Parting is all we know of hell*
Heaven the delightful linger of the touch of love’s spell.
With these two feet I begin
This journey, of probing and inquiry
A thousand miles stretched taut
Like a string. Losing itself in the
Distance between here and there
A road untraversed separating
This beginning – hallowed ground
And that distant pleasure dome.
One cannot escape the lure
Of mystery dived head first into,
The call of the unknown, enthralling,
Siren-like, borne on the wind like
Pollen from a flower to its receptacles;
A birth,new beginning from wanton waste.
The promise a snippet of a dream leaves
When one awakens in a cold sweat drives me
And like a pilgrim, there will be no wavering
Till that place of hidden answers.
If you came in late
Naiman’s banned from Hearthstone-
Attempted to judge this lady in
Ten tailored jogging pants.
Fold up the paper map
You should get lost
This May you can get
A lot of writing done
This has been cobbled together from tweets by @BillSimmons, @DailyDot, @DamiOyedele, @Esquire, @NYTimes and @BLoreWriters in response to the Day 17 NaPoWriMo prompt to write a “social media”-style poem, quoting from friends’ texts, tweets, FB status updates, twitter accounts, and blogposts, and the back of the cereal box on your breakfast table.
Sometimes a thing is just a thing with no stakes*
And the ardour of a mid summer’s night kiss just a fling,
A memory lingering long after the act like shimmer of dusk on a lake.
Sometimes the moment is all there is to everything,
A gift to savour, like the sparkling stones a river brings
To its delta, ground round by their unseen journey.
When the hoops begin to multiply, and everything becomes a drudge
Does it mean the dream has begun to fade,
and that our scars and secrets are in the light?
Or does it mean that joy has hitched a ride
To a distant plain, and that dark clouds
have begun to shove our sun into a desolate corner?
*Line purloined from La Reine’s response to the NaPoWriMo Day 14 prompt.
Sometimes silence is
the song a caged bird sings,
the fading echo the flailing
of a broken wing leaves,
as it creaks beneath the weight
of life’s hammer blows.
Sometimes silence is
the shrill scream rushing air makes
as it leaves a pierced balloon
as it runs amok in its death throes
before nestling limp like a wet sock
Sometimes pain will break you
and the linger of unrequited memory
will haunt you, seared as it were in the very
fabric of your mind’s skin.
Years later in a season of re-memory
you will remember – how
uneasy laughter masked worry
and how in the midst
of the milling, madding crowd
it was you, yourself
and a thousand broken things.
This, is why I write
For peace, for clarity
And for my seasons of re-memory.
For the Day 15 Prompt at NaPoWriMo
Does it pop and fizz,
And crackle like a log flame
Entrancing the mind?
Does it arrive like
Dawn, sweep away the dark night
Promise a new start?
Does it intoxicate
Like the aroma of sweet wine,
Bringing delirious Joy?
Or is it there in the
Quietness of steady habits
Neither loud nor brash?
Oh that some sage could tell.
Spice – lemon and herb,
sun-dried. Chicken – half, skin crisp.
Taste – Bliss, in a bowl.
For the Day 12 Prompt at NaPoWriMo… Was always going to be about my favourite meal, and table 11. 🙂
You try to hide your fear behind a veneer
of strength, try to put up a facade of calm
but beyond the outer strength is the odd tear
that slips, unguarded.
You stand bewildered at the fork of the road.
Left? Right? Blending into an instructable
sameness, certainly uncertain of where your
Redemption Days lie.
To the confused, every coincidence is
an omen, the whisper of God rustling the
leaves one way, or another, but what if like
lemmings one must jump?
For the Day 11 prompt at NaPoWriMo, a sapphic without all the fancy trochees and dactyls…
John Sargent, A Dinner Table at Night (1884)
At first you ask to talk, but
Burning deep within is the burden of words, a
Cacophony of voices in your head,
Driving despair like a stake into wetted
Earth, a haze that settles in and just won’t shift. You
Find a time and place to have the talk, you
Go with the flow, tell it like it is, whilst
He squirms beneath the weight of
Innocence lost, guilt like a pall of smoke drifting in. He
Jokes about not meaning IT, but there is a
Knowing that transcends the clarification of intent, that
Looms larger than any image words alone can paint;
Meaning that you don’t believe for even a second that
Nothing he has done was not intentional
Or that there is any penance that may grant him forgiveness.
Polite silence. A litany of burning, unasked
Questions; how did you get HERE, is there a path to a
Return, resolution, a coming back to the way things once were?
Silence at least means
That more words to regret are not being said
Unwillingly you realise that this is a stalemate, no
Victor, no vanquished, only victims
Wrestling with the detritus of pain and
You realise with unstinting certainty that this is it, the end;