Rebar by JKD

A re-wording of Louise Bak's Absorptive (tuesday poem number 38 on Dusie) by Jennifer K Dick

An arm’s worth more than its length

to be the adjoining corner’s sidewall,
building past its broken fringe rigid part

turned out into the groan oiled wrist thigh-

high circumnavigation, flap, found the “e”

in society in “I. Konigsburg” a flattened curve

backed all the way down to the A36 this case

a violin’s, a booked room, a change of clothes

hand slapped on top bar (swerved briefly) a cross

creased a line: the medicinal pump beeps

intravenous short puffs on the welt pocket: kneeling

to redness that pearlescent button through a loop,

to readiness, arm yourself, lean out to a bunched

bottle-neck, mapping induced enclosures’ square of

the earth’s root, dot, branch, broadened bifocalized

line joining the articulation of sound body casted

from a note or bracken barked upland paper 

resists strokes, to resist paper, stroke, stoke the f

glancing at an insect''s reduced convexity, glassline

nudged its slid corner slightly abrasive raised as

if to mumble  from fallen, a  crown, yank the cart

-ilage rhomboids, sestets, a following as with a flick

or the assigned rival, hinge, 90° to contained obsolescence.

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combined two poems by Nazim Hikmet by BFinberg

I combined the following two poems by Nazim Hikmet and reworded them.

(ORIGINAL)

                        FIVE LINES

to over come lies in the heart, in the streets, in the books

from the lullabies of the mothers

to the news report that the speaker reads,

understanding, my love, what a great joy it is,  

to understand what is gone and what is on the way.

           

 --nazim hikmet

       (ORIGINAL)    
                   ON LIVING III

This earth will grow cold,

a star among stars

               and one of the smallest,

a gilded mote on blue velvet--

     I mean this, our great earth.

This earth will grow cold one day,

not like a block of ice

or a dead cloud even 

but like an empty walnut it will roll along

     in pitch-black space . . . 

You must grieve for this right now

--you have to feel this sorrow now--

for the world must be loved this much

           if you're going to say "I lived". . .

   --nazim hikmet

   * * *

          Untitled (Reword)

(From Nazim Hikmet Five Lines and On Living III)

Will cold stars grow among the smallest stars,

--this, our great gilded sorrow,

Must you grieve for this right now?

--feel this now?

--for the world to be this much space,

earth loved in pitch-black lullabies.

Can a great heart lie?

and you know what’s gone--

are you going to say “but I lived”?

to understand what? cold?

and what’s on the way?

Will this empty cloud 

grow still?

            --bonny finberg

Likened to matter by JKD

After Hypnotized Dzina's Like it Matters

It is not outside

within an unblanked

poem

“paper deceives!”

“And ink delves?”

—what wasn’t rhetorical in this Quineauesque

production: licking, saucy, underlying Cotton’s

Matter, a substance. Chops.

Poetry got spendy.

Lovers may be paid by removal,

Exposure.

“I” says the page “am not prim.”

To which Ink replies: “Striptease?

strip poker? Speak easy

In your zero-sum style, but don’t

give it away.”

In the velodrome of writing prompts, I’d prefer

to hand out velamints. Anyone for cinnamon?

This is what was left in her grandmother’s mink coat.

Not some note, some noteworthy letter, embossed,

wax sealed. We are all of us going

nowhere-everywhichway. X-potentiated, the genome

is flawed, an eternal repetition 

“Form alone gives me the slip.”

“Poor paper, stuffed properly

into the envelope—‘n’ off you go!”

Pink imaginary ellipsis

no longer semi-fluid material.

I am down to the letter Y. I knows

U, knows U are over and beyond X.

Try? Trail? Even a plume

can do me better.

.

Football flurry by Lisa Pasold

a rewording of JKD's Flurry

Invisible the crowds expected, nothing like Ezra’s petals on a bough—in this swamp, there’s no metro, wetly rumbling, only helicopters, and below the flowerbursts of weeds growing over broken Grand Teton sidewalks, through air heavy with potential advertising revenue, renewal, tourist onslaught, bracing snow forgotten until that homewards flight Monday, for now it’s simply a bourbon-scented hot dream of a Sunday, bowling out of the morning with no expectations and a somewhat wilted Carnival hat.

Like it Matters by Nancy Dzina

(is a poem within the poem AutoBiOblit)

Unblanked paper deceives. Quineauesque

introduction: disbosom. Pan-o-ram. Cotton Mather

implies licking, saucy, underlying substance. Chops.

Poetry got spendy. Losses may be paid by removal,

exposure, but not zero-sum style. Not prim.

Striptease, strip poker, speak easy but don’t

give it away. Hatta’s game is always afoot.

Starting gate is finish line. In the velodrome

of writing prompts, we are all of us going

nowhere. X-P13 AAG-TGC-ACG-GCC-TAT-AAG

on earth, all “rosy of glow” every time.

Where eternal repetition  means more than

broken record, form alone gives me

the slip. Probably pink. Imagine an ellipsis

no longer material. It’s Carl Sagan time, &

a no-brainer down to the letter. I know

therefore I am Superfluous Girl. Why try?

Flurry, by JKD

a rewording, downparing of Dzina's "On the other hand"

Invisible petals 
flowerbursts 
through snow
a Sunday morning



.

On the other hand by Nancy Dzina

After Jennifer K. Dick's poem "Palm Reading" after Cole Swensen’s poem “Fingers: Alignment”

Someone else sees

in their hands our eyes

no longer (ours). This fading’s

not so bad, so long

ago apparent, no need

to rush things, after all

we have light years

before our map carries

much less names.

                           Invisible

petals drop, the flower

bursts to finish, the floor

holds a different notion of

where we are in the story.

The waggle of pages, time

gesture time: gently just-so cast

inner layer tender out then mend

one for another, knowing

and knowing not what hint

of rock may steady then break

any drift of witness. Even

interlocked phalanges

spring from open palms

unbrailled with potential.

When I was a kid, though I never

saw it, I knew the congregation

of the steepled church of hands

could become unpeopled

at the blink of a trigger guard.

Try to disturb my fist.

Good luck with that.