Tag Archives: golden shovel

A Playful Poet

A Playful Poet
(after Sonnet by Edwin Arlington Robinson)

Oh!
What gifts are these words for
Me, a
Playful poet
With a shovel golden, for
Me, a
Wannabe beacon
Of light so bright
To
Expose any shadow or rift
Enlighten this
Page, with meaningful change/
More than /less
A glimmer
Of
Joy within the dead
Gray.

Oh! To
Lift the spirit
Is sometimes back-
breaking work, The
Muses
Long gone
Astray,
And
A scrambled mind once flush
With the words of Parnassus
Now all but empty with
Just a
Few thoughts newer,
Just the smallest touch of light
To
Write by, to put
These
Oh so little,
Inklings into sonnet-
Form (better men
Than I); To
Take worded images to flight
And answer the question who/
‘s fashion
Our images have been created in?
To express a
Life, not shrewd,
Not mechanic
But in the way
of Songs
Without disbelief, with souls
That
Flicker
Like a moth
For
The light of a
Day;
To vanish
The naysayers, To battle in
The irrevocable
Night.

Oh! To ask what
Does
It
All mean?
To take on this
Barren
page in this dark age
Of
Ours;
To be unapologetically here;
To embrace the
Tired men
And the
Worn women;
And
To lay around their necks
The
Flowers
Of the
Seasons;
And
To lift their heads toward the
Sunrise and the sunset
As
Once before.

Oh! What
Does
It
Mean?
He shall
Let there
Be light not
For one
But for all of us to arise;
To
Wrench
Off the blindfold from every/one;
To lift the banner
Of life from
The
Western
Skie’s
Setting sun; and
To mark
it
With
His
Name
Forevermore.

Be well,

Monty

Dreams

Another go at a Golden Shovel…

Dreams
(after Earliest Spring by William Dean Howell)

Dreams be a-tossing,
Hers in his,
Underneath a mussed mane;
A head turned of
Snows
White in
The wildest
locks of curling eddies
And
forgotten tangles
Of a gnarly old lion,
He dreams of her like
A war-weary soldier dreams of his girl back home while on the march;
As she cometh
In
His vision, his voice turns hoarse
Begging her to stay with
Him, yearning for her tempestuous
breath
Upon his lips through
All
The
Moaning
Nights, Her lusty gasps escaping from the chimneys
Into the dark and
humid air, his strangling hand didn’t ‘thwart
Her passions and all
The
Hollows
In heart broken and
Shattered into sharp angles,
That cut through the round
And slice with the
Shuddering
Knives across roofs from house
To house, threatening
The sleep of
Winter
And
Winter’s death.

But,
These youthful dreams in
The wrinkles of my eyes call my
Long gone rigid heart
To awaken and I
Feel
The
Once thriving life
Of
The young wood
And
The
Deflowered meadow,
How thrilling
The
Essence pulses
From there and that
Of one’s own
Kindred
With
All the fibers
That
Vibrate and lift
My lids to see her floral bud
“Oh my!” And
My blade
Rises
To
The
Sun/
To/ward
The east within
the
South’s inscrutable
Shadow
Cast deep
In
The
Oak’s
Roots, where chill
melts my core
And under
The
West’s gathering
Wings to drift.

Nay,
Come back to
Earth’s
Orbit, old man, life
Not yours in
Mine
Some-
One else’s prescience,
Or
Dream
Or
Desire.

But how,
Shall
I
Shake this that I cannot name?
Is it
All wrong or alright?
Memory comes
For
A
Moment
And
Goes,
Dreams rapture
Of
A life
Passed, ineffable,
Once perfect
As
If
A ripened blackberry
In
The
Brier.

Dreams leafless,
There
By
My
Door,
I trembled,
I bled a
Sense
of
Foreboding of the
Naked rose.

Be well,

Monty

A Golden Shovel

Dusting off my Golden Shovel…

Over There
(after In Summer by Lord Alfred Douglas)

Over there
Upon the hills were
The
Dancing shadows dressed in emo black
Between the limber pine
Trees.

And
Over there the
Sun set sullen
Beyond the hills
Where the moon hid frowning.

And over there
In the knolls were
Streams of tears shed to trills
Of
Blackish birds
And
Ocher toads that croaked the
Night’s sweet
Lullaby, still hot
Despite the long gone sun.

And
Over there, the little
rivulets and rills
Of
Salted water
Left everyone
Singing
A lament of thirst and
Prattling
About over over there
Where there were
Fresh water streams, and bees
Making honey,
With air laden
By there sweet, tuneful
Song, a
Song
Of lovely flowers near and far
And fruits so heavy their falling off
Their limbs and
A
Bold song, not the slightest timid
And air
So fresh that
The trees sighed
Intoxicatingly and
Bent down and kissed
“Oh My!”
Upon the hair
Of young foxes and “Oh My!”
the hair
Of old foxes too so that
All the
Foxes became hot
Like when a sun
Loves.

But back over there, the
Day
Was
Brackish – how very
Un/fair.

Back over there,
The devil was
Wooing
All of
The creatures, even the doves
Into our nightmares and
The
Shadows
Were
Marching to their new lord, not
Toward the sun, yet
Burning nights of forever long.

And
Over over there I
Wish I was to lay
My eyes up/on
The
Lord of light, I’ve heard his voice is as soft
As green
Is the grass,
And
With the
Smell
Of
The
Dampened earth
After a rain that was
Oh so sweet.

And
Over there, I
Was hung upon strings and dipped
By my
Feet
In/
To the
Nightmares of little
Children who’s screams stream
Across the night and
It was
cruel and cool
as
a
dead flower
is
cool
in
the
scorching night’s heat
And
Into the
Day
Where the children lay
Still
With fright in
A
Never-ending dream,
And
The
Hours
Turn to days and more nights and more days until time forgot
To
Pass.

And
Over there I asked “Who are you?”
When I came
Across my
Shadow and fell in love
So
Thoroughly that I didn’t see it’s evil lurking stealthily
In a crown of thorns that
I
wore upon my head, I saw
Instead you
Wooing me not
To bend down in payer till
I
Felt
The Lord of Light’s embrace that
Was open to me, but your
Spell kept my arms
Closed and your eyes were
Hot
With envy and lust like chains round
My
Neck.

And
Over there, My
Lips
Were
Chapped and cracked feeling only the wet
Bitterness of your kiss withheld and with
Your
Curled lips.

But over over there, I
Had
Forgot
Just how
bitter/sweet
You
Were.

And
Lo!
Over there the
Sun
Has
Long gone set,
And
The
Pale
Moon
Came
Up
Silently.

Be well,

Monty

“From Here” – New Book Release

From Here is a collection of poems that have been inspired by poetry, the poetry of others as well as the poetry of my life.

“From Here”

This is a small collection including 24 poems and illustrations. The illustrations explore ‘found patterns’, which like the poems, often led me to surprising and beautiful results.

Illustration from “From Here”

Now available from Amazon as paperback, hardcover, and e-book.

Be well,

Monty

a prayer

A golden shovel poem/prayer.

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the grey mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

“Under the Harvest Moon” by Carl Sandburg

A Prayer

From Carl Sandburg’s “Under the Harvest Moon”

Please God, lift me up from under
This heaviness; sew the
Seed of hope in my heart for next seasons’s harvest;
Fill me up with the gentle light of Your moon
For when
The
Soft
Hues of blue and silver
Shine upon me, my eye drips
Shimmering
Moisture over
The
Cracked soil of my soul, and coaxes the seed to garden
Into faithful nights.

Please Lord, may the certainty of death
Be enough to grant me the
Patience for meeting the grey
Mocker,
May you gift me with serenity before he comes
And
Whispers his welcome to
Me? Do I ask too much of You
As
I weep to life a
Beautiful
Bloom of faith and a friend
Who
Remembers?

Thank you God for providing this shade to rest under,
A cool oasis from the
Endless summer
Sun with it blazing shame that burns through the roses.
For when
The light shines upon my flagrant
Sins, their thorns prick crimson,
And their evil, which lurks
In
The
Dusk
Of
The
Soul, spreads wild
And red,
With poison laced leaves.

Thank you Lord, for planting this seed of love
With
Your own hands and teaching me, despite little
Faith, that in my own hands
Comes
The power of prayer, letting go, and
Accepting the touches
Of guidance You
Provide — with
A
Light whisper or a
Thousand
Memories.

And
Yet here I pray with asks
To You,
To bless me faith, so beautiful;
To answer the unanswerable;
To understand I still have questions.

Be well,

Monty

A Patch of Peace

A golden shovel poem.

The sun has drunk the dew that lay upon the morning grass

“Summer Wind” by William Cullen Bryant

A Patch of Peace

from William Cullen Bryant’s “Summer Wind”

Escaping the
Hellish August sun;
He has
Found a patch of peace under a shadow yet drunk
By the
Earth’s daily flight; And dreams of the long gone dew
That
Lay
Upon
The
Early morning
Grass

Be well,

Monty

Out of my Mind

It’s been a while since I felt poetic. When I read the poem “In the Yellowstone” by Harriet Monroe, today, it inspired me to give it a go. And in the spirit of appreciation, I decided to go with a Golden Shovel. Buckle-up for this one…its a bit of a wild ride.

Out of My Mind

From “In the Yellowstone” by Harriet Monroe


Little,
Upon the head of a pin
Threatening to prick
Fast and furious geysers
Spitting
And
Sputtering.

Not at all little,
Sea-sized foaming
Geysers
That
Gurgle
Out
In tall-tales fabricated of
See-through sails pulling the
Mind’s calyx
Of
Morning
To glory
In whirling pools.

Unbridled laughing
Geysers
That
Tickle my fancy and dance
In
The
Name of the spirits, our father, and the sun;
And
Spread
Folly upon their
Cast-off robes
Like
Down feathers escaping from lace
And wafting over
The
Techno-colored rocks.

Angry, raging
Geysers
That
Can’t wait to rush
Out
From the reach of
Good intentions with scorching hell
Raised neurosis and with
A
Great
Strike of lightning and its grumpy rumble of noise
And
Blurt
Out
Curses across the vast
Sky, summoning the demonic dragon
With gulps
Of
Lusty urges and steam
And
Finishing
Upon her breast, sink
Back
Spent and wearily
Into
Singed darkness.

Gay and glad
Geysers
Escaping the forest like nymphs
Dreaming of
The
Mid-night sun
That
Arise
When sleep is slim
And
Nude
Figures cast shadows out
Of
The
Sweet, hot
Musky, dark,
Earth
And
Ebbs into a stand
Of trees
Poised
In
Twilight’s beauty
Awaiting a
Moment
Perfect for un-veiling
Their
Wild brows
And
Boyish breasts
In
The cooling mist.

Clip-winged
Geysers
Broken spirits
Of
Smothered fire
That
Fail to rise,
Not tall,
And
Limp, not straight,
Like
A
Half-cooked noodle, a sequoia
Seedling stepped upon by heavy boot and
Aborted plume
Falls short of the
Sky
With
Tepid foam.

O,
Wild
Geysers, choral
Fountains
Of absurdities forever
Singing
To laugh-tracks and
Squelching the seething
Voices forever
Boiling
Disquiet in
Politics of despair from too deep
Places
To be safely conceived and
Leaping
Forth
For
Joyful and bright
Moments
Before disappearing into
The
Air.


How
Do
You
Like
It
Up
Here?

Why
Must
You
Go?

Going back?
Going to?
Will the
Spirits
Of
Light and darkness
Remain, or what?

Do
You
Tell
Them
Down
There
About
Your
Little
Adventure, your brief, glorious
Life
Out of my mind and in
The
Sun?

Be well,

Monty

Golden Shovel April Round-Up

About a month ago, I posted three Golden Shovel prompts for April as a collaborative project for our writing community. In this round-up, I share my golden shovel poem as well as those that were contributed by the community.

What is the Golden Shovel form, you ask? The Golden Shovel form was created by the poet Terrance Hayes, whose poem “Golden Shovel” (from his 2010 collection Lighthead) is based on Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool” which references the phrase “Golden Shovel”. Check out the “rules” here.

I want to give a big thanks to each of you that were willing to give this months challenge a try:

No Love for Fatties

A Different Perspective

Serendippity

Golden Shovel April Prompts

April Prompt No. 1

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep”

from “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

April Prompt No. 2

“…feel the wet maples leaves flicker in the rain”

from “The Leaves of a Dream are the Leaves of an Onion” by Arthur Sze

April Prompt No. 3

“Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun or fester like a sore – and then run?”

from “Dream Deferred” (Harlem) by Langston Hughes

Golden Shovel Poems for

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep”:

Dear Brother

Dear brother, the

Days we spent trekking through the woods

Are

My brightest childhood memories, lovely

Moments of joy and laughter interrupting the dark

And

Instilling a love, to this day, so deep.

by Monty Vern

Starlight reflecting against the

Leaves lush and green in the woods

Dancing shadows among the branches are

Creating moving pictures so lovely

Tapestry of… [read more]

No Love for Fatties (gigglingfattie)

You tricked me into the

Moon lit night and led me into woods

Asking me what my intentions are

Not waiting for an answer saying lovely

Words and… [read more]

by A Different Perspective (murisopsis)

Hunting the Stag

In the

hart’s woods

there are

long lovely

passages, dark-

leaved and

shadow-deep.

In the

leafy woods

hunters are

biding [read more]

by serendippity

Golden Shovel Poems for

“…feel the wet maples leaves flicker in the rain”:

Amber Rain

Feel

The

Sticky wet

syrup harvested from the local maples.

It leaves

A flicker

Of joy on the lips; Tastebuds dance in

Delight with the

Sweet taste of amber rain.

by Monty Vern

The Tables Complaint

No one considers how I feel,

covered with bits of breakfast: the scrambled egg scraps, the

itch Pop-Tart crumbs, the wet

orange juice spill (bad for my complexion), the maple

syrup smear. Everyone… [read more]

by serendippity

Golden Shovel Poems for

“Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun or fester like a sore – and then run?”

Plump Plumb or Puckered Raisin?

Does

It

Feel like this to you? Not wet or dry.

Neither right nor down, Nor left or up.

Not like

A

Plump plumb or puckered raisin?

Neither out nor in,

No warmth of a shining sun

Or

Coolness of a full moon? Do you feel whole? Or, as me, like a hole?

Do you feel dead inside or

Do you feel joy or perhaps pain and fester

Like

A

Sore?

Or, like me, just empty and numb? And,

Deaf and dumb? If not, then

Please teach me how to feel. To love. To dance. To run.

by Monty Vern

Talking to Myself

Yes, it’s a long line and includes the word fester, but does

that mean it’s impossible? I can do it. I want to do it.

I did the other two. My creative juices haven’t run dry

yet; in fact, with all I’ve been posting, I’d say my cup

is overflowing. I just need a sip to start. And it’s not like

I need to write another “Iliad” or “Odyssey,” just a

simple 18-liner. You know, if my brain were a raisin,

I could put it in a bowl and let it soak up the waters of in-

spiration till it was nice and plump. And then squeeze the

poem out drop by drop. Better yet, what if I made the sun

my muse? [read more]

by serendippity

If you missed the original Golden Shovels created by the community in the February challenge, check out all the contributions in the Week 1 Round-Up, Week 2 Round-Up, Week 3 Round-Up, and Week 4 Round-Up. Feel free to give these prompts a try as well. They were great poem line prompts with lots of creative potential.

Thanks again to all of your poetic efforts. Stay tuned for more opportunities to get creative together in the future.

Be well,

Monty

N is for…Night, “Goodnight Moo” (#AtoZ)

Here is my latest post for the #AtoZChallenge for April 2022. My title and theme for this challenge is “Seriously Silly Poetry” in recognition of April being poetry month and also wanting to do something fun and playful to celebrate spring. I hope you enjoy this series.

“Goodnight room

Goodnight moon

Goodnight cow jumping over the moon”

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown

Goodnight Moo

a Golden Shovel from Goodnight Moon, Margaret Wise Brown

As a good day turns to goodnight,

And we snuggle together in your bed-room,

We say goodbye to this lovely good-night,

With a lullaby welcoming sleep and the rising moon,

We say goodnight,

You to me and me to you; and to the black and white cow

Jumping

Over

The

Moon

(with a moo).

Be well,

Monty

Rediscovering Sight (Golden Shovel)

Since it’s poetry month, I thought I would try out some new forms and I bumped into a great blog post from A Different Perspective listing out 13 poetic form prompts. A big thanks to them for the inspiration

Prompt 5

Write an Golden Shovel poem or

Write a poem incorporating the theme of change

A Different Perspective by muisopsis

So I’ve actually written quite a bit in this form and am currently running a poetry collaboration based on this form. Check out “Welcome to Golden Shovel April” for all the details and invitation. Hope you join along!

Here are the guidelines for a Golden Shovel:

– Take a line (or lines) from an existing poem.

– Use each word in the line as an end word in your poem.

– Keep the end words in order.

– Make sure to credit the poet of the original line.

Also you can check out these round-up posts from a golden shovel even I ran earlier this year for lots of examples both from myself and the writing/blogging community: Golden Shovel Week 1 Round-Up, Week 2 Round-Up, Week 3 Round-Up, Week 4 Round-Up.

“Golden Shovel” were words used in the original Golden Shovel poem by Terrance Hayes (pulling from Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool”.

Ok, let’s get out our Golden Shovels! Actually, I’m cheating a bit here. There was a Golden Shovel that I recently wrote that also incorporates the theme of change (the optional prompt here) and I thought I would share it again here as I really like how it came out. Thanks for accommodating my lazy indulgence!

Rediscovering Sight

after Robert Frost’s “After Apple Picking”

I
chase the cannot
from the rub
of darkness, embrace the
strangeness
of yes, peeling my eyes out from
underneath my
lids, rediscovering sight.

So, what do you think about the Golden Shovel form? Wanna give it a try? Check here for some prompt suggestions.

Be well,

Monty