The words have flown — I don’t know why.
Perhaps they’re nesting in the trees.
My pen is empty, ink is dry–
my thoughts are drifting on a breeze.
I will not worry, at my lack
of flowing verbiage for a poem.
They’ve fled before; they will be back.
Like me, they know the road to home.
even though words
are all around me
–on page after page
in book after book
on shelf after shelf
–on the back of every
in the shower
–in every envelope
of every piece
of junk mail
in the mailbox
–on every label
of every box and can
in the kitchen.
I still cannot seem
to find the right ones
for a poem.
It’s a good thing
silence and I have
when I sit still
and listen, she
reminds me — poems
take coaxing — words
can be shy — maybe
It’s the hour before the darkness fades
—the hour when silence yawns hungry,
wakes me from sleep, begs to be filled.
It’s not the witching hour, but the watching
as I gaze upon you while you sleep–
counting breaths and twitching fingers,
wondering what dreams spin in your head.
It’s the hour when words burst the dam,
spill out on the floor– the hour when I am
frantically mopping with sheets of paper
–to catch poetic lines before ink dries.
It’s the hour for conversation between
longing and regret, hope and fear.
–the fourth hour of the morning,
and my soul refuses to let me sleep.
Let the ink and paper tangle.
Watch the black lines dance on the page
— Fred and Ginger on a blank stage —
twist and turn at every angle.
See that flourish? Watch it dangle,
like a tiger loosed from its cage.
See how ink and paper tangle,
As the black lines leap on the page?
It’s all noise, all bass and jangle–
scattered joy and unbridled rage,
stolen from the battles we wage.
Come and play and don’t act your age.
Watch the ink and paper tangle.
Poetic Asides #April Poem-A-Day Challenge – PAD #8:
For today’s prompt, write a doodle poem. In my mind, I’m thinking of how I like to doodle when I’m talking on the phone or sitting in a meeting. I used to doodle in my classes when I was younger. So for a poem, I’m thinking this could start off as something small that stays small or builds to epic proportions. Doodle around a bit today. If needed, start by describing something close at hand or within your current field of vision.
POETIC FORM INFO:
The poetic form focus for my PAD 2016 Challenge is the Rondeau — 13 lines in 3 stanzas; rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaA (uppercase letters are refrains) Usually 8 syllables per line. For info: http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/personal-updates/help-me-rondeau-help-help-me-rondeau-another-french-poetic-form
She plays with fire
the way I play in ink.
Her blood is iron
and she knows the
heat of the forge–
it rages in her bones.
She is a poem,
written on I-beams,
a dozen stories high–
a rare breed, wolf
and I struggle
to find the words,
to describe her
as she burns.
Listen to Boilermaker —
I’ve spent the past several days in the hospital with a partner. She is doing well, and we’re narrowing in on what the non-life threatening problem actually is. However, as a result, I will be re-posting a couple of previous poems this week. I hope you enjoy!
From February, 2015
I wrap myself in rain soaked sheets,
my skin well drenched in poet’s ink.
Words drip from fingers, lashes, hair,
although the squall line’s past, I think.
A rolling thunder echoes now.
Tempted I am, to seed the sky —
(I feel it in my skin, my bones.)
to dance a prayer against the dry.
To gauge the weather, test the air —
while rushing winds in whispered voice
make promises of darker clouds —
for instruments — I have one choice:
I’ll take my pen, write rhymes in form.
hold back the sun, bring on the storm.
My flesh is a bowl
— words dripping
from the brim.
I am the place
where words breathe,
beat as a pumping heart.
I am a cavern —
empty, and full of
echoes and bodies,
spilling out words.
They cry in pain,
dance in celebration.
I am where words go
— to mingle, and to flirt
— to kiss, and to fuck.
I am the hollow,
and I am the spoon,
dipping out language.
I am white linen —
a bed dampened
by the sweat of ink.
I am the cup —
words — the elixir,
the heat and the cool,
from which a soul sips
reason or rhyme–
I am the sanctuary
where verses pray,
I watch them slip through
cracked, stained glass
— a poem taking wing.
My body bates at all that moves
as though I might bind to a peace
I’m sore and tired. I need release.
I hope with sleep my mood improves.
For now this ache all sense removes.
My thoughts seem just a pantomime.
I cannot force these words to rhyme.
The ink won’t flow or find the page;
My words lie trapped, in iron cage.
I feel my wing-beats out of time.
Decima Espinela — 10 line poem, 8 syllables per line, abbaaccddc rhyme pattern.
I have the writer’s luxury of words (my
body is a thesaurus) and my tongue
drips with vocabulary like a child dances
— with complete abandon. No hiding behind
the expectations in my imagination. My
poet’s fingers paint love upon these lips
before I speak. I promise will ever search for
the perfect shade, and always be kissing you.
golden shovel – Take a line (or lines) from a poem you like. Use each word as an end word in your poem. Keep the end words in order. Credit the original poet, ie. “-after (poet)”.
POEM A DAY NOVEMBER 2015 – PROMPT:
For today’s prompt, write a luxury poem.