You are my favorite song
prolonged by our lifelong sing-along;
the seemingly ringing
random sequence of beaconing
notes bringing me in ungainly,
unacquainted, yet infectiously
groovy set melody
that soothes and threatens to
relentlessly bring me
blissful expressions;
you are this to me
as well as destiny
of warm contemplation;
the un-played keys
that say everything,
returning it;
the indeterminate rests
among joyful-singing notes,
reaffirming its depths,
gasping for breath between
belly-laughs by the lungful;
your barely half-measured
triumphal treasure
fills impassioned sensations
with blasphemous pleasures;
ears favor your treble,
bones savor your bass,
and touch yearns for your encore.
***
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
***
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.
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.
After erasure, starting anew,
I’d begin with you in permanent ink,
and perhaps myself next in shading-pencil,
or even a charcoal, perhaps not
quite that dark or indelible.
You see,
I don’t know
where I’m supposed to be,
but it never really matters
as long as you’re here
with me,
and not necessarily here with me,
but somewhere
on this massive rock,
daring to exist without meaning,
exchanging meaningful vibrations,
we’d bubble, churn,
and ooze into anvil-clouds,
raining grey slivers onto sunsets.
Because I love you,
and that is true and fine
and completely permissible
even without my understanding;
I say the words, and I feel it,
even as I don’t know exactly
what it means; I mean I chose it,
but even had I not,
I’d have it all the same,
splitting my breastplate,
spitting into my denying eye
as the heart rushes to keep pace
with the words that won’t come,
claims that get caught out-of-sync
like an 80’s high-hat sharp-hit
where a 90’s boom-bap snare-kick
should land as planned.
Nothing went as planned;
I crave order and there is none
and that is perfectly fine
except when it isn’t;
I desire structure and superstructure
even as I chafe at the yoke
holding us together; holding us apart;
I’d shatter the firmament
for your fleeting smile;
with a snap of my fingers,
I’d snuff-out the sun
if it meant that my final moments
were sitting on a rapidly cooling
solitary park bench
next to you,
hips scarcely touching,
in tranquil silence.
I’d ruin the image,
saving your sketched outline;
my greatest work.
How can I possibly remake this world,
the next, or any other?
My own name,
now and beyond,
lacks structure or meaning
unless you write its narrative
with hands that shape its very context,
or unless you call upon it,
breathing its purpose
with your own lips;
which isn’t the same as saying
without you in my life, in some way,
I am nothing,
but it’s oddly similar to
The Commodores without Lionel Richie
in that I struggle to find the point.
But what I do know is this;
I’d begin with you
in permanent ink.
***
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 