If you don’t raise your voice
no one will hear you sing
losing the gift of choice,
we wait for what squalls bring
Did you cross my mind, love?
Or did I dream our bliss?
Your voice fades with your kiss
Ruby dreams from foxglove
Tearful visions fall, blurred
smeared what’s left of your song
seasons blended and slurred
where our voices belonged
Could you hear my song too?
Was I brassy? Off-key?
Hope you remember me
as currents convey you.
***
Aretha Franklin’s death is weighing heavy on my mind this morning. I immediately thought of both this soulful Aretha original and the slick Mos Def sample. I was happy to see that YouTube had a mashup of the two. Listening to it got me thinking in terms of Shakespearean-level star-crossed lovers missed connections, and whatnot and so-forth. It’s funny how the brain works sometimes.
The weather-guessers were wrong
about the heat wave.
In fact, there was light precipitation.
Preferring the rain, I am relieved.
I don’t even know why I wrote
“precipitation” instead of “rain”.
I’m no meteorologist.
I guess the unscheduled rainfall
wasn’t up to my lofty standards.
It was a halfhearted rainfall,
followed by an indifferent sunbreak.
Felt more like angel’s spit
than the weeping we’ve earned
for this crapsack existence.
My hemisphere turned
fully into the true glare
of sunlight, and everywhere I turn,
I glare at two shadows
of the Four Noble Truths.
I see only suffering and
man’s indifference to it.
I see children crying in pain,
fear, hunger, and terror;
if they’re lucky, they’ll just receive
the mercy of ignorance
in the form of being ignored,
or perhaps they’ll only languish
as the butt of cruel jokes
they’re mostly ignorant to.
I see indignant adults
viciously targeting them
for exploitation
or other vile indignities.
I see servers and protectors
silencing them permanently
in brass precipitation
because that’s the way
it’s always been and apparently,
that’s the way it needs to be.
The days grow shorter now.
It is the nature of our earth’s tilt
in reference to our position on it
as we continue our
inevitable journey around the sun.
Our share of daylight
will gradually be transferred
to our antipodean brothers and sisters,
in the way it’s always been.
Centerline keeper
Breath my air
Inhale, share
Mutual dreamer
Centerline keeper
Move in close
Feel repose
Outer gate-sweeper, brace you
Centerline keeper
Closer still
Overfill
Tender will-seeker
And you want this?
I know I do
Centerline keeper
Nose to ear
Hush your fear
Uncommitted leaner
Centerline keeper
Concentric girds
Say the words
Sensitive feeler, face you
And do you want this?
I know I do
Limerence
Is it
Limerence?
Is it
Only
Limerence?
Is it
Only
Opening us to
Loss of contact?
Ignorance
Was it
Lonely
Opening to
Mutual attract?
Limerence
Do you want this?
Can we will this?
I can feel the sun
In the curve of your smile
And I want the day to grow longer
And I can see the fun
In the swerve of your style
And all I want to say,
You know, is to conjure
Cupid, Aphrodite, Eros,
Frigga, Hathor, Juno,
Flora, Sabine, Persephone,
And the whole damn team
And the whole damn team
Just to make you say
You share the same space
And feel the same way
Are you inspired by the way
I admire your existence?
Do you require further sway
Towards desire or assistance?
Are we both liars who display
A misfire of consistence?
Renewed, I aspire to today
Rising higher, void of distance
Limerence
Is it
Limerence?
Is it
Only
Limerence?
Is it
Only
Opening us to
Loss of contact?
Is it ignorance?
Was it
Lonely
Opening to
Mutual attract?
Limerence
Do you want this?
Can we will this?
The path beyond the garden
Beyond what I thought I knew
Beyond a life filled with
Dewdrops alive with you
When I relied on a new
Love supplied by you
Beg your pardon
Beg your smile to rise higher still
A spring rain brings a tap
On my windowsill
It brings pain and sappy need
To say the words with a greater will
The season of renewal
Where the flowers grow
And the lovebirds sing
Where my heart didn’t know
What our world would bring
And the sun didn’t show
The clouds gathering
Fate may be cruel
But I’ll face it with a truth
That belies the fear
Can’t replace what a
Youthful heart supplies to steer
Our airspace closed with
A soothing baptized revere
It would be foolish to build a life
On a starry night shared in the throes
Of what we know is obsession
Is it?
And it would be a sin against nature
To win you on surface-level physics,
Playing Loki to discretion
Only
Is it?
When did this spin out of our control
And grow, filling its own chasm?
When did we spin and invent
Our enlightening phantasm?
Lonely
Was it
Formed when we were born
At the event horizon of an orgasm?
When did we spin out of control
And grow into this unwieldly thing?
When did we begin? Was it
The beginning of spring?
***
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 30 prompt:
…write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. While I cannot vouch for the actual accuracy of any of the facts presented at the links above (or any other facts you might use as inspiration!), I can tell you that there are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.
The strange and fascinating fact I used is that the fighting style Wing Chun literally translates to Spring Chant or Eternal Spring.
Sorry for the late ending. I’ve been really busting my hump at work and haven’t had much time to write. But I’ve been tinkering with this one off and on for a while.
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.
This one was rather intimidating. While I respect and emulate the greats like Poe, Wild, Hemmingway, Langston Hughes and even Chicago greats like Carl Sandburg and Gwendolyn Brooks, I have always feared Sylvia Plath. She was a unique genius, and emulating her work is a lot like trying to describe the void. I’d much rather look away.
Anyway, the poem I chose was Elm (the April 19 entry), and as I feared, It kind of sucked me in, chewed me up, and spit me out. I didn’t even have time to write my day 30 poem.
Postcard in Praise of My One-Time Online Secret Girlfriend
Why are you here? Why am I? Why are we? Even though we’re both evenly among our peers in our late twenties, this feels… odd. Oddly uncomfortable and weirdly familiar in keeping welcome company. You seem to be enjoying this bass-boosted noise even less than me, if that were ever a possibility. You say nothing as you gallantly support the nightclub wall with your back, your face screwed into a question mark. You’re puzzled by how different I am IRL than online. You’re with your girls and I’m with my homie, but I spot in your eyes, a symmetry. Or is it synergy? It’s a mystery, but I can see that you too wish it were just you and me. I have poor self-esteem, so I don’t take these vibes lightly when they come to be. You speak softly, drowned-out by the club cacophony, yet I feel your words settle next to me. I won’t forget how you let me hold your hand gratefully, us both grateful no one else could see.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 28 prompt: “draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.”
My tarot reading,
if you believe in such things,
drew Three of Pentacles.
Or is it The Three of Pentacles?
The eternal skeptic,
I know not of how tarot cards
prefer to be addressed,
or if they even perceive mockery.
Three, (or The Three)
apparently
signifies skilled labor
or fashioning with your hands,
be it trade, craft, or artistry.
It seems that even fate herself,
an unforgiving, mysterious mistress
conspires to compel me
to continue to create.
If you believe in such things.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 27 prompt:
…we challenge you to pick a card (any card) from this online guide to the tarot, and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.
write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 