Monday, May 31, 2010

Prompt(s) from Chris K.

Prompt one:

Goose hopscotch.

Prompt two:

Seasonal blindness.

Prompt three:

Come here, young man.


Leah Nixon said...

What I loved best about my grandpa was this:
he would buy cases of clementines near Christmas,
little wooden boxes,
and he called them Jap oranges
which wasn't politically correct
but it's what he called them.
The clementines, when it was winter
seemed little little suns,
the brightest thing around
and it seemed like those were all he could see
in those white-out months.
He blocked the months from his memory and would have been a snowbird if he could've
flown down to Florida.
He'd sit and read his novels and National Geographic
even though the winter made him blind;
I didn't understand why he couldn't see anything else.
But he couldn't. So he'd say
fetch me my cane young boy,
give me a shoulder
and I didn't mind when he leaned on me
with his war-ridden hands,
old flesh and blue blood vessels
his finger tips hugged my shoulder as we went into dinner.
And afterwards Mum would make tea
and being British, Grandpa would take it with milk
and I would sit with him, looking at the National Geographics,
with my tea too
and we'd look at the pictures of koalas and Russians
and then he'd give me a clementine
and make me peel one for him too.
I didn't mind when the summer scent got under my nails.
and I'd hand him pieces and sometimes we'd eat more than a clementine each
and he'd say,
well, I can't fly down to Florida, but I've got a sun in my mouth
and he'd say
how's that for a compromise?

BBaird said...

She built piles out of cardboard boxes and called them castles.

I spread my boxes far and wide and called it an empire.

She conquered my empire with a balloon hat, armed with a floppy pool noodle.

I surrendered and we played hopscotch instead.

She sat in my lap and said I was her throne.

It was weird.

Mikkel said...

Come here, young man
And tell me what you see
Young man, I’m curious to what you believe
Sir, that’s a goose playing hopscotch, sir
Sir, that’s a hopscotch playing goose, sir
I see no problem here sir
Is hopscotch not a mallard’s sport to you, young man
Do you not recall that being a duck’s sport, young man
Young man, are you not taken back by the gander of geese mocking our tradition
Sir, you’re a quack, sir
Sir, you’re species-ism isn’t appreciated here, sir
Sir, I know my history, sir
Young man, what do you know of history
Young man, I demand to know what I don’t
Young man, I’ve been hear longer than
Sir, with no disrespect, sir
They taught us about seasonal blindness, sir
How duck and goose are hunted like one in the same sir.
Young man, does that mean we accept them in our ranks
No sir, it merely means we can peacefully coexist
On a non prompt note, I was given an oppourtunity to teach two sophmore English classes about Slam poetry and I wanted to publically thank Eric, Gerald, and Aaron to let me use excerpts of their poems as examples.

Leah Nixon said...

That's awesome, Mikkel! I hope it goes really well!