Poetry

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on social media and ask my followers to contribute a line of poetry inspired by the photo. Later, I attempt to cobble together a cohesive piece of writing from as many of these suggestions as I can. If you’d like to get into the fun, follow me on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page.

This week’s piece is partially inspired by a photograph of two pairs of sneakers. One pair of sneakers is mine and the other actually belongs to my friend’s daughter, but after a disappointing real life conversation I experienced a few days ago, it was easy enough to use our beat-up shoes as a metaphor for a relationship coming undone.

In the end, I borrowed 7 suggested lines from followers.

---

in light of current events

i asked him,

‘if push comes to shove

do you have my back?’

(because, in truth, that’s

all any of us wants to know)

i imagined his words

would be easy, like releasing doves

with laurel branches firmly

lodged in their beaks –

a simple ‘yes’ and the flood

would recede,

but

i heard his whiskey hesitation,

the way his eyes darted to his feet

and he could not answer

caught, off-guard

by yet another downpour, i see

he is an unsafe haven

his silence, twisted & strangled

the meaning dark as crow’s feathers.

“let’s play sports,” he says, “let’s kayak

to the huckleberries, fish

for marvelous fish, watch Netflix

and chill.”

Across the room, by the door,

space grows between our

sneakered feet, side by side

in matching Converse high-tops

black tongues loosened

i see it now, our situation

dark & tangled as the laces on our shoes.

the game is over

the score is final.

what a headache i have! and injury

provokes only pity at best. to learn

friends are merely friendly, they

belong to the majority. i want to

cover my ears. “Shush!”

i want to shout, “Shush!

i cannot yet hear the truth!”

throw me a bone or

toss a few black peppercorns into

my mouth for the crunch.

for what secret is left

when the parameters have

already been stated?

normally, i don’t like it when people

wear shoes inside my house, but

at least they are ready to leave

at a moment’s notice.

i’m not going to cry over this.

‘when they show us who they are

we must believe them,’

we must learn to listen

not only to what they say

but to what they don’t say

quickly enough

outside, in the unsafe streets

i can finally breathe.

This week’s piece is partially inspired by a photo of a vase of wilting roses. It is also informed by a great article I’d just read about the toxic messaging in the show Sex in the City, a series which I loved, in which the main character, Carrie Bradshaw, spends a decade chasing after a handsome, charismatic man — who does not does not prioritize her. It’s a real eye-opener, and you can read it here.

It was easy to use the dying flowers as a metaphor for an aging body & (more poetically) a battered heart.

In the end, I used 5 lines from followers, and I even managed to use one suggestion to title the piece.

It all adds up.

All the leaping off ledges,

bad landings, bruised feet

twisted ankles, crushed hedges

jostled bones & joints,

the bloodshot eyes

swollen & blue

& stretching myself thin, 

for everyone, for you

pushing & pulling

taking the dagger

those poisonous darts

leaving me

a canopy 

of broken parts.

Once upon a time,

everything was fresh & tall

but the sky fell down 

scribble & scrawl

now every shooting star 

reminds me of you, a spark 

too beautiful to last, a streak

across the night sky 

life is a drooping bouquet 

once carried, faded pink

petals pressed 

between a tablet of lies.

Tell me, how

do you love a stone? 

How do you know 

when to leave him alone? 

My hands mangled 

from walls of rock. 

My heart tangled 

as I race the clock, 

grabbing at the ghost 

of chance, the amalgamation 

of a decade long dance, spent 

chasing & banging my head

on the ground in a trance

Trying to make you love me. 

---

NOTE:

On Wednesdays, I post a random photograph on Facebook & then ask people to contribute a line of poetry inspired by a photo. Later, I attempt to cobble together a cohesive piece of writing from as many of these suggestions as I can.

If you’d like to get in on the action, follow me on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page.

This week’s piece was inspired by a photo taken during a recent trip to Five Below. I knew this poem was going to be hard when the suggestions started rolling in. Most people provided light-hearted ideas, but I got stuck on the fact that this Wonder Woman mask has no mouth. I mean, how can a person speak his/her truth without a mouth?! In the end, I used 4 lines from followers, but mostly I went my own way. 

Thanks to everyone who participated.

NOTE: If you’d like to get in on the fun, all you have to do is follow me on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page. On Wednesday mornings, I share a random photo and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to cobble together a cohesive piece of writing. 

At the Intersection of Snickers, Double Bubble & Halloween Blowups

Her task was to be good

To put on a happy face 

The mask kept her performing 

And at a breakneck pace, the mask

was there to keep people at bay, 

it reassured everyone 

she was OK, the mask she wore 

since she was a child 

reminded her to be nice,

agreeable, not to be wild.

To keep her legs closed, 

put a smile on her face, 

don’t slow down, 

don’t be a disgrace, but

it’s hard mask up every day 

& I’ve always been suspicious 

of Wonder Woman, anyway 

With her fancy silver bracelets 

Her lasso of truth 

she had stamina & speed 

& the empathy of Ruth.

Armed with serum from

the Get-You-Drunk-Tree, 

she had flight, healing powers 

& telepathy. 

A woman, they say, 

is not as strong as a man.

A woman, they say,

Can’t do what he can.

But wearing a mask

is exhausting, indeed

It takes courage to remove it

And she took the lead.

Shoulder to shoulder with a marshmallow man, 

She challenged him 

to leave his mask at the door,

Asked him to open 

a little bit more, but

he was an immovable object,

not up to the task 

no flawless perfection

just struggles retold

for heroes are human

with shadows & fears

and even a plain girl

can be a Wonder Woman

after a few beers.

They said it wouldn’t last 

And they were right 

Women are built different

This is their plight.

And man, according to another,

named Freud, seemingly hardwired

to ignore & avoid,

her heart & her alter ego 

on display, she softened 

for a moment, then

was heard to say,

“Only love can save the world.

This is why I stay.”

So she went on pretending

Every damn day. 

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to create a cohesive piece of writing.

This week’s piece was inspired by a photograph taken of yours truly, prior to The Purple Painted Lady Festival. Frankly, it’s a miracle I was able to participate this year, given the nature of my back & hip injuries — and I think this photo conveys a lot of joy, even though I know I was in a fair amount of pain when it was taken.

Today’s piece attempts to convey the dichotomy between appearance & reality & it represents the combined efforts of 21 people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

OUTSIDE THE DAY, THE DRESS, THE DANCE

Summer ended with a thud,

Two bulging disks, and

A pile of mud, a strange dance

we don’t understand

Until we have to do it,

To carry on. September brought

A crushing weight, the scent

Of grapes, and ice pressed

Against her hip, as she crawled

From room to room, holding onto

The wall and affirmations

from people who told her

She would sing again.

“Anything is possible,” they said.

But no one promised she would dance,

Her spine, a brittle stick

In the forest, the center of

her bruised universe

Forcing her to grow

a new backbone

And just keep going.

On dark days, she put on the sun

bent over with laughter

her imagination endless

eyes wide shut, heart wide open.

A stranger in her own life,

She notices new things: the cemetery

Adjacent to her purple irises.

The metal chair

for her to sit on.

A cane in the closet.

Unattractive flat shoes

to hold her feet.

Strutting around

In a wrinkled thrift store gown

she wears Converse high tops

& an invisible crown.

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to create a cohesive piece of writing. This week’s collective poem came quickly. Inspired by fall produce & “cuffing season,” this piece represents the combined efforts of ten people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

The day we met, we were damaged.

Bruised fruit, I heard someone say —

but I could see

how delicious we could be

if we focused on our sweet parts.

And so we did, that morning

over coffee and peaches. I watched

your eyes scan the newspaper,

the sunlit glow of illumination.

Afterwards, we paced the perimeter

of the market, with each step

learning more about each other

Like how you left my list

on the table at home, preferring

to touch each melon,

each eggplant, in the moment

your fingers, running up ringed cones of carrots,

I fell in love with you that moment

there, in the produce section

and I would hold your dusty hand,

forever, happily research recipes

to make a perfect vegetable soup,

perhaps someday

I’ll convince you it’s better to have

one bruised piece of fruit than

no sweetness at all.

 

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to create a cohesive piece of writing. This week’s collective poem came slower than usual, and I didn’t use every line offered by participants. Inspired by last month’s harvest moon and unrequited love, this piece represents the combined efforts of nine people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

I KNOW WHY DOGS HOWL AT THE MOON

His laugh, the way

He squeezes his eyes shut

When something is funny

Almost as if in pain

Yesterday I wanted to speak of it,

In the courtyard

At midnight, the moon

Locked in itself, calling

To our wild side, my werewolf self

there in the sky, ghosts

Splitting, our heads looking up

Invisibly walking by

The chemistry between us

A monster come to dinner

Huge & hovering

Suspended mid-air

Like an uncatchable ball

My head exploding

A private sledgehammer

Heavy & loaded with grief,

His heart illegible and scrawled

With disbelief.

Face me in the dark.

See me

is what I want.

What he cannot give.

Our knees touch, but

Our fingers are pruning.

The trees dying in front of us.

A faucet drips.

And he is barefoot in the grass

Under the glow

His body dancing away from me,

Wild and slow.

It is time to return

to a safer distance.

Oh, two-faced moon,

there are thousands

Of miles between us,

that fine line

between faith & madness.

 

Every Wednesday at 8am, I post a photograph with a few evocative words on my Rasjacobson Art Page, asking my followers to add a single line of poetry in the comments so I can try to create a cohesive piece of writing from all the bits & pieces.

This poem represents the combined efforts of eleven people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

THE DAY I DIDN’T DROWN

One day, the world tipped sideways, the talk was

too loud & heavy

with guns & fists & politics.

On that day, I drove

a hundred miles

to where azure skies

touch cerulean blue seas.

On that day, the icy white sun

set in a sapphire sky, the moon

at noon was a tiny wafer, splintering

the sunshine at the earth’s edge.

Soft textured sand, a canvas

for the glistening tide, spilling

a lush coolness over my

exhausted feet. Sweet water

knocks me back to balance.

Yesterday, I paired the image below with a few evocative words & invited people on my Rasjacobson Art Page to add an additional line of poetry in the comments. I then promised to transform our collective effort into a poem within 24 hours.

HERE’S WHAT WHAT I DID

1. At 9pm, I sat down to see what I had to work with.
2. Eleven people participated.
3. I eliminated extraneous words & redundancies to create a unified flow.
4. I changed the order in which the entries were received.

THE MOTH

instead of joining the cicadas

& screaming for six weeks straight,

she spent the summer slogging

her way across root & leaf & sod

resting during summer storms 

until one cool morning

she decided

it was time

to open, her wings

like a dusty old sweater

wrapped in tissue from

the cedar chest

exposed & fluttering with anticipation, resting with scintillating vision, filtering out 

the ego’s mission, drying

atop Joe Pye weed, her eyes

the vibrant hues of autumn’s emerging tapestry, she opened 

to a September sunrise.

NOTE: It’s been a good, long while since I’ve felt a poem screeching to be born. This one wanted out.

Photo credit to my friend Bobbi Wilkins in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

• • •

I’ve been nursing

a dead thing, holding

it against my breast, begging

it to eat something, take

something if not milk, maybe

the cake I just baked

or some bread

or soup.

 

I’ve been soaking in a brine

with a dead thing, such unliving

is contagious and

it has left me pickling

in my own juices.

 

The dead cannot fix things

or change, and corpses are always unaware

of their stuckedness. This one liked to preserve things

especially the narrative about his innocence,

how someone else had killed him

many years ago.

 

But maybe she was over it,

done sleeping in a bed with a

dead thing, opting

instead, out of the solution —

sour smile behind glass

lye in the water

and on his tongue —

before she soaked up too much salt.

xoxo

On the day we met, we were damaged.

Bruised fruit, I heard someone say,

and yet I could see how delicious

we could be, if we focused

on our sweet parts. And, for a time, we did.

Each morning after coffee and canned peaches, we

paced the perimeter,

with each step I learned more about

the nature of your heart. So broken,

both of us, there, in captivity,

love-notes, plopped clumsily

into my hands, your lap,

the perfect place for a head to rest,

if only we could have tabled together, found a patch of green

under that hot Arizona sun.

 

At least we had popcorn and iced tea,

that one full moon,

when our bellies pressed

against each other, gleaming

side by side. That night, I imagined

eating chocolate animal crackers

on Wednesdays

the sifting sun

through your windows

an old denim couch

in an endless summer, the two of us

cool and cuddled for hours

back rubs on bad days

when you would kiss

the freckles on my shoulders.

 

Now look at us.

Me, a shadow in your life:

A lonely girl on a lonely journey

In a land peopled by strangers.

I could be holding your dusty hand

Laughing and loving so greatly

But you asked me to let you go

And not wanting to violate

your boundaries, I did.

Still, I can’t help hoping

That someday I’ll convince you

It’s better to enjoy one bruised piece of fruit,

Than no sweetness at all.

Did you ever have an unrequited romance? Do you still think of that person? That moment? How long has it been? And how do you let it go?

tweet me @rasjacobson