Tag Archives: WWP Poem Prompt

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Woman

Woman on a Brick Wall - RONE

Woman on a Brick Wall -- RONE

From in the shadow she calls
And in the shadow she finds a way
And in the shadow she crawls
Clutching her faded photograph
My image under her thumb
Yes, with a message from my heart
- Tori Amos

The day lights up, cold and blue. Cloudless.
Wings unfolding.
The light gives birth to a woman’s face, plastered onto brick,
watching the streets with two narrow eyes like bisected almonds that drip
faint streaks of branching red below. And she has seen
enough.
For this, she is weeping.
The great mystery of the decade:
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Fractured Armageddon

Written 3/8/11 and 3/9/11
© 2011 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
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This poem was composed for the last We Write Poems Prompt, Make Your Own Wordle. I went with writing the poem inside the Wordle itself which the Wordle website spat back out at me — with some modifications and a lot of help from GIMP (an image manipulation program). The original Wordle is below, and I hope you enjoyed the poem. In case you didn’t know, you’ll need to click on the image to enlarge it.

-Nicole


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Stumble It!
Stumble It!

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WWP Poem #39: Age of Rain

I. Père Lachaise

Funny how graffiti never pulses underneath your palms,
even if it is red,
even if it does look like blood,
even if it does look like letters who have forgotten their boundaries
and have risen up like fresh, city welts on this skin of concrete. Palms prone
on the stone, you wish for a heartbeat beneath it
and yet, you find none. The poet is still
breathing: but not here. Mime
the curtain falling to cloak a greasepaint face
with the flutter of bare hands. Peel back the rain, and you might hear
a piano tiptoeing past your ears.
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WWP Poem #35: A Tale Told by an Idiot, Full of Sound and Fury

I. Challenger

I give you a song I stole from the dirt: I dream a mess
of ley-lines and leptons, plasma fields and turf giants. Last son
of a dead planet, strongest man in the world. I am a nova,
all-exploding, planet-cremating. But there are
many ways to lose the oldest game.
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WWP Poem #34: Prelude

Every cut, every jaw of glass
lying open and unhinged on the pavement is your
testimony. The bottles give up the ghost instead of you, and
the wine lies leaking all over the shattered night pavement. There are
six of you, wine goblets of meandering braided blood vein
and scarlet muscle, crouched and taut: beneath each man’s skin,
a pack of lionesses waiting to spring.
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WWP Poem #31: Miriam

There is an exit just below my navel
where the stars began: one escaped
and drifted low to the earth, riding the navel
of a cornflower sky to point its way to birth. Cocooned
inside me, your crowned yourself for entrance, robed yourself
to rival the night with red, flesh tone like the blush of sienna
that wraps my bony frame, and yet-to-open brown eyes
with double visions that layer themselves on top of each other: one from
the descendants of Adam’s dirt, and the other
from Heaven.
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WWP Poem #30: Paint by Numbers

i. zero

Nobody knows that this thing
isn’t a bandit: it doesn’t seize you suddenly
and leave you awash in open wire and stereo speakers
jammed into your ears. There is only the
curious brown baby, eyes like cameras,
with a wound-up roll of film for a brain.
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WWP Poem #28: Ribbons

How do you create remembrances, tie
souls up like ribbons and affix little plastic lives
to the back of a car bumper? Someone
keeps reaching through the other side of the mirror,
grabbing colors in so many handfuls to
give to them for skins. The first embraces
were canaries slipped around the waistlines of trees
while young men spoke someone else’s missives, a
dialect of napalm delivered halfway across the world: unknown incantations
of more death to outpile the enemy, body by body.
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WWP Poem #27: Fifteen

You, perceptive enough to pick up
all the half-rhymes hanging out in your stomach;

you, with a galvanized ear leading to tubules
that course straight up into your brain;

you, possessing databanks built out of flesh
humming in data process heaven just behind your bone walls;
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WWP Poem #25: Brick

Nothing is yellow here. I am surrounded
by brownstone giants who have risen up around me,
poking square holes in the gray cloud ceiling far above
my head. I haven’t seen a cyclone in years, and
the closest thing to the charcoal funneled eddy of wrath
that I’ve seen since I’ve been here were the twin smoke pillars of grief
pouring from injured and dying towers nine years ago.
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