The night before St. Nick’s great feast
We softly slip shoes off our feet,
And set them outside our bedroom door
Before we soundly sleep,
And dream of The Holy Infant with His globe,
And St. Nick with chocolate treats.
-Mrs. Karl T. Cooper, Jr.
Prompt: How would you like to die?
I would like to die
Prepared but unaware of
Death’s precise shadow.
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Dickinson: A happy lip—breaks sudden—It doesn’t state you how, But how happy is the little Stone that rambles in the road alone.
What is your greatest fear?
Dickinson: I am afraid to own a Body -I am afraid to own a Soul -I also fear a Man of frugal Speech—I fear a Silent Man—
On what occasion do you tell a lie?
Dickinson: I Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Dickinson: —
What talent would you most want to have?
Dickinson : If I can stop one Heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
How would you like to die?
Dickinson: For Beauty
What is your motto?
Dickinson: I will not stop for death.
I don’t wonder where you are anymore.
Like I first did some twenty years ago.
It pains me to remember- its been that
Long. God is just and merciful and so
I’ve placed you In His Beating Sacred Heart.
-Mrs. Karl T. Cooper, Jr.
Prompt: write a poem that begins with a line from another poem
First line is from Wild Iris’ “vespers” by Louise Gluck
Achille’s heel
Each superhero has an Achille’s heel.
I don’t remember batman’s, maybe
it was low batteries or high gas prices.
That bat mobile doesn’t run on water-
(or does it?)
And Spiderman. . . probably a large bird
Would do it. But I do remember Superman’s.
Poor guy, everyone remembers superman’s:
all you need to render him useless
is just a bit of kryptonite.
Senyru
Superman flies high!
Nothing can stop him! Not much-
Just gold Kryptonite.
Writing prompt: Superheroes
Prompt: write a poem in which two things have a fight. Two very unlikely things, if you can manage it.
The grey elephant
and car fight- who has the true
Trunk? Neither backs down.
Mrs. Karl T. Cooper, Jr
Quickly, loudly, now the Sun
Trots the day like a golden dun
This way, and that, she spies, and sees
Golden apples upon golden trees;
One by one the windows catch
Her rays beneath the golden thatch;
Asleep like a log on her mat
With paws of gold, there lies the cat;
From their nest the finches peak
Golden feathers and golden beaks;
A bald eagle goes soaring by,
With golden claws and golden eyes;
And golden carp in the water gleam,
By golden rushes in a golden stream.
Mrs. Karl T. Cooper, Jr.
Prompt: Color, Walter de La Mare’s poem Silver
I.
Three small seers, obedient to The Lady
Knelt at the tree that day and began to pray
on smooth, wooden beads. Rain blew,
umbrellas appeared like mushrooms on the hill.
The child-mystics caught up in prayer
Were unbothered by the pressing crowds,
And saw solely a carpenter, virgin and child.
II.
“Olhe para o sol!” The Sun spun, a pulsating
disc torn from its orbit, a breaking wheel,
Have you ever seen it like you did that day:
As it Cast colors, warmed and dried the earth
Cleansed the drenched and mud-stained cuffs and hems,
Striking terror in her battle array,
Then rowed back, hung, fixed once more.
NapowriMo Prompt: Historical event
Prompt: What are you haunted by, or what haunts you? Write a poem responding to this question. Then change the word haunt to hunt.
Hunted by laundry, dishes, and chores,
Hunted by unread books on my shelf,
Hunted by library books overdue,
Hunted by mugs with cold morning’s brew,
Hunted by untouched notebooks and pens,
Hunted by all the things left half-done.
Hunted until – I throw in the towel –
Enough is enough! I’ll just go for a run.
Mrs. Karl T. Cooper, Jr.
The paperback book you took to the beach,
With economical and dog-earable pages,
with corners bent and coffee stains,
The one, that gets lost at the bottom of bags,
strewn on damp towels, sand scratching the pages.
I think I’d like to be
That paperback book you took to the beach.
My plot would unfold at a trot not a gallop,
Engaging and light not entirely stupid.
Just thoughtful enough for a dip not a dive.
No need for a pen, my margins are clear
And best of all I’d be loved by those
Who appreciate me: A place
For repose Filled with comfortable prose.
-Mrs. Karl T. Cooper, Jr.
marginalia books 