Day 17

Writer’s Block Blues
April 17, 2009

A block ain’t nothin’ but the word you cannot find.
No, a block ain’t nothin’ but the word you cannot find.
You can search with hounds and flashlights, but that word done left your mind.

A block ain’t nothin’ but cinder holdin’ up a wheel.
You know a block ain’t nothin’ but cinder holdin’ up a wheel.
You put four blocks together, baby, I got a heart you cannot steal.

A block ain’t nothin’ but six letters and six squares.
That ol’ alphabet block ain’t nothin’ but six letters and six squares.
And if you won’t spell my name with those letters, baby, who cares?

A block ain’t nothin’ but a spot in a city,
No, a block ain’t nothing but a spot in this lonely ol’ city,
And if we can’t find that spot together, baby, what a pity.

A block ain’t nothin’ but the word you cannot find,
Like I told you, a block ain’t nothin’ but the words I cannot find,
And since you done left me, baby, all my words been left behind.

Yeah, since you done left me, baby, all my words have been left behind.

Day 19

Between Meant and Meaning
April 19, 2009

The poem I meant to write
had perfect rhyme and perfect meter,
her form as solid as
ancient architecture,
a monument crafted
to withstand the shifting
sands of taste and temperament.

The poem I meant to write
drew her music from the stars:
lovelier than a Grecian urn,
finer than a leaf of grass,
more dependable than a red wheelbarrow.

The poem I meant to write
would have wrighted heroic ships
in heroic couplets,
righted unrequited love in ironic couples,
and read from right to left
just to be experimental.

Such big dreams
for such a little poem,
such lofty ambitions
for a scrap of verse;
so much uncharted
territory between
meant and meaning.

Day 18

before saturday starts
april 18, 2009

in sixty minutes,
the world will
wake up;
the sun will climb,
the fog, burn off;
birds will begin
their songs.

in sixty minutes,
saturday will start;
people will walk
their dogs, or climb
aboard their bikes,
or stand in line
for breakfast.

and in sixty minutes,
this empty street
will fill with cars,
pedestrians,
the chatter of
neighbors and the
jangle of music
in backyards.

in sixty minutes,
the second hand
will sweep away
this silence,
so i’ll listen
to the morning
while I can.

Day 16

Getting to Work
April 16, 2009

The clock in the kitchen
is two minutes ahead of the
one on the wall
and five minutes behind
the digital on my dashboard.

The porch thermometer
reads four degrees cooler
than the bank on 39th
and three degrees warmer
than the pawnshop on 82nd.

The gas gauge hasn’t worked
in years, so I try to keep
my karma running smoothly:
one eye on the low fuel light
and both fingers crossed.

It’s seventeen miles from my
driveway to the school
parking lot; the shortcut:
two miles shorter, ten minutes longer,
a thousand leaves lovelier.

I always arrive on time,
whatever time I happen to arrive.
My secret, you see, is not
to be accurate, it’s to know
precisely how inaccurate I am.

Day 15

This Work We Do
April 15, 2009

This work we do is Holy:
etching words into air,
sketching the outlines
of moments in amber,
wrapping our days
in the ribbon of verse.

What greater Gift
can we give?

By Wrigley, Day 20

Wish Wish Wish
April 20, 2009

I wish that wish
that everyone found
the wish to fly
or sink into the ground.
I wish that wish
that everyone found
to have a pet to do a thing
I wish that wish
that everyone is sharing.

Try Reading It Out Loud

After Ella Fitzgerald
April 14, 2009

ba ba-b-ba ba-b-ba-ba-bah!
ba ba-b-ba ba-b-ba-ba-bah!
ba ba-b-ba ba-b-ba-ba-bah!
bah bah bah bah ba-b-ba bah!

bah bah bah bah ba-b-ba bah!
bah bah bah bah ba-b-ba bah!
ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-bah-bah!
ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-bah-boom!

Boom boo-d-boom boo-d-boom boom boom!
Boom boo-d-boom boo-d-boom boom boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boo-dee boom boom boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boo-dee boom boom boom!

Ska bop bop ba-dah, ska dee bop bop bop
Ska boop-doo-boo-doo, skoo dee boop boop boop

Ska bop bop ba-dah, ska dee bop bop bop
Ska boop-doo-boo-doo, skoo dee boop boop boop

Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo skoo be doo
Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo skoo be doo
Skoo skoo skoo, skoo skoo be-doo
Skoo skoo skoo, skoo skoo be-doo
Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo skoo be doo
Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo-be boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boom boom dee boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boom boom dee boom!

Boom boom boom, boom boom d-bah!
Boom boom boom, boom boom d-bah!
bah bah bah bah bah b-ba bah!
bah bah bah bah bah b-ba bah!

ba b-ba, ba-b-ba, ba ba b-dah!

My Turn

In response to this guy and this guy, I thought I'd give it a shot. It was hard and I'm not satisfied, but there are a few nice lines.

I Will Sing America, Too
April 13, 2009

Let me sing Her major chords:
the outstretched fingers of eager skyscrapers,
the lithe arms of Her forests.
I will sing the whir and buzz of industry
and the solitude of Her literature.
She is architects and gardeners,
inventors and creators,
technicians and dreamers.
My ears ring with the slow blues and
the jangle of jazz,
the raunchy rock and roll,
and the fierceness of rap –
American gifts to the soundscape of history.

Her song is endless and sweet,
endlessly sweet,
and I smell sugar as I sing,
as I sing America, too.

And let me sing in minor keys:
the slouching of Her youth
(and elders, too),
the bridges that sometimes fall
(and towers, too).
I will sing a song of sawblades
and mudslides,
a cacophony of concrete
and landfills,
where “superfund” sounds
like super-fun
and money can buy
happiness.
For a limited time.

Her song is endless and sad,
endlessly sad,
and I burn sugar as I sing,
as I sing America, too.

Let us sing this dissonant song,
let us sing it together.
Revel in Her complex harmonies,
Her syncopated rhythm,
Her distant, shifting beat.

Let us sing this endless song,
endlessly strong,
and sing sugar as we do,
as we sing America, too.