Visitation

I went to my old home.

There were new pictures on the walls
No books on the shelves
It was the same
But different.

My room was still a bedroom
Same floor
Fancy bed
This person didn’t use
A mosquito net.

I wandered through
Kitchen to dining
Dining to sala
Sala to my parents bedroom.

Why was I here again?
I can’t remember.
I forgot.
I forget a lot.

For nostalgia?
Curiosity?
It all looked the same
But different.

A tear dropped.
I was crying?
I laughed.
It makes no sense.
Why would I even care?

I smiled through the tears?
Maybe I grimaced.
I passed a mirror.
Yep.
Grimaced.

Maybe old homes haunt you.
That would be strange.
Wasn’t I to be the haunt
Here?

P#3 Not sure this is a poem.

Last week at work someone asked the group,
“What’s your favorite dessert?”

Some answers were simple.

“Leche Flan.”

“Mousse.”

“Chocolate.”

 

And some were fancy.

“Durian-flavored icecream.”

“Peach flambe.”

“My mom’s fruitcake.”

 

Mine was,

“Cappuccino-flavored sans rival.”

(I felt pretty smug when I said this.)

 

The answers kept on coming.

 

Then somewhere down the line,
someone said…

 

“Anything…”

.

.

(‘Meh’, I thought.)

.

.

.

.

.
“If it’s Free.

 

 

(Gasp!)

mbc

 

Imitation #3

I find nothing more conducive to the blunting of one’s appetite than to have none but elderly persons sitting around one at table, fouling their napkins with the disintegration of their make-up, and surreptitiously trying, behind noncommittal smiles, to dislodge the red hot torture point of a raspberry seed from between false gum and dead gum. ( Nabokov, Pale Fire)

Imitation #3 Tried to make a similar sentence by staying true to the story being told and to where the commas are placed. This is pretty fun, but I’m finding it hard to think about how to instruct my students to do the same.

I think there’s nothing more encouraging to the loss of one’s appetite than to be surrounded by over-ripened humanity at dinner, staining their tablecloths with the cake of cheap lipstick, and trying unsuccessfully, behind off-hand smiles, to remove the mouth-deadening sensation of a raspberry seed stuck between dead gum and fake teeth.

P#2 Wildflowers in Darkness

The sun in my eyes.
It hurt.
My mother told me,
“Don’t look at it.“

I kept looking.

My eyes closed, they watered so much.
Sun spots bloomed.
Wildflowers in darkness.
They Changed. Grew. Faded.

The sun blinded me.
I saw nothing else.
But new, beautiful colors.

I looked at the sun.
I grew older.
I looked.
Older still.
I looked.

Then Somewhere. Sometime. I stopped.

The pain hurt.
But the thought of it hurt more.
Just thoughts… whispers…
 
Today hurts far more than Yesterday.
Tomorrow will hurt far more than Today.

I knew they were there.
The Wildflowers in the Darkness.
I could reach for them if I wanted.

But Somewhere. Sometime.
In between growing up, I
Changed. Grew. Faded.

Now I’m just afraid.

Imitation #2

Gradually she learned to use her eyes and apply new knowledge, till she could stand in an empty suburban street and realize that far beneath her shoes was a crater filled with rubble never to be seen, that never had been seen, because there were no eyes to see at its creating or throughout the long history of its being made and filled and hidden and lost. (Munro, Too Much Happiness)

Imitation #2 In this exercise, I tried to copy the rhythm of the words as much as I could, while using my own idea for the sentence.

Remi strove with all her might to be nothing more than ordinary, till she could stand in a room with a mere five people within and never be entirely real, never be entirely there, because there were no eyes nor ears to pierce the utter humdrum that surrounded her whole being till her presence was naught but felt and seen and heard and forgotten.

 

 

P#1 Blank

I stare.

It’s blank.

I stare some more.

Still blank.

My hand moves.

(Is it having a thought I don’t have?)

It stiffens. Stops.

False alarm.

I return to the glaring whiteness.

We stare at each other.

Minutes pass.

Blank.

Blank.

 

Still blank.

I think I can see the future! In three hours time . . . it will be . . .

Miraculously!

.

.

.

Still blank.

(Sigh . . . ) This damn page . . .

 

I sleep.