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July 10, 2016

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Prescott Park 3 by Susan Cole Kelly

 

We always look for the harbor seal,

The one we saw that one time,

Five or six years ago. She swam

Around the moored fishing boats,

And schools of minnows. Under the shadow

 

of the Naval Shipyard,

The prison across the bay.

We were high on the visions of flowers,

Reaping ideas from their landscape

 

For our own cottage garden.

The benches, dotted in bird poop,

Are still welcoming and offer 

A place to sit while looking. 

 

Behind us, songstresses 

Practice their scales, directors

Block this summer’s musical,

And early arrivals lay blankets

 

Marking a spot near the stage. 

We have not seen the harbor seal

In these last five years, but

We check every time, just in case. 

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This is Poem #118 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

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July 9, 2016

Cats            or            Dogs

Fish            or            Steak

Black          or           White

Guns           or           None

Light           or           Dark

Liberal        or          Conservative

Equality      or          Oppression

Red Socks   or          Yankees

Love            or          Hate. 

 

This is Poem #117 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

July 8, 2016

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With all these guns poking

Out of the backs of jeans

And purses, lounging in glove

Compartments, it is amazing

 

More of us are not 

Caught in the swarm

Of ammo flying. Two

 

Decades to unravel 

Years of progress back

To this bleak time.

 

A dull house of suspicion, where

Anyone who is different

In the mirror or from the pulpit

Is executed on the spot. 

 

Seems we are always packing up our own toxicity

In wagons heading west –

Taking back what was never

Ours to begin with. 

 

This is Poem #116 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.


July 7, 2016

Some spare no law, inconvenience,

to assure their continued existence.

Where were you when the axe 

cut the last tree down?

 

I should be able to drive

my Jeep in the sand over

the nests of fragile eggs

and chains of food I will never

 

comprehend. How does

that small pepper burn

so big when the microscope 

cannot even see its heat?

 

Eagles came back, you say.

Now vandals shoot them

from the sky in the ultimate

symbolic treason.  Open

season on those newly

off the list. 

 

This is Poem #115 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

July 6, 2016

 

We search for gurus –

Fingers spread in a dark

World – underground, meditating,

Who will lead us to enlightenment.

Some can give you a step 

Ladder, make access

To what you think

You want accessible. 

Others block the way, always

Gatekeeping a sacred

Other they must protect.

On that plane, connect. 

She will grasp your hand

When, and only when, the time

Is right and you

Are ready. 

This is Poem #114 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

July 5, 2016

According to record, they

Knew how to party. Women

In bobbed hair and fringed

Dresses, heals. Martinis

Champagne, and the looming

Stock market crash. 

Everything’s always better

When the end of things is

Inevitable. (Death comes

eventually, but we fail

to let it spur us on

most days) Glitter falls

From the chandelier and roses – 

Well, we know the cliche –

Love, hell, that’s always 

Trying to burn itself

To the ground. Fuck,

Gatsby, you thought

You’d have it all in

Your mansion with a view

Of the future you’d reclaimed

For a moment. Dead 

In the pool, however, was

All it ever could be. 

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This is Poem #113 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

July 4, 2016

Grim wall to be built,

The remains of those you have killed.

Heads off to the cause

And boiled for the feast.

 

Murderers like trophies. 

It can be a downfall-

sometimes the ego makes

one lose – Bragging

 

Of your crimes on the Internet

Is not the wise choice.

But a wall of skulls –

 who would mess with such savagery?

 

A boast and a warning in one. 

 

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This is Poem #112 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

July 3, 2016

Everyone expected rain

At the funeral, but we

Got sun, full-on, sunglasses

Blaring rays of light. It did not

 

Fit the mood of the event.

We had packed our black

And giant umbrellas

In our trunks for the expected

 

That did not show. Even

If my MOMA souvenir 

Has baby blue sky and cotton

Ball clouds to fool me.

 

He was still gone – the lie

Of good weather

Refused to change that fact.

 

Do you visit the coral reef

And ancient architecture 

When a cremation

On that tropical island

Is inevitable? The people 

Would talk. There is always

 

That. 

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Photo from the 2010 production of The Laramie Project at the Winnipesaukee Playhouse

This is Poem #111 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

July 2, 2016

You should expect

An empty page after

 

Such a proclamation

Of situation in the title;

 

But, alas, here words

Dot the page and guide

 

To some unpromised 

Conclusion. I have

 

Not looked at the “real”

work, the pages that exist

 

In a thick stack,

 

Printed in months, 

And, instead, spend time

 

With these poems;

Procrastinating.

 

Feeling non-fictional. One 

Hundred and nine poems in

 

Is not authentic writer’s

Block. Authorship is there

 

In the poet pen, but

Puts little bread on the table

 

Or oil in the lamp. 

But ignites the heart

And mind for no fee. 

 

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This is Poem #110 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

One day you’re jamming out to Rage

Against the Machine in the mosh pit

At the real, non-corporate Lollapalooza.

Blink.

Next day, it seems,

You’re getting a letter,

Urging you to schedule

Your first colonoscopy.

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Thank you, Leigh Hunt, for the title. 

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