Renga Challenge -Sarah/Qbit

Love and longing and technology by Sarah and me!

Fmme writes poems

Windows

Come and stand beside me at the window,
the world is out there waiting for us,
the way we used to wait for first and second post,
news of lovers stepping out from their rooms.
Now we just wait for them to post
selfies from their bedrooms or their bathrooms –
Seconds from you now in postscripted time,
never farther from what we first needed:

Though now I’m not sure what it is you need,
your window on the world has shrunk so much,
Careful not to lose your sight
on the cutting points of pixel light.
While your fingers dance their tango
Over that smooth, slick touchscreen
I breathe in, arms outstretched, the stars
my orchestra, the garden my ballroom.
I am dancing in the moonlit air,
My skin alive with the scent of night
and you, and you, and you, and you!

How we move together in…

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Sweet Peas Renga – Jilly/qbit

Wild ride Renga by Jilly and me. Hold on to your hats, and enjoy the creative process in the comments!

Jilly's

qbit has taken up my Renga Challenge – it is bound to be…interesting; stick around!   Jilly’s January Challenge of Casting Bricks to Attract Jade is in full swing.  Join us; everyone is welcome!

Like sweet peas in water colors
echoes cross the river

Our dung, our beetled life, our turvey sleep,
we fall into carapaces and disjointed limbs

Guttering wings
grid of prophecies emeralding mold

Divined by eyes upon our backs
that see us once, see us twice

Skittering wake caroms,
threatens our sight; our sight

Our slight, slightest, lightest
saucy flight our taste of heaven

Indigo’s bitter blue
crushes, crunches veins of penicillin

Skewered through the helix,
twinned and twined to origins

Euphrates yellows our canvas
diminished chords return unanswered

Tigris Tigris burning bright
our garden silenced by such fire.

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Message in an Orange Fanta Bottle, Mexico, 1966

Please whoever gets this:

I am eight and in love
With the pretty stewardess
Who was on our flight
From San Diego to Baja.

She doesn’t know I exist,
She spends all her time with the pilots
Crowded around her on the patio
Here at the same hotel as us.

If you get this and see her
Tell her:
I am true and brave.
If she would just turn around

And see me pushing palm fronds
Into the pool with my foot
One after another
When no one’s watching.

Finding Billy Collins

You can take the A train to Harlem, said Duke Ellington,
although no one plays much jazz there
anymore.

If you are looking for Bobby Fischer you take the E or F
to Washington Sq. Park where the chess hustlers
are still playing, even today, in the snow.

But I’m looking for the poet Billy Collins
so I need to take the 4 up Lexington Ave
into the Bronx, where I read that he teaches.

I get out at the station and cross 195th Street, 196th,
getting up in the count. Do they ever run out of streets?
There is a newsstand. I should get something for Billy.

I decide that he is probably a peanut M&M
kind of guy. Not plain, and not Snickers.
Definitely not Skittles.

I show the man behind the window a picture of Billy
from the back flap of Billy’s book, and ask
if he’s ever seen him.

He probably doesn’t understand English
but seems to know what I’m saying
and he shakes his head “no.”

Then I show him a picture of a statue of Virgil
on the back of my copy of the Aeneid.
He smiles, laughs, and shakes his head “no”.

I do the same with the picture of Billy
at the Lehman College security desk.
They are unhappy with this so I leave.

It would be a four hour train ride to Boston, then
30 mins on the Red Line from South Station
to Harvard Square, then 10 mins walking if I recall

to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences
where Billy is a Fellow.
Maybe they know where Billy is.

Instead I step into a deli, where they have
rows of food on steam trays and you load up
with whatever you want and pay by the pound.

I buy some scrambled eggs and hash browns,
pay, and find a table where I can sit
and think about Billy.

Billy is always talking to salt and pepper shakers
and teasing out magic from them.
But the deli only has those little paper packets.

I play with the packets, toss them up
and they land on the table like yarrow stalks
that I might read like the I-Ching. But no.

A storm is building, I should make my way home.
I shake out the contents of a packet on the table
like snow maybe, or de-icer.

I touch some of it with the tip of my finger
and bring it to my tongue.
Yep. Salt.

 

 

For Feedback Poetry/Billy Collins Writing

Run Fun Run (After Billy Collins)

I read that some scientists, somewhere,
(it is always that way, isn’t it?
Anonymous proletarians of the laboratory
Without so much as names
Stitched on their lab coat pockets,
All living south of Somewhere, Nebraska,
Driving to work back and forth, back and forth
Like lab mice running in a maze?)

Anyway, these unsung scrabblers of science
Installed hamster treadmills in sheltered places
In city parks, suburban woods,
And far out in the country.
Creaky little wheels of anodized aluminum
The kind kids have for gerbils and mice
When they aren’t allowed a dog.

I wonder did they predict in advance,
That all night long legions of
Chipmunks, voles, rats, squirrels and ilk
Would come in from their trees and burrows
And run and run on the wheels?
All night, for hours on end.
They would even fight over whose turn it was
Like squabbling children.
Apparently they thought it was a lot of fun.

I can’t say how a Country Mouse
Knows to become a City Mouse,
That moment we decide it is obvious
To jump aboard a unknown contraption
And take it for a spin.
(Do I understand better when I see
A fireapple-red Maserati stuck in traffic?)
Is there any hope for us
If we must love our treadmills
So much, just love them so much?

 

 

For Feedback Poetry/Billy Collins Writing

Renga “Playing Fetch” Jilly/Qbit

Come read some sharp word-play in a Renga by Jilly and me!

Jilly's

Qbit has taken up this challenge.  I will update our ongoing collaboration through 10 couplets.   If you are interested in joining in, stop by the original post for Playing Fetch with Knives and let me know!  This is a part of the September Challenge of Casting Bricks; join us.

He didn’t stand a chance
She was as fetching as a boning knife

He would slice his fingers
On the cut of her dress

Exquisite sting
he considers the price

What is fair game
For a member of the criminal sex

She would welcome every pain
Lay the blame at his feet

The hollow-points of honor
Reach escape velocity

Parting the sea of obstacles
Leaving his armor in the slipstream

Of unmanned missions
Impossible

To describe how charming she
found his melodrama in her 39th week

Her eyes spinning like daggers:
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

shaggy dogSource

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