Not even a Prose Poet, as I discovered at last Saturday’s workshop with Roger Aplon.
A prose poem is open ended. I like things wrapped up in a neat little box.
A prose poem is driven by metaphor. I’m not metaphoric in my writing.
A prose poem is dream-like, surreal. I’m real.
At any rate, here’s what I came up with:
Today the sun shines like shards of glass piercing the soft blue sky and the ocean swell is from the south or maybe it’s the storm that passed over Hawaii yesterday and today is the place to be in the town that is where we lived when I was five and six and maybe even seven. And now I stay out of the water, the smell, salt taste on my lips and bacteria that I fear may seep into my soul.
Today is the place I want to be usually and sometimes it is the only place that matters when life is unpredictable like a Vegas slot machine. One push of the button and you win or you lose and coins tumble like a thick chunky waterfall into a bucket, not your bucket but your neighbor’s bucket and you want to be happy for him or her but you can’t because your today has passed.
Today is a dream of birds flying, mocking squawking and swooping in and out of the pepper tree taunting me with their wings, but they don’t know Today I will fly.
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Not sure what it is but it is probably not a prose poem.