At the Finish

such a simple goal it seemed: write a thousand
poems. twenty-nine months it took to write
them, and that is the surprise. so much time,
so much life come and gone rivers flooded
droughts come and gone ice storms and ice fog nights
summer with tornadoes and storms of past
resurrected to haunt the now such love
gained and lost lovers won and tossed aside
not for lack of love, never that, but for
incompatibilities love not over-
comes . . . the dog euthanized . . . landslide crumbled
to dust returned the father leagues of life
traversed and each mile unmarked is a poem
failed or captured matters nothing in the end. . . .

David M Pitchford
11 Feb 2014

dunway & pike

anyways, jim corellis called last night
to have a beer and tell us dunway and pike
just finished up their community service
hours and downgraded to the laxer form
of probation after their time upstate
and down-the-river for that teenybopper
incident in yella’s beer garden that
long ago spring;     they hit the registry,
by the way,     and so they’re both livin up
to the regency mobile home park where
rudy’s cousin is property manager   —
about half the guys in that place are ex-cons,
and half them on the registry,   too   —   but
stop in all’same and buy the guys a round?

david m pitchford
9 May 2012

Thousand Poems Project

The rules are pretty simple:

  1. write 1000 poems
  2. blog at least one a day – whichever, doesn’t matter
  3. quality is not a consideration IN THE LEAST!
  4. this is strictly about production (like in NaNoWriMo)
  5. stay focused!!!!!!!!
  6. save EVERYTHING
  7. plan a reward/celebration

start writing . . . GO

I began my challenge on 9/11/11 (not a deliberate date, just coincidence). Currently at 625+ (9 April 2013) 921

such a simple goal it seemed: write a thousand
poems. twenty-nine months it took to write
them, and that is the surprise. so much time,
so much life come and gone rivers flooded
droughts come and gone ice storms and ice fog nights
summer with tornadoes and storms of past
resurrected to haunt the now such love
gained and lost lovers won and tossed aside
not for lack of love, never that, but for
incompatibilities love not over-
comes . . . the dog euthanized . . . landslide crumbled
to dust returned the father leagues of life
traversed and each mile unmarked is a poem
failed or captured matters nothing in the end. . . .

David M Pitchford
11 Feb 2014

Souvenirs of You

home from work, I wander room to room; where
did you go? your shadow casts memories
across wallpaper, the cups in the sink,
there is laundry in the dryer, a mix
of yours and mine (thank you) they are scented
to betray your fragrance, but you have left
your night clothes here, worn, still smelling of us
among the bedclothes, keys to memory,
key to mystery: where have you gone? We
were magnificent together; have you gone
so our spring is eternal in memory?
and left these souvenirs: a cup half full,
your coffee from this morning, and clothes
still damp in the dryer, and your shadow.

David M Pitchford
30 Sept 2011

the older poet’s advice

he told me the trick is to cheat: with art,
it’s all about imitation, he said.
so it’s par for the course if you steal, mime,
borrow everything from everybody.
but there are laws about plagiarism,
so you have to slant everything ten to
a hundred degrees to make it new; so if
you see a poem about horses, write
your own about unicorns, if they write
about unicorns, then you write about
zebras—they write about black stripes, you write
about polka dots on an appaloosa
you lost money on down inLouisville, out
of luck and betting there the wrong weekend.

David M Pitchford
23 Sept 2011

Twists of Guilt

Bosched up Love

In the garden of freshly pierced hearts,
I’m doing time with a shadow of you,
thorn still in your hand crimson and blood-stained;
and I stare hollow-eyed all bright with
soft admiration and honeyed words begging
you to forgive my tenderness in light
of your crystal ice delicate touch. You
pirouette in time to music I’m deaf to,
and I misstep cloven-hoofed to your tune,
bells ringing, clanging, dissonant and shrill
over your demands of loyalty,
forking from your unfaithful tongue, eyes green
with lies and adulteries of omission
cruel as inattention turned my way.

David M Pitchford
18 Sept 2011

 

Sunday Go to Meetin

driving through this rainy morning Sunday
you in your puritan dress and humming hymns
and me trying to remember when last I went
to service, to the gathering of the faithful, when
last I broke bread with the brethren and
feasted on the flesh of a two-thousand year dead
savior, heard the word beat into the pulpit straight
into my mind and soul, thew and bone, had guilt
rained down on me like hail and brimstone . . .
Now, you reach over and remind me that Jesus
loves me, that I am His lamb, that we are chosen,
and I smile knowing that I shall take you to the gates
of the church, escort you to the door, and walk down
a more familiar road to grab a beer and praise the sky
for raining after a long, dry summer . . .

David M Pitchford
18 Sept 2011