that.
It’s 9:30.
I have successfully wasted the morning.

Noon Girl

In the darkness of morning she sleeps
sheltered behind blinds
that keep light out.

Only when the sun is directly overhead
can it’s rays, with intense possibility,
pull her from her bed.

Noon girl gradually eases energy
not willing to burn out too quickly
lest she slowly die.

The afternoon is clouded
until the moon can take over
and lull her back to sleep.

When sheltering blinds
take her light again
hiding it till noon.

Cooked to Perfection

I am stained glass,
fabric and paper,
using my artistic methods
to create unique works of art.

I am halfway between two extremes
the means of mass
intermediate communication
conveying ideas
with average information.

I am paranormal
transmitting written messages
between the living
and the dead,
the only means to my end.

I am neither large nor small,
between rare and well done,
slightly pink,
visibly undone inside.

I am
medium
rare.