Country Backroad—Haibun

There are few things that make me shit myself more than a spider climbing out from behind rearview mirror while I am driving over the speed limit on a windy single lane road out in the country. And don’t think because it is secluded that there isn’t traffic going both directions. And never forget that these roads don’t have any sort of shoulder to speak of. They don’t. The pavement drops several inches into the type of clay soil that is prone to become sloppy mud slicks even after a short rain. And Just beyond the drop off the asphalt is a deep runoff ditch that drains into the river that passes under the bridge with the cement railing that is one hundred yards in front of you. And your tire is stuck hanging off the lip of the road’s shoulder. And, thank God, you didn’t fall in the ditch, but now, you are trying to get back on the road without swerving into the cars coming the other direction. And holy shit! You are about to hit the cement guardrail. And the fucking spider just jumped off the mirror swung on his web until he hit the current blowing from your air conditioner and flew into your motherfucking face!

Holy shit! Holy

Shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!

Holy fucking shit!

This Wasn’t in the Brochure—Stream of Consciousness Saturday

How?! How do you expect me to do this?

I mean, I get it. Some people thrive on

This kind of challenge. But this a

Vertical rock face, and I am out of

Shape. You told me we were going on a

Hike through the canyon. You did not tell me

That I was going to have to be some

Kind of daredevil if I don’t want to

Have to hike the three miles

Back along the creek to the car.

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I wrote this poem following Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt ‘how.’ If you would like to read more about her challenge, check out her sight here: https://lindaghill.com/2022/04/08/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-april-9-2022/

Pegleg Pete—Blank Verse

When my son began to crawl, he learned that

If he really wanted to move, he would

Have to get up on two hands and one knee

And one foot. He would be there crouched like half

A frog ready to leap to the safety

Of the pond. Then, he would crawl like normal

Until he got to that foot when he would

Lunge and set back down on his foot with a

Clomp! He sounded like a peglegged pirate

Walking the deck. And that is how got that name.

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And now, like how all of my old nicknames

Have transferred to him, his name has transferred

To me. With my ankle healing and my

Crutches gone and a hard plastic brace on

My foot, I walk like a one-legged man

Surveying the house like a pirate captain

Commanding the deck of his ship limping

And swaying as he goes. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp!

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Blank verse is unrhymed poetry written in iambic pentameter. That means that there are ten syllables per line and the rhythm is broken up into iambs of one unstressed syllable followed by one stressed syllable. I do not claim that my poem follows the iambic pattern in any rigorous way. In fact, I work out the rhythms of my iambic pentameter by ear and I allow for natural variance of speech. If upon subsequent readings I deem that the lines do not flow properly, I may shift the words around into a more fluent pattern. If you want to read more about the blank verse or any of the other poetry terms, check out the glossary of poetic terms from the Poetry Foundation at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms

Tubercular Sky—Golden Shovel

Inspired by and structured around the phrase, “With flame under the tubercular sky,” from Allen Ginsberg’s poem, “Howl.”

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And I remember the doctor’s office with

My son wandering in the Wuhan flame

Wondering the assumptions my doctor was under

Blank and unconcerned about the

Possibilities of falling tubercular

And not seeing the coming scare in the midday sky.

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In early January 2020, I took my son for a doctor visit to get him treated for the flu. My doctor asked us if we had been to China or had contact with anyone from Wuhan. We had not, but I had read a news story or two about the rumors of a flulike outbreak that China was covering up. I figured it was just the regular old fearmongering like they did for bird flu which never amounted to anything. Anyway, my son ended up giving me his flu, and it was one hell of a flu. I had trouble breathing for more than a month afterward. When March came around and it turned out that covid was an actual threat, I had assumed that the flu that my son and I had caught was an early case of covid, but after catching the omicron variant of covid more recently, I have decided that my pre-covid flu was just one hell of a flu. I am very happy that covid never turned out to be the world-ending-pandemic that the news agencies were hyping it to be. But I am saddened by all the misery and death it did and still is causing more than two years on.

The Modern Aubade

Shut up you alarm clock!

Why were you made?

Who sent you this morning

To spoil my aubade?

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I want the sun to set

The hours that I keep.

I could have one more hour

With my mistress sleep.

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Because then I could do

What my ancestors had done

And not bemoan you

But bemoan the sun.

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An aubade is a poem where lovers berate the rising of the sun because they must separate and go on separately throughout the day. I think that the aubade is a little bit old fashioned. I mean, in this day and age, who wakes up to the rising of the sun. I am not saying that I am being less cliché because everybody hates their alarm clocks, but I just thought the aubade could use a bit of a modern twist. If you want to read more about the aubade or any other poetry terms, check out the glossary of poetic terms from the Poetry Foundation at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms

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It’s What’s for Dinner

There are somethings that just are

Like the yellow haze you see

Southwest of Bakersfield as

You travel up the I5

Just over the horizon

Before you are hit by the

Euphemism and sadness

Of the cows crammed into lots

Standing in the muck of their

Own stale urine and feces

Awaiting beef processing.

Into the deep–Anapest Practice

In the daylight we find out what lies underneath

In the weeds undersea where the shadows all creep.

It’s the ship that was sunk when the storm overcame

And the men tried to swim but they died just the same.

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An anapest is a metrical device composed of two unstressed syllables followed by one stressed syllable. Again, this was mostly just practice at trying to follow a specific meter. I have tried to write four anapests per line, but I could have easily messed up because I don’t have a great ear for what is stressed and unstressed. If you want to read more about the anapest or any other poetry terms, check out the glossary of poetic terms from the Poetry Foundation at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms

We’re Not Talking About You–Sonnet

The sun shows bright on a painted tin roof

And an anti-Biden flag flapping its proof

That the sun shines the brightest on southern

Hillbilly politics. At least, in terms

Of the few living way out in the sticks

The ones who don’t know how to post their picks

To Facebook and, you know, those silly memes

That make the rednecks go and cream their jeans.

The kind your uncle sends at Christmas time.

You know, the post you liked and shared that time.

You think you can hide what you believe in

And you do believe it strongly. But then,

You wouldn’t dare put a flag on your house.

A Fool and His Fart

Have you ever been farted on

By some fool you barely know

On the first week on your new

Job and now you want to go?

.

You know, not leave, but punch the fool

Right in his stupid looking face,

And kick his stupid looking ass

All over the stupid fucking place.

.

And you had to stop yourself from

It because you knew it wasn’t right.

A fool and his fart ain’t enough

To start a stupid fucking fight.

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Well, of course it is, but there you

Stood right in the camera’s sight.

This stupid farting fool will have

To wait another fucking night.

After You Passed Out–Abhanga

And about your girlfriend,

Must you see leaves flutter

And hear how they mutter

To know wind blows?

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According to Word Craft Poetry, abhanga is a poetic form with four lines having a syllable count of 6/6/6/4 where the second and third lines rhyme. If you would like to read more about abhanga and other short poetry forms, check out Word Craft Poetry here: https://wordcraftpoetry.com/tanka-tuesday-poetry-cheat-sheet-for-tanka-tuesday-poetry-challenges/