A poem a week for a year. |
Anything to break the drought... |
Intrepid Her name was Wanda Dabrowski, not Wander but Vonda, not owsky but ovski, a Polish countess in Africa and now a humble clerk, fresh from university and brilliant, but with that dreamy otherworldliness of a creature too good for normality. To watch her cross the street was an education in itself. Six lanes one way, six the other, the street fronting our building, and we’d gather at the windows when Wanda set out down the steps, her daily intent to cross the stream and never mind the crosswalk. Courage it took to watch her, in a ruler straight diagonal, eyes on the goal, the far side, traffic avoiding her at the last moment, dodging this way and that, and Wanda oblivious, intent only on whatever beckoned from the other side, never flinching nor showing that she knew how close she came to disaster every day. Like Moses in a reverie, she parted the torrent, unaware of the wake she left behind and we, held in fascination, unable to do more than stare, knowing too well that uncomprehending look in her eye if we tried to explain. In the end we had to admit it was true, that God protects fools and drunkards and Wanda Dabrowski. Line Count: 35 Free Verse (I think) For Promptly Poetry, 22 June 2020. Prompt: Imagine a scene or a moment in a crosswalk Note: Every word of this is true and was instantly recalled to me by the prompt. I don’t know what happened to Wanda but I feel quite sure that she was never involved in a traffic accident, the world parting before her determined tread as it did. And she did throw the most amazing parties at her parent’s mansion in the country. |
Hymn for Rodney King Why can’t we all just get along? Oh, Rodney, Rodney, don’t you know? That “we all” are the problem entire, that flawed and broken as we are, just getting along is beyond our grasp. Did you not hear that we fell from grace, that imperfect we’re born, imperfect live, in the image of God but with illicit fruit still lodged within our being? It’s true we’re capable of love, of self denial, generosity, of creation benign and beautiful, yet equally the seed inside produces hate and murder; selfishness and a jaundiced eye are masters of our deep desires that snare our impulse toward the good, a permanent battlefield. So we proceed, like two-faced Janus, bright as the sun at moments. dark as midnight in an instant, forever torn and subject to the dichotomy of our nature. Oh dear Rodney, this eternal war that rages within our hearts will always find expression. Getting along out there can only be if first we fix ourselves. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Romans 7:24 (NIV) Line Count: 28 For Promptly Poetry. June 15 2020 Prompt: Select five words beginning with the same letter and write a poem using them. Words Chosen: Battle, Bright, Benign, Being, Born. |
Waving to a Neighbour That’s old Whatsisname, I think, yes, must be, he’s at the right door. But what? Is that a wave? Can’t be, he’s as Coventry as me, never in twenty years has he waved at me and I, even longer I should think. A damn smile as well, what’s his case? Must be for someone else, yes, there’ll be Mrs Grainger standing at her inevitable window and waving, unaware that we don’t do that here. But now I’m not so sure, the angle’s wrong and that tree behind me is in the way. It has to be me, there’s no escape, can’t even pretend to have missed it - there was a moment our eyes met, he knows that I know, I’m sure of it, and now I have to respond somehow. Bugger, this is awkward, why’d the old fool go do a thing like that? It’s not right to force a feller to make a spectacle of himself, to give a cheery wave, or even say hello. No, that’s too much, I’ll give a wave disguised as salute, can always say an involuntary twitch caught me at the very moment, here we go, I lift my arm, the hand not waving, more on guard, but too late, he turned away, missed my signal, thinks I shunned his unexpected greeting. Always the way, these unwanted gestures, best you mind your business and I’ll mind mine. Line Count: 34 For Promptly Poetry Challenge, 6/8/20 Free Verse Notes: The city of my birth, Coventry, is well known in England as being the most unfriendly place on earth. The truth is that we’re excruciatingly shy and have developed an unspoken agreement to ignore each other as much as possible as a result. On holiday in Norfolk, I once pulled into a service station and a young lass appeared and started to fill my car’s tank. I nearly fell over with shock when she started to tell me all about her troubles with a boyfriend as though I were a long lost friend. People just don’t realise what delicate creatures Coventry folk are. |
There And Back Again Monday I hitched my wagon to a star, Tuesday I saw that I’d gone much too far, Wednesday I began the walk back again, Thursday I lost both my compass and pen, Friday I asked a stranger the way, Saturday I mostly had nothing to say And Sunday I let my head hit the hay. Seven Lines For Seven Days Promptly Poetry Challenge Week One |