A blue side of pale winter sky
A false promise of warmth
Mocking lie leaves frostbite
We learn to live without feeling
Breath before death leaves us warmer
Beyond all comprehension of touch
A blue side of grey spring and sleet
A note passed across the order
It reads as up is down and I am worthy
I compound why nots ‘till I forgot
We would never be, yet I felt warmer
Lark or not, I envisioned her touch
A blue side of bluest midsummer dream
Her declaration under scalding eyes
A fragile fondness that could never be
I lash-out, shredding her baby-bird song
I wound her before she could burn me
Sense of touch long beyond the pale
A blue side of amber autumn gale
Earnest harvest of unmindful fullness
Ripened want withered on bough
Unseen by us, insulated from life
Preparing for death has iced our light
Beyond all comprehension of touch
***
Also written for NaPoWriMo’s day 29 prompt: write “a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully.”
In sixth grade, I was pranked by a girl who pretended to have a crush on me. Once the prank was revealed, I was the laughing stock of my class. Prior to that, I’ve always had poor self-esteem.
That prank confirmed every awful thing I thought of myself and informed my actions in the future whenever I found myself connecting with someone who claimed to be into me. I just wanted to explore those feelings again as an old man.
Anyway, I’m pleased to be the last person to complete #NaPoWriMo2019 #GloPoWriMo2019. Phew! Sorry I’ve been away for a bit. Life has been quite challenging these days.
I have a few more entries this month, but soon I’ll be on another extended break. I’m due for a sabbatical from writing as I spend more time reading all the wonderful poetry of my fellow online poets.
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 30 prompt: write a minimalist poem. “What’s that? Well, a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion. Haiku are probably the most familiar and traditional form of minimalist poetry, but there are plenty of very short poems out there that do not use the haiku form.”
Also written for Real Toads’ day 30 prompt: “Write a poem in praise of a source of inspiration — your muse, your life, your own web of thoughts, your dreams or sleeplessness, your daily tasks, a favourite artist or musician, nature and environment, et al. Also, let’s keep it between 30-60 words — there is a certain beauty in brevity after all.”
The poetry gods have spoken, and the word is brevity.
This was a challenging, but fun NaPoWriMo. Thank you to all my fellow poets who participated and/or offered feedback.
This month, I eclipsed one-thousand views for the first time ever in all my years of hosting a poetry blog. Obviously, I don’t do this solely for the views, but it’s good to know that my silly little stories from this corner of the world are being read globally.
I chose not to reply to any comments for the duration of NaPoWriMo, hoping to focus all my energy on creating (hopefully) quality poems. I’d like to take this time to thank you all for taking time out your days to send some love my way. I truly appreciate it more than I can say. Thank you, my friends, and I’ll see you soon.
(Yeah, I know I owe you one more poem. I haven’t forgotten!)
Their pain is born from fissures
in a ruptured union, leaking black bile,
becoming tidepools of resentment
under moonless night of regret.
Intensity of emotion
has brought her into this world
blind and formless.
After the begging had ceased,
after the demands rose,
floating away as all hot-air does,
after the tears dried and crusted
in corners, after goodbyes
scattered wounded elements
the way all stars fall,
a series of electro-chemical sparks
ignite her coalescence into
nebulous idea,
as hurt, shame, and love commiserate
with introspection, perspective,
and empathy; her formlessness
is shaped into a proto-philosophy,
the light splitting her darkness
is an empty notebook, opening.
Her energy not lost, but transferred
as all pain is, she reclaims herself
after a lost cause, opening, pouring
her dark tidepools onto pages, her bile
shaped into words they wanted to say,
but were too prideful, too shameful,
too fearful to voice to one another
when it may have brought them closer
to joy; their Shakespearian tragic timing
cooling, on paper, appropriately,
into a poem which begins as:
“She is born as all are; from their pain.”
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 28 prompt: write a meta-poem, or a poem about poetry.
It was just a dream; I grasp at the vapors.
Lying between them, I hug their legs close.
Unworthy of wholeness, I hug their legs close.
I can’t see their faces, yet I see their beauty.
I feel where they ache; yes, I feel their beauty.
It wells up within me knowing I am unworthy.
Their pain becomes mine and I’m so unworthy.
We lie there, and I talk of light we won’t see.
The night shines above; starlight we can’t see.
They take in my words in a naked silence.
We strip away lust, leaving naked silence.
Revealing softness, we bare our raw fears.
In dark, quiet space, we share our raw fears.
In dawn’s softened light, I relax my grip.
They scatter, taking flight when I relax my grip.
Released from a dream, still grasping at vapors.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 26 prompt: “write a poem that uses repetition”.
Recently, I’ve done more than a few repetition poems using various forms, but I haven’t dabbled in free verse repetition. I thought I’d give it a go while writing about a semi-lucid dream I had recently.
Granted, I (poorly) aped Jerico Brown’s brilliant style, so technically it’s not a free verse, but I don’t know what else to call it besides “style-jacking” so, here we are.
Oh, and I’m all caught up now, so it’s bourbon time!
Most take you to your future
– or to be more precise, they
get you to your present sooner.
But a select few can take you
to your past; a portal to a
magical era not too long
ago when books existed.
The right connection can
transcend barriers, linking you
to decades ago when you dozed,
commuting, curled within the arms
of the love of your life, before
things fell apart, or if you ride
to the end of the line, you find
your beginning at the local
community college, planning
what to be when you grew up, not
recognizing the tempered
greying reflection of what you’ve
become. Walk among the ghosts, but
you cannot interact to tell
your younger self when to be still,
patient, like a Zen monk; and when
to attack your barely sketched fate
with zeal, unbridled aggression;
some enchanted barriers are
not so easily breached, even
when using our trusted snow routes.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 24 prompt: “write a poem that, like ‘Dictionary Illustrations,’ is inspired by a reference book. Locate a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia, open it at random, and consider the two pages in front of you to be your inspirational playground for the day. Maybe a strange word will catch your eye, or perhaps the mishmash of information will provide you with the germ of a poem.”
This was almost an elegy about me not being able to find a single book – let alone a book of reference – at my current workplace (to be fair, my entire department is packing to move to a new floor, so most books are packed). Thankfully, I found a bus route booklet and flipped it open to a route I never rode on, but somehow it connected my present with my past and my distant past.
Yes, I’m behind a day. I mentioned writer’s fatigue in an earlier post, but that’s not what happened this time. I just have an awful lot happening in my life all at once. Don’t worry; I’ll catch up this weekend.
Also written for NaPoWriMo’s day 22 prompt: “write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.”
(Blogger’s Note: I couldn’t choose between the two music selections, so I added them both. Whoopsie!)
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 