April 9, 2011 Poetry Challenge

Today’s prompt is “under the boot.”

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Chris Funkhouser:

Down, down under the boot

Bowse to identify that evergreens sun-worship spur,
Booze to seep that footprint evidence sunburns gobbler,
Cautiousness my low-lifes’ doodles monetize this tower.

Feinting mediant, like feinting onyxis,
chop down tonnes, like lumber toilers,
good-neighborliness wisps trustee jams my ghettoes.

Oh, that livery steady. Pediculus corporis sweetheart, with the shits race riot,
pulsar supervision arrogantly by aquaplane Rose Louise Hovick.
And if it wasn’t for power-dive and thunderstorm hair-triggers,
Oh, that authorization of mingy wouldn’t spur numbly.

District those Augean stables. Menopon palladum blunderbuss’, justly as bluechip twinkie,
Oh, man’s district’s a fire like a platform rocker autotomizes South Sea,
Or embarrassingly hawked goofed sobbingly farcically.

Hold dear authorization like a housemaster lows pier,
Like a Kestrel loggia lowed Boston rocker and scimitar
dotes oversight until the dayboys contravene, Lear.

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Bill Riley:

“Shiny Shiny Leather”

I got into it
in an empty San Antonio bar
with woman named Maria.
I don’t remember
what it was about
or why we were both so
red in the face
but I do know that
I was drunk.
Tra la la.
Anyway,
I’m pretty good with
the caustic and
the damned
and the one, two, three
so I fairly well
shut her down.
All she had left in the bag was
you’re gonna die.
It will be messy
and smell bad
and I don’t know how
but you’re going to die.
Not bad, I said.
But now that we’ve
dipped beneath the cliffs
and are
stating the obvious
maybe you can tell me
why your tits sag.
She spit in my face
ground her heel
into my toes
and whirled out of the bar
leaving me
porcine and pouting
and the smartest guy
in the room.

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Seth Brown:

“Under the Boot” (an anagram acrostic)

UNDER THE BOOT we live, and BOUND THERETO
No savior comes, our HERO NOT DEBUT
Despondently, we face the BONE DOE TRUTH
Earth is our resting place, our TENURED BOOTH
Resistance futile, have no DOUBT THEREON
There is no way to leave this BERTH OUTDONE
Here DOTH ONE BRUTE seek pleasure, ROBED THEN OUT
Entrapping future humans; HERE NOT DOUBT
BONED HOT TRUE love brings no REBOOTED HONOR
ONE HOTBED RUT means thou wilt BEND OUT OTHER
Opposed to those who seek a BRUTE DONE HOT
This sage advice I give thee: BREED THOU NOT

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matt mcfadden:

Photo Op

I. Background
A spring morning in Seattle, stunningly sunny.
I stroll my infant son around our neighborhood
snapping photographs with an old 35 mm camera:
my son, old cars, neon signs, interesting people,
the Olympic Mountains still full of snow, rising
jaggedly upward toward limitless sky.
The smell of coffee, and roses coming into bloom
shifts inner paradigms, sculpts faces into full smile.

II. Foreground
She is waiting for the bus, dark wavy hair
framing a beautiful face sipping a latte.
And the boots: dull shiny green, punk rock,
laced up to the knee, still well below the hem
of a short black skirt. Fishnets.
She smiles at us (bless you my son),
and as the sun ricochets off her lovely
slightly crooked teeth I can see the shot.
We close in, the proposition forming
in my suddenly dry mouth. I can hear
the #18 bus rumbling up from behind, a block away.

III. Resolution
“Pardon me love, would you be so kind as to indulge
an artistic whim, and press my precious son to your chest,
make an angry face, and then raise one of those spectacular
boots above me as I lie on the ground beneath, snapping your
photograph?…I’ll gladly pay your fare.”

But how do you ask that?
How do you place your beloved son in the arms of a stranger
about to board a bus?

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Emily Pulfer-Terino:

Memory

The idea was you’d remember everything.
Gin seared rings into your nightstand. You held
your hat and paperback and said
what happened, what happened.

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Taylor Mali:

My Mother Swims Back to Shore in My Dreams

At a picnic when I was three
I watched my mother swim away
from me into the lake, churning
up the water in her wake—
fountain, geyser, spectacle!—
and I cried because I thought
she would never come back.

She died 27 years later, and now
I cannot kick the tears out.

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Shappy Seasholtz:

GENTLE MEN

I would like to take this opportunity to thank
Phil Donahue and Alan Alda
For making me the man I am today

The kind of man that women like.
The kind of man who isn’t afraid to cry on television from time to time.
The kind of man that tries on a woman’s dress and high heels just to see how it
feels.
The kind of man that let’s his son play with dolls and his daughter play with
trucks.
The kind of man that would and will vote for a female president because it’s
time for Mother Earth to have a daughter-in-law.
The kind of man that knows that woman can NOT be Sarah Palin.
The kind of man that will comfort Hot Lips in a shack being shelled by the
enemy. Damn this war!
The kind of man that takes pride in his housekeeping.
The kind of man that would never get in a fight but will fight for woman’s
rights.
The kind of man feminists name an honorary woman.

Let the men afraid of being real men call you wimps.
You have made us free to be you and me.

Thank you, Phil.
Thank you, Alan.

You are truly gentle men.

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Iyeoka:

When the Ocean Sings the Blues

Do come swim in my gigantic Pacific Ocean.
Find a bonus season under
my Bridge Over troubled waters.
There is a Whale fast asleep
In my Belly near the sandy layers of the Beach.
My waves are full of blues and Unsatisfied.

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Robert Harrison:

Under The Boot

Sometimes I wear heavy boots.
Thinking about Billie Holiday’s life.
Heavy Boots.
Remembering the Challenger.
Heavy Boots.
Worrying my sweetie is mad at me.
Heavy Boots.
Opening presents.
Light Boots.
Watching Brian’s Song.
Heavy boots.
Getting puppy licks.
Light Boots.
Breaking my favorite ornament.
Heavy Boots.
Knowing there is no cure for the common cold, ebola, MS, cancer, and AIDS.
Heavier Boots.
But getting that phone call
At one in the morning
From my older brother about my younger brother.
Didn’t put me in heavy boots, put me under them

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Catherine Wessel:

teenagers

I want to watch the sunset and
feel the sand burn the soles
of my feet.
Dance in the rain,
and laugh so hard it hurts.
Chase after something stupid,
because you know you can.
And you’re so alive sometimes that
you light up the night
and our laughs
ring in each others ear until the
day lightens.
We mess up
and stay out late,
and fall in love too many times.
Just so we have stories to tell
and have an excuse to sob whisper soft
in your bed at night.

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Also from Catherine Wessel:

Under the boot

The fragile spring flower
is now looking so dour,
marred by that soot
from under your boot.

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Morgane Cornu:

Promise of my life

It all began with hate.
But after years a lot happened.
One year passed,
Two years and three flew by.
Her name is Veronique,
This nine letters are making my happiness since I knew her.
Laughs, love, memories, and crying…
We got over a lot of things.
But now an ocean came between us.
Seconds by seconds my heart beats less when she is far.
Vero and I,
The promise of my life,
I’ll not leave you.
I’ll not abandon you.
I love you.

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Katharine Reid:

I wish you could,
I wish you could wisk me up into your arms
and make everything go away
assure me that I was safe
in your warm, loving embrace
no hurt, no pain,
no one scrutinizing my worth
as low,
as disgusting,
as dirt.
I wouldn’t have to face the world’s mistakes
the blood, the war, the hate
the uncalled for, untimely, deaths
of the people around me
because nothing could get at me
in those strong, tower-like arms
You see, I was stupid when I was young
I let go of your hand
toddled off to see the world
too early with my innocent eyes.
I pushed you away,
disobeyed,
hurt you like no other-
I’m sorry.
But please,
Mama, please,
sweep me up into your arms one last time
and hold me so tight
I can’t breathe
suffocate me in your arms of security

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Evelyn Monroe:

Under the Boot

The pressure of being there
Stepped on and broken
Tears fly when I cry
My makeup runs
Darkness everywhere
Under the boot…what life seems to be.

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Marina Yoshimura

Flowerpot Princess

The sunlight glitters from her window
The little nine year old gets up
Pushes away her heavy blanket
Grabs her pink flowerpot
Puts water in it
Then runs to the kitchen
Snatches a box of cereals
Opens the cubby and gets her “princess” bowl
Gets her spoon
Sits at a table
Scoops up her cereals
Her flowerpot in her other hand
Chews
Smiles
Runs back to her room
Her flowerpot in her hand
Opens a box
Looks at her neatly organized costumes
Her flowerpot on the floor
Grabs a pink frilly dress
Wears it over her pajamas
Takes her ballet slippers
Skips to the living room
Without her flowerpot
She dances happily
Singing songs
Like a “princess”
Stares at the mirror
Only to find the reflection
Of her flowerpot
And her dead flower