Just Dance

You believed in such levity.
To be airy, light, and then
for sorrow, falling absently.
Emoting, that’s it, that’s
the magic of dance.

You’d never be one,
the one to do the squat,
or the high falutin’ kickin’,
nothing of the sort.
But break out of everyday reserve
you could, your body loose then
tight, humming excitedly.


Perhaps Robert Brewer watched someone dance. That’s why he asked for a dance poem. Dancing is one of the best things in the world. It’s best to do it while you still can. Because sadly, there’ll come a day when you no longer can. With each year your body rusts a little or a lot. Dancing is your body in lithe movement. There’re all types of dance too. So dance the form that your body likes. For instance I’m not much into hip hop. Too funky. I rather like lyrical dance. Surprisingly I find belly dancing the hardest to master, alternating between feeling entranced and repelled, and maybe both at the same time. I’ll stop rambling now.

What Love Sonnet?

Time has slowed to a still.
Have you no thought for me?
The theatrical moon rattles
you? Much darkness shields,
hearkens to hopeless abandon.
Do we grow wise in malady
so as to learn not to yearn?
What keeps me in motion?
All the missing pieces.
And having to repudiate
whatever it was–the gist
of action is not heroic,
except that in oddness,
true love isn’t a madness.


Day 11, it turns out, is sonnet day. I’ve nothing against love sonnets. My favorite is this one by Pablo Neruda. I don’t do rhyme much. It’s like …against my form. But I relented. Poetry that sounds like poetry because there’s an obvious musicality. Anyway, it’s full moon tonight. And bloody hot. But there you go, Robert Brewer asked for a love sonnet. He asked for a sonnet but I say it has to be a love sonnet.

Strange Poem’s So On Point

So on point–she of the silver luggage
would not accept the lack of bathtub,
and she cancelled the booking.
At least she wouldn’t have been
one who’d hoot like a savage.

I wouldn’t have imagined this life
made. I made the bed so would have
to lie on it. For someone who’d been
reckless, I’ve had to toe the line
too, when occasion called for it.

Adrienne, the night crept up on me.
So longing of bed and poetry.
I’m secretly happy. When the sun rose
obediently, the bathtub, it would
be right back where it belonged.


The clock runs our lives of course. But then which clock? Yours or mine? The prompt is being dropped off in my night. Which gives me a headstart I reckon, if I write a poem before bedtime. If not then I’d be falling behind. I’d rather not be falling behind if I can help it. So far that’s more or less how it worked. It’s more of a rush to write in the morning because you usually have to dash off somewhere. So am I glad Robert Brewer asked for a So (blank–meaning put in anything here) kind of prompt. I’m so on point today.

In The Morning

There she went mouthing off,
with a strange incendiary power
while wiping his forehead,
and invoked saints,
who always eavesdropped don’t they,
keeping a vigil.

In the morning,
his leg unctuous, unwrapped,
the liquifying tears,
dew on leaf. Adrienne burst into
the porch, saying brightly,
what have we here?


Day 7. You may begin to feel a bit lop-sided, what with writing and the heat pouring out of the sky. The day felt like a furnace. Your heart is a dull flame. You keep churning out words. You’d become hardened to this ritual. This repetition. What will save you? Something rings in your ear. What? You’ve discovered something. Well if you haven’t you ought to. Robert Brewer would have you tell us what you discovered. I mean, it doesn’t have to be a big thing. You don’t even have to say what you discovered, I swear.

In case you didn’t realize, my prompt is just so you can submit your poem to Red Wolf Poems, and submission there is the same as submission to Red Wolf Journal. Not confused? Good.

The Door Closed

They had ferreted out tiny tremors,
had been witnesses. Why the steadfast
gloom? As the ones who had maimed,
or been maimed? Was he hung up
with remorse?

I’m glad he wasn’t crumpled but was
left standing in a shrine of his
own making. He had brooded, been
brought back from the brink
at the tail-end of things.

Adrienne told us about the phone call.
By now there’s no dredging up of
old news. The door closed. As if
one must be valiant, and evasive,
leave wearing veils.


Chug, chug. Day 4. Robert Brewer asked for a beginning/ending kind of poem. Either/or, but of course you have to do both. Because an ending is a beginning isn’t it? Think about how one thing ended and another began. So it’s the transition that’s frightening. No one likes to be in limbo, especially if it seemed a chronic kind of situation. So what’s your current situation? Are you starting, ending, or gestating like a caterpillar?

In case you didn’t realize, my prompt is just so you can submit your poem to Red Wolf Poems, and submission there is the same as submission to Red Wolf Journal. Not confused? Good.

Who Said, Not Today?

Our poppy heart, does it lack
conviction, intense and brief as
firelies? Does it lack in specifics?
Immured in a garden it called its own?
Did not call to the serpent
whose suction to grass brought
only a shapely presence?

What seethed in the painted sky?
Adrienne fingered her rosary,
and all seemed lurid as if
the sunbird had forgotten
to come, and apocalypse
was elsewhere. She, who once was
silent, grew loquacious.

Her assemblage of emblems
was what preoccupied her.
Then a rare coincidence brought forth
lyric density. Then nothing.
Wasn’t she real? Wasn’t she
solicitous and loomed here,
flaring if for a term?

Started your poetic engine yet? Just starting to vroom vroom? Then guess what, the prompt says “not today” (This from Robert Brewer.) Say what? But of course we’re not stopping. We’re only pretending. Pretending is an act of imagination is it not? Pretend you’re not here and you are. Because if you’re thinking “not here” you’re already here. And since you are you might as well try and write something today. Yea, today. Say what? I’m deaf. Did you say “not today”? Alright then report to your muse. What did your muse say? Did she say anything, anything at all?

In case you didn’t realize, my prompt is just so you can submit your poem to Red Wolf Poems, and submission there is the same as submission to Red Wolf Journal. Not confused? Good.