Deathpoem by Shinsui – 1769
she’s all soul, sound, and sea churn,
a transcendent conscience reborn,
a graceful slowing of tempo
new world fire leaves old world ashes
her rubied mouth spills leitmotifs of
letdowns, loneliness, languishing pulse.
Can she hear my voice added to her song?
***
Inspired by Ron’s recent take on the Sevenling form.
Photo by Thomas Tucker on Unsplash
night conceals atrophy and decay
but it happens all around us
what binds us will fall away
our flesh and bone to dust
give me your answer
before we rot
I love you’s
heard by
none
***
Originally published at A Cornered Gurl on Medium for the Nonet the Night challenge. Special thanks to Tre L. Loadholt for hosting this challenge.
Photo by Vladimir Agafonkin on Unsplash
I don’t want to hear of rebirth
blooming buds make it hard to breathe
and I don’t want the snow to fall
and I won’t fall for you again
I don’t want to stir in the night
bleak echoes ring hollow and dull
I don’t want to dream about you
and I hate sleep that never comes
‘till birdsongs vibrate the morning
and I don’t want the sun to rise
it will shine again without you
that’s fine, for your laugh rankles me
I can’t stand the smile on your face
summer warmth burns more than it soothes
I don’t want to inhale autumn
the fall winds part us from our bough
and all the miracles
phenomenal matters
the air passing through you
perfumed within your pores
enrapturing me then
are now tedious things
I don’t miss you at all
nor our modern wonders
smartphones for guileless fools
I refresh texts daily
remaining unrefreshed
rueful plea unanswered
and I won’t fall for you again
I don’t want to dream about you
I can’t stand the smile on your face
and I’m not waiting for your call
the world keeps turning without you
I’m not fixated on your scent
our paths don’t need to cross again
and I pray that you keep us here
because one more vile smile from you
one more goosebump-inducing laugh
one more text, touch, slip of your tongue
your cruel tenderness undoes me
I’d rather be resentful alone
than bereft among your promises
grant me this mercy of bitterness
for the hope of you is my ruin
***
Photo by Valerie Elash on Unsplash
“Come and see”
you sternly demand
without speaking
in midnight silence
with icicle eyeliner
a cold glare that incinerates
inhibitions, leaving only
appetite and tongue wandering
to taste where boundaries blend
black and white into
delicious greyscale.
I see your intent
and hesitate,
just a beat;
“Come and see”,
I calmly answer
your unspoken demand
with an in-kind moon-soaked stillness,
and I wait, knowing
intuitively that the
crescent reflected in your scowl
won’t wait for my verbal consent
as my silence screams yes,
in fact, I am indeed
delicious;
come and see
that this cold pale night
is nourished with the
red succulence
she urgently craves;
come and see
if your prey bites back
with carnal-clawing contempt
as you hope he does;
come and see
where the pulse of my
power comes from
by gripping my flesh, my neck,
my third rail,
writhing, thrashing
as my voltage and current
animates and courses through you
and you find yourself
lacking the energy
to release me,
come and see
the ice goddess convulsing,
coalescing upon our blending,
knowing herself sated
and overflowed upon a
worthy vessel,
whose goal was only to answer
her unspoken question coolly,
casually, completely and
comprehensively.
Come and see.
***
Photo by Emre Öztürk on Unsplash
I really can’t say,
but I feel it.
You too, right?
I feel it deep
within my truth,
where the luminous soul
attaches itself to
unremarkable marrow.
Can you do it?
Can you speak power to truth?
Or would you rather
claw at the vision until
your eyes bleed the lies
in rivers and streams in which
you flee to for quick comfort?
There’s no poem for it.
Not till now, anyway.
No pill or salve either,
unless you count
the ones that nullify it,
or the weed and brown liquor
that helps you forget
or briefly removes
the weight of remembering.
I want it as I want all things
eternally unobtainable;
end of the rainbow;
golden horizon;
promise of tomorrow;
comfort of being seen
and embraced by more than this.
I’ve mastered hide-n-seek
in ways where few bother
searching anymore,
though I’d still lie
and tell them I’m fine
had they not already
given up on asking.
But never you mind;
this is just another
melodramatic poem,
not an overwrought
cryptic cry for help.
I really am fine.
***
Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash
night skitters across silent rooftops
mad starless gales howl “could have beens”
midnight sleet spittles “what-ifs”
shapeless trees shush regret
things go bump in it
as it settles
night mutates
shaping
dreams
***
Originally published at A Cornered Gurl on Medium for the Nonet the Night challenge.
Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash
Your smile seduced a second look
better reserved for the next crash scene.
The look in my eyes invited conversation
that connected our storms with the serene.
Our conversation skirted the margins of comfort
as hands touched forearms, drawing towards center.
Easy comfort leant us towards assumption;
discorded motives bade us to enter.
Obtuse assumption flies into misunderstanding;
you braced for pleasure, I thrusted for connection.
Ripened misunderstanding decouples you
and me from us; introspection from fixation.
As you are still not who I thought you were,
and I am no longer who you thought I was,
we were bound forever, merged at when
we were whatever we needed again.
***
struggle
relentless, bitter
disquieting, dispiriting, disarming
dutiful, beautiful, wistful, wishful
beguiling, edifying, rejuvenating
merited, spiritual
respite
***
OK… this is my final final poem of the year. I forgot I wrote it. It is in the Diamante style. I encountered this form a few years ago, tried it once, but then promptly forgot it. I became reacquainted with it when I read a fellow writer over at Tao Talk, so I tried it again.
Happy New Year, everyone. Here’s hoping for more empathy and understanding in 2020.
Photo by Timon Klauser on Unsplash
What if I unglossed our painting before it dried?
What if my tears smeared our indigo finish?
What if I painted midnight horizons into pastels?
What if each correction lightened and undefined?
What if each stroke unburdened texture of weight?
What if ink flowed from canvas to brush?
What if I dabbed brush into pigment to clean it?
What if our cleaner lines were gobbled-up by my pen?
What if I sketched our imperfect borders into nothing?
What if I created perfection; a blank slate?
What if I swallowed the wrong words instead?
What if I said the right thing and you stayed?
***
My final poem of the year, written for the final Real Toads prompt ever: PLAY IT AGAIN! with REAL TOADS, hosted by Kerry O’Connor. I chose to write to Kerry’s LET’S FIND OUR POETIC VOICE prompt and then – as a tip of the hat – to erase, clean, or “un-write my voice”, as many of the wonderful prompts here directly contributed to my poetic voice growing and stretching in ways I never imagined possible.
Thank you to everyone at Real Toads – both the hosts and the contributors – for all of your efforts, encouragement, and support. I know this isn’t goodbye, so I’ll see you all out there next year.
Photo by Vincent Guth on Unsplash
Approaching winter solstice,
dawn is a selfish lover
refusing to yield our time –
stubborn purple shawl – to Sol’s
feeble glare; nature is still,
unsure of beginning as
humanity’s headlamps speed
through, splitting tapestry in
two in the name of progress,
civilization’s ego,
harsh budgetary deadlines,
missing blissful, seemingly
fickle metamorphic dance
of dew into mist into
diamond dust. The disturbance
is a series of ripples;
dawn creeps along on her own
terms, and I love her all the
more for it. I wait with her.
Some speed off into the day,
fixated on what comes next.
Others linger in the night,
trapped by fate no longer seen.
Stay here with us for a while.
Let your eyes adjust to her.
See how her shadow shimmers?
Unhurried, yet still fleeting.
Past problems hold no power.
Next year’s light won’t reach us yet,
but today’s sunrise soon will.
I wish you’d too embrace her,
in her splendid stubbornness.
Her wonders are apparent.
You need only to wait here,
and see her stir for yourself.
***
Inspired by Poets United Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Year’s End, hosted by Susan.
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