Love, the Elephant in the Room—Wea’ve Written Weekly

Love—the real love. The kind that a parent feels for a child. Not that piddly little, mopey, “Oh, no. I’ve been dumped again,” kind of love—Love is like an elephant sitting on your chest. It makes you wish you were dead. Waking up in the middle of the night and can’t catch your breath through the tears even though you know it was just a dream. And even watching your child slowly breathing lit only by the moonlight slipping between the blinds is not enough to give back your breath. No parent should be stuck with such a dream. The one where you wake up swearing you just watched your child die.

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Boots on the Ground” by Britta Benson. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt, visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/09/07/w3-prompt-19-weave-written-weekly/

Gathering Daisies—Wea’ve Written Weekly

Is there nothing to be found

Carved like names into headstones

Forever declaring births and deaths

Of the people who once found faith

On slow walks through this field?

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Like a tree rooted in death

Looking for peace in the cemetery,

I try to find my bit of happiness

Slowly pushing aside the graves.

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “It’s a Stretch” by Steven S Wallace. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt, visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/31/w3-prompt-18-weave-written-weekly/

But more specifically, I wrote this poem after reading Murisopis’ response to the weekly prompt. I was inspired by the poem’s focus on the tree roots grinding through the bodies of the dead trying and failing to get sustenance from them. The poem is well worth a look. You can find it here: https://murisopsis.wordpress.com/2022/09/02/looking-at-a-dead-tree/

On a clear autumn day—Wea’ve Written Weekly

On a clear autumn day, one bare tree stands as bones in a house of death.

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “It’s a Stretch” by Steven S Wallace. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt, visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/31/w3-prompt-18-weave-written-weekly/

The Smell of Freedom—Wea’ve Written Weekly—My second try this week

You smell like freedom.

Like motor oil, pimples, and back hair.

Like a firework and potato salad fart.

Like the wrong change at the Walmart register.

Like a greasy spoon restaurant on some Podunk backroad.

Like lightning and rain on the wind.

Like the greasy smell of gun oil on steel

And the taste of the barrel in your mouth.

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Is it cheating since I didn’t write this one in cascade form? Is it cheating to post two?

I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Calcutta Calling” by Punam Sharma. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/17/w3-prompt-16-weave-written-weekly/

Tequila, Vomit, and Broken Glass on the Pool Deck—Wea’ve Written Weekly

Nothing says freedom like a bottomless pitcher of margaritas.

Nothing says freedom like grilling by the pool.

Nothing says freedom like Freedom Pools cascade color.

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Nothing says freedom like a fourth of July family backyard pool party cookout.

Nothing says freedom like drunk parents and kids in the pool.

Nothing says freedom like a bottomless pitcher of margaritas.

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Nothing says freedom like burgers cooking on the grill.

Nothing says freedom like tequila straight from the bottle.

Nothing says freedom like grilling by the pool.

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Nothing says freedom like a drunken family pool party.

Nothing says freedom like a child floating face down.

Nothing says freedom like Freedom Pools cascade color.

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Calcutta Calling” by Punam Sharma. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/17/w3-prompt-16-weave-written-weekly/

Where to Beat the Heat in Southern California—Wea’ve Written Weekly

Just off the Pacific Coast Highway

Lies the town of Port Hueneme.

Yes, I know you pronounced it wrong.

It rhymes with ‘support my weenie.’

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And no, there is nothing in the water

That makes folk’s dongs more lengthy.

The ocean tends to be so cold

Folk’s dongs shrivel small as a pinky.

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The summer winds are cool

With highs in the upper seventies

And nighttime by the fire

Can often feel quite nippy.

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But there is something in the cloud cover

That keeps the winters empty

Of temperatures much lower

Than seventies or sixties.

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So keep a light jacket

Or sweater with you handy

If you deem it right to visit

The town of Port Hueneme.


[Hueneme is pronounced phonetically as why-knee-me]

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Longing for Water” by Britta Benson. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/10/w3-prompt-15-weave-written-weekly/

A Number of Natural States of Water—Wea’ve Written Weekly

Broken backyard pipe wading in the water

Management has ignored persistent water

Drought in Mexico leads to water

Chemicals consistent with fuel in tap water

Created by the erosional forces of cascading water

Oakland residents advised to avoid Lake Merritt water

In case you ever needed a political excuse for water

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Cold Feet” by Sylvia Cognac. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/03/w3-prompt-14-weave-written-weekly/

Remembering the Cool Ocean Breeze—Wea’ve Written Weakly

And you find yourself walking the darkened streets at night.

Past the elementary school you used to play in as a child.

Past the liquor store where you stole your first pack of smokes.

And the things seem somehow cleaner here in the dark

Like they had been waiting to see you back there someday,

Waiting to take you by the hand show you what you’ve missed.

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Waiting for the Dark” by A J Wilson. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/07/27/w3-prompt-13-weave-written-weekly/

My Son Smiles at Me and Tells Me That I am Adorable—Wea’ve Written Weekly

There is a thin line between adorable and annoying

Watching a young child standing in front of his mother

Hands raised to be picked up in line at the bank

While she sorts through her purse to find her deposit.

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There is a thin line between adorable and disgusting

Getting sloppy kisses from the floppy eared puppy

That stole you heart in the Walmart parking lot

Before you knew of his appetite for fresh cat shit.

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There is a thin line between adorable and unsettling

Knowing that the bald mouse pups in the pet store

Are about half as likely to grow into adult mice

As they are to be frozen alive for use as snake food.

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Manilla” by Michelle Navajas. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/07/20/w3-prompt-12-weave-written-weekly/

As the Sun Wonders, What Were Neil Armstrong’s First Words, Again?—Wea’ve Written Weekly

In her synchronous rotation with Earth

Afloat in a pool of slippery blackness

She speaks in phrases of the moon

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Listeners often misheard short words

That turned the nation’s eyes to the skies

Gave them hope with a simple mission

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Fascinated by mistakes

What people say

What people hear

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Hey diddle diddle, familiar to every Britain,

The moon is an idiom again

It got its name having been smuggled at night

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When we talk

We formulate light

Retrieve words

Memory and move

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And these errors

They rarely occur

But once every three years

With a month full of two moons

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I wrote this poem in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly prompt on Skeptics Kaddish. This week’s prompt poem is “Slavery” by Punam Sharma. If you would like to read the poem or participate in the prompt visit the post here: https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/07/06/w3-prompt-10-weave-written-weekly/