now what are you going to do?

30. tommyrot

this is your last one, poetry says
sitting next to me on the couch
where i have managed

to break the cushion in three
short years. (poetry probably thinks
i’ve gotten too sedentary, that

i should get up right now and
hit the treadmill or at the very least
stop throwing chocolate chips

down my gullet, but i have 1000
excuses i can unload if poetry
is dumb enough to

bring up the subject.)
what are you going to write about?
poetry wonders

and so do i.

you know, i say
looking poetry right
in its deep black eyes

to deliver my lines
at the end of the day
i’m all

tapped out. i’ve got
nothing. the silence has
colonized me too

pish and posh, poetry says
slapping me hard
on the knee

tommyrot
you old slut
it’s all bullshit

extreme fucketude

wow, i say
truly amazed, you sound
just like me

Day 30 (the last day)

Challenge: For this last poem, end on a note of hope.


A Taste

The cedar dances again
waking the maple 
whose leaves give off 
an invisible hiss 

breaking free
from winter’s bare skin in
red tufts that unfurl
at the speed of light

while pregnant clouds
hang over
promising baptism
and the grass
beautiful uncut hair

lies lush and waiting
for mounds of tight 
daffodil to add yellow glee
to the scene

now a rabbit leaps in 
to nibble the stumps 
of stubborn bushes
and I tap this out

in the same spirit 
of natural joy 
capturing a taste 
of renewal

feeling myself melt 
just a bit
into the earth’s yearning 
its delicious hope