Write a poem about your pillow.

Write a poem about your pillow.  It can be as serious or funny as you like.  If you pick funny see if you can write some rhyming cat in the hat like work.  But serious can be perhaps easier.  I heard on TV that your pillow can double in weight due to dut mite excrement.  As a kid I remember how I would get hot and throughout the night I was flipping my pillow to the cool side.   Think of all the dreams hatched on your pillow, or lovers who shared your pillow, or children who rested on your pillow, or times when your significant other hit you in the face.  Think of your pillow as a witness to some aspect of your life.  Perhaps you have cried on your pillow.  Maybe you like to read while propped up on your pillow. Maybe a pillow played some role in your sex life.  Count the pillows on your bed.  Count the pillows in your house.  Imagine a functional pillow debating a decorative pillow.  Has a pillow ever played an important role in your past?

Here is my pillow effort:

MY PILLOW  by tex norman

                As a child I had pillows

stuffed with feathers.

I was before foam-rubber was common.

I was during the time when feather’s were common

and pillows were filled with bird magic.

Sometimes, in the night, I would feel something sticking me.

I used my fingers like tweezers and pinched the point and

pulled.  Out came a feather. It was my explanation for

how my dreams traveled, not on wings, but on feathers.

My dreams drifted.  My dreams responded to the slightest

hint of a movement.  My head filled with the impossible

and it seem all so totally, absolutely possible.

Boomer Poetry Prompt: More Ranting Poetry

On June 25, 1857, French poet Charles Baudelaire published his book Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil).

This collection of poetry led to his conviction on charges of blasphemy and obscenity.

Here's a sample of Mr. Baudelaire’s nasty poetry:

"Huddled, teeming, like gut-worms by the million,

A clutch of Demons make whoopee in our brain

and, when we breath,

Death floods our lungs, an invisible torrent,

muffled in groans.

" Get good and dark:

You can find some translations on line if you are willing to read a bit from Flowers of Evil. 

You can purchase the book on line: 

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/081120006X?ie=UTF8&tag=httpwwwgoodco-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=081120006X&SubscriptionId=1MGPYB6YW3HWK55XCGG2

If you just want to vent, then write a short venting poem.  Unleash the gut-worms!  Remember the movie Network?  The protagonist was “mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.”

Write a poetry rant.  You can read more of Flowers of Evil, or just sound off on what pisses you off.

Here is one of my rants.  I won first place for this work in a coffee house poetry slam.

Bra Ads  By tex norman

I stand before you

a man racked with guilt

and shame

that came

(or so I felt)

from my Calvinistic, blackbelt,

fundamentalist

father.  He wasn’t much fun,

but he certainly was mental.

He could make a hard-shell Baptist

look like a godless ACLU liberal.

No lie.

So all my life I

have felt like a hopeless

and helplessly unworthy one

living in the State of SIN,

the black sheep of my family.

Despite, however, the

the religious oppression of my family

we did have porn in

our house.  It was called

the Sears & Roebuck Catalogue,

containing seventeen provocative pages

of brassieres for all sizes and ages.

Back in 1950-twelve, I

perused those over (and under) developed bra models

modeling bra, after bra, after buh-buh-buh bra.

I could sit for hours imagining

their hoooo-haaahs.

Back then there was a poplar song

about an “itsy-bitz,

teeny-weenie-

yellow-polka-dot bikini”

that prompted Sears to add

three pages of two-piece

bra-topped swimming suits

added, I thought, just for me

adding to me variety.

Then, one day, all my fears

came true.

I got caught

while scrutinizing a brassiere

that hooked (oh, my god)

in the front.  You know,

between the left hoooo and the right haaah.

My father saw what I was seeing.

There must’ve been like 57 hooo-haaahs

on each page

and I was of an age

my daddy thought too

young to

be forming such mummeries

so daddy worked himself into a

brew-ha-ha

like rage reciting scripture

about how impure

my thoughts were.  He

threw scripture at me

like one of those onward Christian Soldiers

lobbing verse grenades.

“The Apostle Paul wrote

in his First Letter to the Corinthians

that, ‘it is good not to touch a woman.’”

When a guy says something like that

you can’t help but wonder,

“Had Paul ever tried it?”

Then my daddy quoted Jesus, who said,

“It is adultery to look at the bust

and to lust.”

Finally, my father bemoaned those cross your heart

Playtex living bra ads on TV.

But I have to say

it seemed to me

that those television bra ads were directed right at me.

Their very name was a Direct Address.

Listen carefully

I’m sure you’ll hear it:

“PLAYTEX”

                “Play tex”

                              Play                tex!”