poem-a-day: lucky?

First I want to say that I’m safe and basically functional, not in an overly worrisome state of mental health. But that I am having a much harder time this year with the poem-a-day deal than in years past. I’ve missed several days (starting Friday). Last Tuesday’s two-for I wrote on my phone in bed at the end of the day, but hadn’t typed in here until today. The other ones that aren’t here, I just have not attempted. (Yet! I have the intention. Time will tell if I can carry it out.) I have some time now and I do feel like writing is good for me (I just heard a quote on the Terrible, Thanks for Asking podcast where psychologist Edith Eger said the opposite of depression is expression, which resonates with me). So I’ll try today’s and then see if I can go back and write to some of the prompts I’ve missed.

Writer’s Digest’s Robert Lee Brewer says, “For this Two-for-Tuesday prompt:

1. Write a lucky poem and/or...

2. Write an unlucky poem.

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lucky

I found two four-leaf clovers the other day
picked them and pressed them
between close and clue
in the big hardback dictionary

and when they were flat and dry,
stuck them to my refrigerator
with a magnet.

I don’t feel especially lucky
almost four years on
of living “every parent’s nightmare”
(a phrase I despise
partly because it’s true
and partly because)

no words encapsulate
that ____ night
(here I wasn’t able to come up with
a suitable adjective:
agonizing, terrible,
which just proves my point)
and the 1406 days since.

Life is hard
but I’m still here
and I can cry when I need to
and say what I feel
and someone will read this

I guess that’s lucky.

poem-a-day exotic species: orba parente

For today’s prompt, write an exotic poem. Set your poem in an exotic locale. Or maybe write about an exotic person, animal, or technology. And remember that your everyday things may be exotic to someone else. Honestly, I’ve found poets are a breed of exotic creature whenever I’m in a room full of “normal” adults. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

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orba parente

the bereaved parent is an exotic species,
the sighting of which is prone to provoke
barely concealed gawking
and furtive whispering

having lost a child
is as if one were a dangerous creature
on exhibit at the zoo
where everyone wants to see
but no one wants to get too close

because who knows what might happen
best keep your distance
and hope that I am
a mere curiosity you can forget about
tomorrow

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Forgive the poorly translated Latin title; I’ve never studied Latin, so I had to just plug “bereaved parent” into an online translator to try and achieve the effect of a species’ scientific name. I think “orba” has something to do with the root of the word “orphan,” and since there’s not an English word for a parent who has lost a child (the way orphan describes having lost one’s parents) the idea of it being applied in reverse resonated with me.

stop

It’s time for our fifth (and final) Two for Tuesday prompt of the month! Pick one prompt or use both…your choice! 1. Write a stop poem. 2. Write a don’t stop poem.

Today is the final day of the 2019 April PAD Challenge, but come back tomorrow for the first Wednesday Poetry Prompt of May and stay for Poetic Form Fridays, the next WD Poetic Form Challenge, and so much more! — Robert Lee Brewer, Poetic Asides blog, Writer’s Digest

Stop

Remembering you hurts because
there are no more
new memories

All our times with you are
”remember when …”

And so every one of the
reminiscences,
however light or funny,
casts a shadow

But I can’t stop
(how could I stop remembering you)
because you also
fill me with joy

I still want to feel
all the feelings
open myself up to
their full intensity
even the pain,
loneliness,
devastation

Because it means you lived

in which my grief walks a labyrinth

For today’s prompt, write an evening poem. A poem about or during the night. Or take evening a completely different direction and think of evening the score or making things more even (or fair or whatever). — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Even

As the sun shone bright
I walked a labyrinth
even and slow
Projecting the journey of my bereavement 
on my peregrination,
Here and there the path turning back upon itself
until at last I found its end
But, unicursal, it impelled me
to retrace my way
from that sacred space back into the world. 

It set something loose within me
so at eventide
the tears and lamentations flowed
an outpouring of grief
uncommon, unexpected
And demonstrated to me
the journey may, yes, be slow —
but cannot be described as “even”. 

Was my outburst
a setback?
Or a breakthrough? 

in exile

For today’s prompt, write an exile poem. Exile is a noun, a verb, and an American rock band from Richmond, Kentucky. A person, animal, or object can be exiled. But people and animals also exile others — or even exile themselves. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Exile

I am exiled from communities I once belonged to
My loss erased all commonalities

I have different needs
My senses report anomalous data
I don’t see what others see
I can’t feel what they feel

I stand alone as tides ebb and flow around me

Nowhere feels like home

I speak a strange language now
I have abandoned my old customs
What was familiar is foreign

I seek asylum.

no pomp, but circumstance

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Complete (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then write your poem. Possible titles include: “Complete Best Day I Ever Had,” “Complete Guide to Writing Poems,” “Completely Wrong Way,” and “Completed Set.” — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Completely incomplete

It’s five or six weeks
until high school graduation,
Class of 2019.

I can’t help but think about —
even dwell on —
what Rader is supposed to be doing right now.

Senior project would be complete.
College applications, complete.
Cap and gown order. Graduation announcements. Summer plans.

First week of June
is the last time we will know
with any confidence
what Rader would have been doing,
if he were still here.

Five or six weeks.
Soon.
Complete.

lost and alone

For today’s prompt, write a lone poem. Perhaps the poem is about a solitary wanderer or person who just prefers to go it alone. Or a lone winner, lone wolf, or some other solo individual. Or alternatively, I’ll accept poems that are about loans or that are about being alone. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Lone

Bereavement is a solitary world
No one else is living your life
— even those who mourn the same loss

Some respond according to norms
While some are outliers
Some grieve ‘properly,’
and some are shunned
because their mourning makes other people uncomfortable.

Maybe you cry too much.
Say their name too much,
talk openly about what happened.
Don’t manage to ‘move on’ at an acceptable speed.
Continue to rage and rail.

Maybe you fail to return
to being the same person you were before
— how dare you not bounce back
from your whole life imploding?

People have been dying
since people have been.
Why are we so terrible at this?

How can we undergo an experience
that has happened or will happen
to every single person who ever has lived
— the loss of a loved one —
and still be alone?