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TGAP 3 Week 20 submitted August 15, 2011. Art by Photobug Shar.

Restless Soul
I stood on the shore
Of sleep, forgetting lines
Cast. They hooked words
That pooled up to the surface,
Bubbling and begging
For ink. Lazy, I
Dreamed on and drifted
Away from tugging poles
And taken bait. I woke
Too late – words sunken
To the bottom, no longer
Able to be fried up on the page.

This is my submission for week 20 of the Twin Geekz Artz Project 3.  

The accompanying art work is by fellow geek,  Photobug Shar, and is from the same week.

TwinGeekz is a loose affiliation of loose affiliates in New Hampshire who began the TwinGeekz Artz Project challenge in May of 2005; the task was for each of the original seven participants to produce and submit a piece of art every week for one year.  Every artist succeeded in completing their 52 pieces of art, and thus the TGAP theory was proven: “all creativity needs is a deadline”. 

Perhaps it is because I had not deadline at the time, that the words lost in this poem were never recovered.

We grew each of the three years that the project continued. It’s time to bring it back. 

TGAP 3 Week 05 May 01, 2011

TGAP Week 05 Artwork by Cameron Ouellette

You slash verse from the budget,
Until it’s got no place
In the curriculum you claim

Reading a mathematical
Text and rote memorization
Of tainted historical facts are
The cure for all that ails us (which
To you is simply the
l
a
g
g
ing e-con-
o-me.) While,

The Poet Laureate sits in
A swanky Washington office and
Fumbles with his pen, wondering
“Why the fuck am I here?” Searching
For a job description (an-
y – where) when he knows

Across The Mall ogres
Argue against art.

So, he swooshes the air
With a sword that seems
To have lost its point. Slammed
Into this world, born 

Artists, naked in this story,
(for every yin, a yang,
every tick, a tock,
every flip, a flop,

for every battlefield casualty, a premature birth)

We know, Mr. Conservative,
Why you hate poetry
And wish you could bury
It in some sandy lot next
To back copies of the New
York Times
: the truth makes
An ass of you, the butt
Of each joke in poetry and its mirror
News of words.

And time,
Well, time reveals
Your task, Mr. Laureate –

Take that pen down
From above the hearth
To remind us why 

Each stanza matters.

This is my submission for Week 05 of the Twingeekz Artz Project 3. 

TwinGeekz is a loose affiliation of loose affiliates in New Hampshire who began the TwinGeekz Artz Project challenge in May of 2005; the task was for each of the original seven participants to produce and submit a piece of art every week for one year.  Every artist succeeded in completing their 52 pieces of art, and thus the TGAP theory was proven: “all creativity needs is a deadline”. 

We grew each of the three years that the project continued. It’s time to bring it back. 

Let’s do it again! #tgap2020 join us!

April 9, 2016

 

We are still working

Hard – filing away

The shackles of Patriarchy –

 

Wondering where to drop

Them without littering

The world. But if

We talk too loudly,

 

And point it out, well,

We are whining and complaining;

Angry feminists all.

 

Once Helen Keller

Wrote a story and it

All was a rehash

Of something she had

Already read with her hands.

 

I wonder,

Is everything we

Do under a paper doll

Shadow of men.

 

This is poem #56 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

1534515811689

 

Keep silent. Do not

Draw attention.

We are on this earth

These short years –

 

Cycles of birth,

Peek, decay.

The flowers will

Wilt around you

And so will all

You have loved.

 

Double-doors replaced

With ugly fuel efficient

Models. The Tilton 500

Torn up and into

A chain hotel. Even

The drive-in will go –

Unable to afford the digital

Revolution. So we

 

Pay our tickets, and spin

On this ride, year

after year,

after year.

We pedal, and merry-go-round.

 

Eventually, jumping

Or pushed. The dirge

Plays on. Dance slowly.

But, dance.

 

This is Poem #50 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

bigfoot_20lodge_20sign.0

So, Big Foot walks

Up to you in a bar –

Says, “First, I’m real.”

 

You sip your beer,

Trying to be nonchalant,

Keeping your amazement

Under wraps. “Second,”

 

He says, “Climate

Change is real. Just

Ask my cousin, the Yeti.”

 

You imagine the melting

Ice cave – the slop

on the kitchen floor –

 

The rising sea

Levels drowning

Miami, Hawaii,

 

Odiorne State Park.

Big Foot, it seems,

Was here the whole

time and laughing.

 

But, no more. “What

Do you choose to believe

In and who

informs your choice?”

 

This is Poem #48 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

Crypto Map

The front page of The International Cryptozoology Museum’s floor map.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map above, and write from there.

 

 

Procrastination harms. It

Eats away at you

The whole time you are not

Doing. The novel draft

 

waiting in a locked drawer –

thick and in need of revision –

The appointment

Calls to make – schedule

the doctor, the dentist,

the student loan payment. (I do not like

 

to use the phone, she said.)

Of course, I know

The doing is easier

Than the not.  Guilt

Eats you

Like a sandwich.

 

But I cannot open

The wounds to bleed.

 

This is Poem #47 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. Some should’ve most likely never left the book, but here they are.

1499087790352

Image from Singular Fortean

A horrific spectre

Spreads his wings

In the night woods.

But their fragile

Fabric catches

On loose branches.

 

Who could know

What he suffers

Alone? Trying to

Avoid the flame,

And tearing his wings.

 

But we will cower

In terror at his

Tall shadow, rising

Out of mist behind rocks.

 

We set a trap

Of lanterns – giant

Lights to attract what

We fear most. Trying

To get that elusive

Photograph to post

On Instagram and

Prove he is real.

 

This is Poem #38 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map above, and write from there.

Crypto Map

The front page of The International Cryptozoology Museum’s floor map.

Here’s a little more insight into the mystery at the  Mothman Museum .

When you’re in between

And change is mud season,

Mucky, murky, and you

Are stuck at the side of the road,

 

Avoiding the ruts

Got you nowhere.

There is fear in the middle.

 

No one loves uncertainty,

And the risk to move forward

Seems grim. It requires

 

A shedding of the past –

The tire iron at the ready.

 

We have nothing to believe

In anymore. Science her very self

Is under the microscope,

 

And condemned a witch.

Burn her at the stake.

Her feet sway under a long, grey,

Flax dress. Tiny black

slippers pointed like a ballerina’s.

 

We should have listened

To her long ago. But denial

Is so easy to believe

When the world is dying.

 

This is Poem #34 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

Crypto Map

This poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine.

It’s all in the eyebrows.

Do they tilt up and out,

Or create raised rainbows

 

Above each watery eye?

The way they inch

Into each other – a crevasse

 

of worry deep between.

Draw them second, after

The circle of the face, the bulbs

 

For ears. Paint them on like

Snake-lady, who shaved

Hers away and drew them on

Each morning with

An eyeliner pencil,

 

In the days before

Benefit Brow Bars

And string art

 

Amputations at the mall. Without

Them a naked countenance,

No means to say

 

(without words)

 

I want. I lack.

I love.

 

This is Poem #27 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

I appreciate your feedback as these poems are not “finished,” and I intend to go back into many of them in the future.

In English class

I teach two African

Girls who’ve experienced

 

Such trauma in their

Home country, they have

No memories of their childhoods.

 

It’s interesting that

Michonne wields a machette

as her weapon of choice

and skill

and grace.

 

How she dances

With her implement

of destruction

 

The beautiful beheadings

of zombies.

 

She spins. Her powerful

Arms, her smooth

And perfect skin,

 

A foil to the failing,

Falling, pallid

zombie flesh.

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