Prompt: Write a poem about an object (or objects).
Prompt: Take the phrase “So we decided to (blank)” and fill in the blank. Make that your title and write a poem.
ODE TO FRIDAY
Friday used to be a relief,
a moment to exhale after
a week on the grindstone,
something to look forward to
spending money on, time
with, toasts in honor of
— the start of something
better.
Nowadays, it’s nothing more
than the name of a tacky chain
chain restaurant, a momentary
distraction, barely enough time
to catch your breath, and the start
of the countdown
to Monday.
I have very mixed emotions about the Bronx, where I grew up for the first 12 years of my life (1969-1980), and which remains the closest thing I have to a place I consider home, in a cultural sense. Being able to live there again while my kids were still young was very important to me, even though I knew we’d have to move at some point soon after they started school, and the five years we did were a great experience, positive and negative, allowing me simultaneously reconnect and disconnect before taking the inevitable next step of homeownership.
When my son, Isaac, came home with the assignment to put together a family cultural project — Where Are You From? — I wasn’t sure how to approach it from my side of the family, especially in contrast to my wife’s much more specific and rich Cuban heritage. I’m a mutt without a home, the epitome of a melting pot kid (or is that salad bowl?), with connections to many cultures but no firm roots in any.
Focusing on the Bronx was an interesting and enlightening challenge, especially when trying to boil it all down to a 3rd grade level, and by the end, I was left with the same mixed emotions, a combination of pride and disappointment, hope and disdain. I emphasized the positive, of course, but I’d be lying if I denied the bitter taste of the negative wasn’t still on my tongue, things like the new Yankee Stadium, the miserable public school system and the general feeling of it being a second-class citizen in New York City, on par with or sometimes behind Staten Island.
Prompt: “Two for Tuesday”: Write a “clean” poem or write a “dirty” poem.
URBAN PLAYGROUND
On my block
trees were few and far
between, caged for
their own good,
roots straining against
concrete manacles for
freedom.
Dirt was plentiful, manmade
— soda cans, candy wrappers,
cigarette butts, lottery tickets
— nothing that could nurture
a seedling or spark the
imagination.
An abandoned, brick-strewn lot
was our playground, perfect
for freeze tag, cops & robbers,
manhunt… escape for some,
practice for others.
We played stickball in the street
dodging between parked and
moving cars, playing the bounce
off a windshield or fire escape,
sliding into the manhole cover
that doubled as home plate
in an exuberant cloud of
blissful ignorance.
Prompt: Write a poem about something missing. It can be about an actual physical object or something you just can’t put your finger on.
NEVER AS SIMPLE AS IT SEEMS
Home used to be defined by
the brief view of Yankee Stadium
from the 4 train as it pulled
into the station.
The House that Jackson, Nettles,
Randolph and Dent built in my
mind was torn down at the turn
of the century by entitlement and
greed, its eventual replacement
financed with promissory notes
of a return to greatness.
An impressively skin-deep replica,
its skeletons are buried in Little League
fields across the Bronx; the seats are
filled with hypocrites, dugouts
and field patrolled by savvy
businessmen.
Prompt: Write a poem about a landmark. It can be a famous landmark (like Mount Rushmore or the Sphinx) or a little more subdued (like the town water tower or an interesting sign).
SIGNPOSTS
On the northside:
grass clippings,
popsicle sticks,
Sunday newspaper circulars.
On the southside:
crushed soda cans,
crumpled lottery tickets,
church service schedules.
