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Stacey Joy, California, gave us a non-traditional Tanka (no restrictions here, just five lines) called the Gogyohka. I definitely wasn't writing a poem at 5 a.m., but I did make a mental note of a poem I could right. I almost made it to campus when the the parking lot started....wall to wall 'mother' truckers with all the frustration that comes with living in this area.
I do, however, like this style...no rhymes, no set rhythm...just five lines by five lines. I was also channeling Kris, Dave, and Ishy and their latest romp to see the art work of Banksy, plus watching Tarpon Springs perform a show based on the artist had me thinking of the graffiti artist.
Poetry, I'd argue, is a form of graffiti. I used to make my kids do poetic drive-bys. They had to write a poem and randomly leave it somewhere: the worker at Burger King, on a park bench, in chalk, in a random sent envelope. It was part of the game.
Boy without Balloon
~b.r.crandall
When you have a stuck-in-traffic life,
and commute at 6 a.m to classrooms polka-dotting
along the sound traveling north of Long Island into Connecticut,
you think about what’s most important, like decorating
a colleague’s bulletin board with mermaids, unicorns, and faeries.
You contemplate great rhymes for truckers, too,
as they line up I-95 like wheeled billboards,
only to block sunlight, blue sky, and horizons…
You can’t help wondering if Banksy was the one writing in dirt
Wash Me, Bi’otch as you decide you’re definitely grilling Salmon tonight.