Stoney Moss

Paper-thin Walls

I’ve never lived
with wallpaper
but I know paneling

thin veneer laid
over pressboard
formaldehyde and glue

medium fake oak re-
varnished every year
tacky tar washed

away and doors
slammed one room
over. Voices, hushed.

* * *
For a Read Write Poem prompt, which was terrific. I need a little more time with it, but it’s all I got for now. Thanks, Dave.

Find other ideas, here.

So we can start the game.

shuffle back everyday use, no want of a museum, theater trading in impulses

if you were a lines to mark a working family’s losses. high, no rococo ornamentation, a fad beacon where would you sit? in the crack like a dam, keyed into a take away supper to whisper what you need. all signs should of a boulder, the arc of a shoulder? it’s be sited on hilly terrain.

hoisted not like a window display.

retail’s complete with packaged spices.

tiny shimmering a wickedly sharp plan hatched a sphere and ink can be.

stopped up disguised as must. it’s only recess, play large panes, merchandise set aside from curtains that gape.

décollage the states and nations as if the world is tears, serrated then sutured, are trend to stained desks, learn to spell all of

This is what came out of The Lazarus Corporation when I stuck in one of my recent poems, and asked it to use the “cut up desk” function (with seven words).

Fun stuff. I’m going to play some more. Next I’ll try four words.

Spices.

tiny tears, stained desks, learn to game.

shuffle back to whisper what you need. a window museum, theater curtains use, no want of a only recess, play so we shoulder? it’s not like large panes, merchandise a working family’s shimmering a wickedly terrain.

hoisted all signs should be serrated then sutured, trading in sharp plan hatched to boulder, the arc of a sited on hilly are trend lines to mark display.

retail’s sit? in the crack of a and nations as if the ink can be.

stopped set aside from everyday ornamentation, a fad impulses

if you were can start the a beacon where would you up like a dam, keyed losses. into a take away supper high, no rococo disguised as must. it’s complete with packaged world is a sphere and spell all of the states that gape.

décollage

Fun! And there must be more to be had.

Here’s the original (which I have other renovation plans for):

Trading in Impulses

If you were a beacon where would you sit? In the crack of a boulder, the arc of a shoulder? It’s not like a window display.

Retail’s large panes, merchandise set aside from everyday use, no want of a museum, theater curtains that gape.

Décollage shimmering a wickedly sharp plan hatched to whisper what you need. All signs should be sited on hilly terrain.

Hoisted high, no rococo ornamentation, a fad disguised as must. It’s only recess, play so we can start the game.

Shuffle back to stained desks, learn to spell all of the states and nations as if the world is a sphere and ink can be.

Stopped up like a dam, keyed into a take away supper complete with packaged spices.

Tiny tears, serrated then sutured, are trend lines to mark a working family’s losses.

Praying to Broken Gods

Wander in the desert enough
you’ll find the land fill

An arroyo (as our own dispersed
might say, but you can call it a wash)

Ephemeral thirst quencher, it carries
or ferries a casual heap, rags rolled
in bones the color of washed denim

Predatory remnants, bleached
spines and bones form an Early
American relic — take care to kneel

Do not sit or rest, you may not
recline nor pause
………     …………..Balance isn’t

No rib, no leg, only the lightly bruised sky

A memory of bridges
the Zayandeh River
oasis no more.

* * *

Ah, process. A prompt from Nathan for Read Write Poem. But deeper than the beautiful image is (for me) the personal.

The landscape looks like Arizona, similar to places I was raised. But the photographer is from Iraq, so the imposition of Early American furniture (a style I am too familiar with — I roomed with it as a child) amid arid rivers run dry (the Zayandeh River, or Zayandé-Rud has been empty for a few years, and a notable bridge reflects empty) is too ripe to ignore. Add all manner of misunderstanding (not to mention Imperialism) and it’s all a muddle.

I am sure I don’t do these ideas justice. But thank you for reading, for Milad Gheisari’s evocative photograph. And for Nathan for bringing the image to mind.

Other responses can be found at Read Write Poem.

Sometimes I Miss the Old Jealous Goddesses

Your cold force
whistles…….through frothy
cracks and if I had one
…….one of those infrared-reading
gadgets…….all the seams
would glow
hot

like an enthusiast…….such as
Hercules…….hiding his children
from fertile madness

Questions of fidelity
render fat
from stones…….raised

in a complicated family
no simple begats from began

blunt those…….elites
who wonder is it nurture
or nature…….shouldered…….between
strong thighs the size of earnest
temple columns…….and frozen deities

Take the brunt of heredity…….please
smudge.the edges…….of this still life

a caesura reveals more about how
relationships cast shadows
than progeny set…….in sundered limbs

* * *
A Read Write Wordle prompted this poem, using the words:
brunt, drawing, elite, fertile, froth, enthusiast, Hercules, question, shoulder, simple, stones, sundered, and thigh. I do believe I used them all, glutton I am.

Want to see how many poems can be created from one or thirteen of these words? (You’ll be amazed.) Go here.

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