Free Entry Week 5

A Child Named Dave

Dave didn’t leave blue-eyed from

bruised bodied blood.

He was not beaten not probed not scavenged

like trash thrown out to be weathered, not starving  

and buried by mounds of mad destruction.

Not worm-stitched, protruded bellied, infectious

from bacterial bitches whose red-rashed eyes

spread over the green of the backyard grass

searching for her next bid of boasts and beggary.

He harbored the sky amongst the wet 
cotton clouds of his wide-eyed stare.

It was Piñata’s, donkey tailing, gifts, and

storytelling, night kisses, and packed lunches,

morning hugs and love-you-bunches.

He had warm baths, laundered clothes,

a blanketed bed, and musical notes

sang by his parents every night

until he was 11. 

And Dave, did not, leave home

until he found his direction.     

                            Brandy Adams 

Dr. Davidson asked that we write about a scene that we wished had occurred in something that we've encountered. I decided to write about Dave Pelzer's story.  This needs much more but because of time constraints this is what I have for now.  I hope to work on this more later in the week.  Comments/suggestions are greatly appreciated.  

Improv 1 Week 5

Nonessential Equipment

The dog and I are first among those things

that will not be deployed with him.  Forget

civilian clothes as well.  He shouldn’t bring

too many photographs, which might get wet,

the faces blurred.  He only needs a set

of uniforms.  Even his wedding ring

gives pause (what if it fell?—he’d be upset

to dent or scratch away the gold engraving).

The seabag must be light enough to sling

across his shoulder, weigh almost nothing,

each canvas pocket emptied of regret.

The trick is packing less.  No wife, no pet,

no perfumed letters dabbed with I-love-yous,

or anything he can’t afford to lose.    

                                      Jehanne Dubrow

Charlie Foxtrot’s Fruit Salad

The muskets and grass travel among the graves

that are will-stained as the sacrament with wine. Clasped                    

bone-drag as anchors.  Mold casted into trenched caves  

too many scaffolds treaded upon, perhaps,

the truth-be-tolds.  I thought to study the living grasping  

of things.  Even the low growls of hesitation misbehave

and hesitate (what if it’s alive?—this unruly cadaver gasps

too parched or blank to render memories, enslaved).

The cacolet swaths to scathe   

across the slopes, tipped as a velvet wave,

each perfect blade wrinkled of dead weight.

The absolute is blood to dust.  No limb, no ache,

no mercy from the others with  un-calibrated-blues,

or breeched and muzzled cannons to abuse.  

                                                 Brandy Adams  

I tried again to use the replacement calisthenics technique.  It isn't completely true to form. 

Junkyard Quote 4 Week 5

“…the person looks upon himself from within.” ~William Wundt

Thought this perspective could make for an interesting poem.  

Junkyard Quote 3 Week 5

"Humorless, tireless, and talented." ~Fernald

Junkyard Quote 2 Week 5

"Riddling kidney." ~A friend

Junkyard Quote 1 Week 5

Imageless, is there such a thing when it comes to the human mind? ~Psychology Professor

Peer Response 1 Week 4

In response to Jenna's Week 3 Improv Notes Two
I liked this draft in 3200, but I completely understand your desire to groom it. I hate prose poems as well. I completely agree with the same lines Sydney requested you keep, in addition to these:

“These unidentified friendly obstructions constrict and pull my head down to rest on their shoulders, because I am so sad, and suffocation is the answer.”

“I hear that you’re watching over me always now. So I should never feel alone, I don’t like that, because I now fleetingly glance around before stepping out of the shower, now I can’t make a joke at your expense.”

I really admire the humor found in this draft and don’t want that to be lost. Hope to see it soon!