Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #441: Notice

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When This Little Twiggy Went to Meat Market (Notice: All Sales Final)

Twiggy Piggy, a foxymoronic sow,
went to look for a smokin’ hot mammalian beefcake
with whom she could cook up something tasty
(like a litter of mini meatloaves).
She turned down Monsieur Filet Mignon
after he made the piggist comment
that his preference was Kosher.
When Ground Biff said he needed a little pink slime
to beef him up,
she sunk her teeth into Sir Porterhouse–
liking the largeness & tenderness of him.
But she realized her haste
when he cornered her in her sty
& said
that after he was well-done,
all that would be left would be her squeal.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-441

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Childhood Memories: A Father’s Day Message

(top left):  1981:  My dad and mom, with a new me.  (top right):  1953:  My grandfather, Joseph York, with my mom.  I always thought Joe looked just like Billy Graham.  (middle right):  Circa early 1970’s:  A trio of Booker dads:  My dad, Phil (Phillip Wayne), his dad, Paul Whitaker, and my uncle Bill (Paul William).  It had been Grandma’s idea to give them all the initials P.W.  (bottom):  The father of my child, on the night she was born.

This morning, as I let my daughter press the button on our coffee machine, I was reminded of all the times when I was about her age, growing up in Rota, Spain, when my dad would let me press the button on the bean grinder (ground being unavailable). Maybe that’s why java’s lusty aroma always makes me smile.

I never knew why the grinder was always on the floor (near a self-portrait of Albrecht Durer framed in “gold,” leaning against a closet), but now I know that it was so I could be a part of the process (if not a consumer of the product).

And that’s partly what parenthood–be it motherhood or fatherhood–is all about:  Taking the time with your children.

*
When I found out I was going to have a baby, it took me a while to realize that my parents’ example had given me all the tools I needed to be a good mom, for we learn how to parent from our parents (whether good or bad), just as they learned from theirs.

A man learns how to be a father from having one.

*
From my dad, I learned that you can survive horrendous cooking (so long as it errs on the side of overcooked), that you can put up with a lot of crap from another person because they put up with a lot of crap from you, and that good acting isn’t using four-letter words and taking your clothes off.

But the greatest lesson learned was that I was just as valuable for being born a girl as my brother was for being a born a boy.

*

As for the father of my child, I can do what I do (go to school to better myself so that I can better our financial situation) because he does what he does (be a stay-at-home dad)—just as my dad supported my mom when she decided to join the military.

That’s what being a husband is sometimes: Not “letting” your wife do whatever she wants but supporting her so that she can feel good about doing what she needs.

 

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

Faith was the acceptance
of things that could not be proven,
& hope that our faith
would get us those things
from that which could not be proven.

He’d wanted no children,
but he would have them
for salvation’s sake,
for his wife’s happiness,
& because,
in the Church,
conception was akin to birth.

In Catholicism, God was everywhere;
in Mormonism, He was not.
He’d gone from limitless
to contained
as the sole Ruler
of this world,
in an eternity of worlds.

My friend Brad would’ve given up the priesthood for me,
David, his own soul,
but Elder Roberts,
not even his reputation;
I had meant that little to him.

If my heart was hardened,
had God Himself hardened it—
like He had Pharaoh’s—
to bring about His work?
Was not autonomy an illusion?

 

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #440: Generation

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Party of Five

In a three-bedroom house
lived a gentleman and a lady,
a boy and a girl,
and a woman of The Sandwich Generation.
This woman,
fully-formed,
hadn’t lost her other half,
but a whole part of something greater
they had built together.
And while she cared for those who had treated her
as a daughter,
and cared for those as she had once been cared for
by those whose daughter she had been,
there was no one left to care for her.
For one man came and left,
and then another,
and another.
But never did she leave her father and mother in-laws,
nor the children that had first belonged
to the love of her life,
to cleave unto one of these men.
Rather,
she lived her life,
and when the right one came,
she knew,
for he stayed.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-440

Book Review: The Arrow Finds its Mark (A Book of Found Poems)

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This is a cute little introductory volume on the concept of “found poetry.”  I love the idea of “finding a poem” because it shows that poetry is omnipresent–in dictionaries, crossword puzzle clues, book titles on a shelf (the word version of a “shelfie”), advertisements, social media posts, et cetera.

For me, the difference between poetry and prose has always been strategically-placed line breaks, but then, everyone has their own definition of what a poem is.  (It definitely doesn’t have to rhyme.)

Some of the “found poems” are a stretch (ironically, “A Bird Poetry Reading,” for example, which would drive one nuckin’ futs to read) and “Texto” (a column of meaningless texting abbreviations which were found on some teen website), but others are gems, like “Man’s Best Friend” (an excerpt in a speech by George Vest–U.S. Senator from 1879-1903–and one of the leading orators of his time) and “First Wins” (from selected words in a SPRINT newspaper advertisement).

The cover is eye-catching, the illustrations cute, the font and layout pleasing to look at, but the book is much more useful as a tool in getting an idea of what found poetry is, as well as a guide in how to find your own poetry.  (Maybe more poets should work in advertising.)

This book helped me see old things in new ways, or rather, look for poetry in the most unlikely places.