Writing

Prompt: Write a poem that incorporates a hobby (either yours or someone else’s).

THIRTEEN LINES

“Hobby” is a loaded word,
literally defined as a distraction
from necessary evils, a pleasurable
pursuit stopped short of sin,
but Monday nights were no more
hobby than a Christian’s Sunday
morning service, the open mic
a confessional, poets, a full-throated choir
inspiring the flock, Maureen, the organist,
playing 13inis like sacred hymns, and me,
at the altar, chalice in one hand,
preaching the gospel of the Word
resurrected from the page.

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Fell behind this weekend; catching up in bulk!

Prompt: Write a poem about Friday.

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.

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Prompt: Write a poem about a memory.

NOT LIKE IT USED TO BE

Every job I’ve ever had,
I always seem to have just
missed the good old days.

STFU and GBTW.

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Prompt: Write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general.

SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER

The beginning of a new
season revives the spirit,
like a clown handing a child
a bright new balloon
that will pop five minutes
after he gets it home.

Being a Mets fan
from the Bronx
requires a thick skin
quick wit, and high
threshold for bitter
disappointment.

Being a Jets fan
anywhere, post-1969,
is simply masochistic.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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