Time

Sound Effects pt. 1

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4.24 Sound Effects Pt 1 – Youth

Youth takes the higher registry
In cackles, screams, and laughter
Meant to call down parents
And assert strong needs and wants
Because there is no other thing
Than the immediate, the now.
There is no more authentic representation of grief
Than a child who does not realize
Tomorrow is tangible.

In youth I seem to recall
Being able to sing well,
Well enough that even adults would listen.
I like to think it stemmed from my ability
To howl with indignation as a toddler,
Though never with the kind of sheer mad fury as my sister,
Who slipped and ran headlong into a corner,
And became possessed by the furies
At the level of her discomfort.
I can still see her raging eyes,
The little bleeding bruise in her forehead.

In time, the high-pitched sounds fade
As feet become steadier
And minds more sure of themselves.
I would not want to go back to the mad sounds of childhood.
I would, however, happily take back my
Ability to howl out my feelings.

A Small Promise

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4.22 A Small Promise

He said come here and hold me
All throughout the night.
I’d love to, Love, but I’m afraid
I promised I would write.

Your kisses make me smile
And your arms are my delight
But I’ve a second rendez-vous
I promised I would write.

For I’m a woman of my word
And words give no respite
I’ll come back to your warm embrace
I promised I would write.

Who knows how long I waited
For the muses to alight?
Cursing that I ever said
I promised I would write.

Your sleepy hands reached for me
In the waning white moonlight
I took your hands and kissed them
I promised I would write.

And I’m a woman of my word
And the words are tucked in tight
So kiss me love for I am here
I promised I would write.

With thanks to a Facebook Ad

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I used my prose way back in May
When I had useful things to say

And then in June I wondered why
My well of words was cracked and dry

I used my prose – such lovely thoughts
I wrote them out, those nimble plots

Those thankless letters left me there
Stuck with August everywhere

I scratched out words one at a time
I seeded prose in autumn rime

Ruminating through the cold
I felt the silence taking hold

I used my words way back in May
In March I had nothing to say

Till suddenly the prose came home
And settled in my finger bones

Perhaps I have new things to say
I only hope to last past May…

——

I saw a Facebook ad that was about a shampoo or something. In my haste to scroll by, my brain simplified the first sentence to “I started using prose in May.” The rest wrote itself very quickly, until the end. I have difficultly telling when my brain wants to end something hopefully for real, or if it’s pretending to ignore a reality that I don’t want to face. Not writing for months, for example, in any format. All my writing has been on ice for what feels like ages.

NaPoWriMo is starting in a week. I hope that gets my creative muscles flexing again.

Fell behind. Must catch up…

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Well, ok, I got sickish.

Then I had work and it all just started tumbling away from me. I’m nine days off, but I have nine more days to make up for it. If I do two or three a day, I should be caught up.

Luckily for you readers, I have been scribbling poems down on paper!

Also I’m working on an epic poem as a bit of joke for a British friend of mine. More on that later!

4.13 Bitch on a Train

Your instincts told you that the foreigner wouldn’t know to pounce.
Safe in your prejudices.
Fool.
Know what you did not anticipate?
This foreigner has been riding the rails for months.
I’ve lost my fear.
I’ve lost my patience.
That seat is mine.
I claimed it ten stops ago.
You may want it,
But you won’t get it.
Sorry, Junior.
You snooze.
You lose…that seat.

4.14 Sakura Philosophy

Sakura season is but a breath of spring
A flippancy, a dalliance, the barest floral fling
Two weeks tops of cherry blooms under which we dine
Staring up at flowers while drinking sweet plum wine.

Such times seem held in stasis as though to last forever
And yet the trees are stripped with the barest hint of weather
Seeming snow-capped branches shaken by a forceful gale
Spring begins by shaking off the prettiest of veils.

Perhaps that is the lesson that we are meant to learn
That we are the like the buds that bloom and fall in turn
So take heart, my blossoms, that spring will come and then
Upon our fall new sakura will burst into bloom again.

Small Moment

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I heard the truth of your voice at one time,
and at that time I understood you just a little more.
And in that space of time we were permitted
voices open and eager.
Time is measured as needed.
I take small moments as large minutes,
better to counteract the heavy hours that will fall
with silence and better judgment.
I will hold the one times safe,
As one does perfect shells, unbent feathers, and truthful voices.

Wallowing

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I’m eating goldfish crackers

All the way down to the salty crumbs.

Then I eat the flakes too.

Walk in ineffectual circles,

Listen to ineffectual music.

Recite ineffectual mantras.

Because when you told everyone to leave you be,

That today was your “writing day”

Then suddenly you need people

And you can’t bring yourself to ask for help

Or speak of the hurt

Or untangle your necklaces

The only thing you can do is wallow.

Eat all the crackers,

Avoid the whiskey in the closet,

And hold tight to the main mast

Until the squall passes.

Because deep down you know – I know –

That the storm may not pass entirely,

But it will eventually mellow,

Which will give you the space you need

To breathe, to write, to speak,

And push through to to the next, new sun.

 

 

 

All that a Writer Can Do

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All That a Writer Can do

When my tires went flat
I mused and sat
Out on the grass of a hill

By the freeway’s shoulder
Upon a boulder
I took out my modern quill

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To pass idle time
With humor and rhyme
Until the tow truck comes through

When my heart got broken
I pulled out your token
And promised never again

Reclining in bed
With an angry head
I took out my ballpoint pen

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To soothe the hurt feelings
With drama and peelings
Until the heart mends anew

When the sun shone upon me
I walked in its bounty
Through parks and fields fair

And out in the flowers
Spent carefree hours
Writing my musings there

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To capture sublime
In meager rhyme
Apologizing when through

And when I die
I will not cry
I’ll hand the journal to you

To write me with care
Be I foul or fair
So long as you write me true

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To send me on
To the great beyond
Where I’ll write something new.