PAD: Day 3

For today’s prompt, there are actually two options, because it’s Tuesday, which means a “Two for Tuesday” prompt. They are:

• Write an apology poem, or…
• Write an unapologetic poem.

Your choice. You can be sorry–or not. Or write about someone who is sorry–or not.

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It's 9:45. Over an hour late, I'll rush
to the store to get protein shake powder,
power bars and ice tea before willing myself home.
You'll call twice on the way, and I'll miss one.
When we finally talk, my tone short, curt,
ice lodged between my teeth, I'll say I'm driving,
rush off the phone. Oh, okay. Sorry.

No, my son. That would be me. I'm sorry
for always being late. For always having to do this,
this mad race to finish something that will never
get done. I'm sorry for missing your first tennis match,
for missing your lob over the net.
I can move earth and heaven, but not my work schedule.
I'm sorry I can't always say yes.

Sometimes all I have is hope to give you. The hope you
will see me and not be afraid to work. That you will see me
and learn how to care for you, to treat yourself
gently, to steel yourself when necessary.

I will walk into our house tonight. You will see my face
and know what to say. What not to say. You will quickly
clean up the mess you made in the kitchen, offer me a cup
of tea. Give me the movie reel highlights of your day,
the light in your voice flickering. I will sigh. Not because
I am mad. Because I'm sorry I missed it all.

PAD: Day 2

To Marvin, on Number 73
"I like music that makes you cry." -- Marvin Gaye

Clear the smoke from his voice
and you can hear it. The battle.
The ache. The chase of something bigger
than his body, bigger than his song.

Lay down the vocals. Lay down his life.
Change the chord progression and
change a life.

It creeps on me, that feeling when we're
alone on the car, Marvin. When the winds
are doing all they can to harmonize with you.
I clear the smoke and feel it.

I knew your music before I knew words.
I knew you before I knew myself,
your voice all in my head.
It's always been like this:
you, wailing a blanket of blue notes
all around my body. Me, giving in
to the alchemy of your music.

PAD: Day 1

***I know I won't be posting every day, but I will write in the wonderful journal I have dedicated to National Poetry month. Year three and it's almost full. I hope to share as much as I can. But I will write. Every day.

In Movies

Samantha says to Theodorus Melville
as he serves a frothy cup of cappuccino
"I want to be a poet."
He smiles, tells her she can do it.
She arms herself with moleskine and pen,
inhales hard through her right nostril
to help the words come.

She wants to be a poet. As if it were easy,
like chores. Picking dry cleaning on Tuesday.
Laundry and floors on Saturday.
What shes doesn't know can't be found
in screenplay where she lives.

She doesn't know yet.
Know how to watch people.
And not be afraid to watch, be thought a
creepy stalker. A misfit. The quiet weird one.
She doesn't know to keep her moleskine
with her at all times.
Those words she wants will wake her up'at night,
keep her from sleeping in past dawn.

She wants to be a poet. Theodorus told her
she could do it, so she did. Left her husband
after she wrote a poem for Theodorus.
Maybe they lived happily ever after.
A poet's life so delightful, so clean
it could only be in a movie
She will live her life on a blank, white page.
I will color mine with words
she can only wish to own.