Poetry, short story, SundayScribblings

the world is spinning spring page 8

napowrimoo 2011
my everyday journal day 8, page 8

this everyday journal comes in handy at the oddest moments. i began day 1 of the napowrimo 2011 excited with the anticipation of the finish fully loaded for completion. each day embraced soft and smooth as the freshly laundered shirts of my lover. well that all changed once the dawn of day 7 appeared and took off as a fast filly running a renegade herd. all the while i kept up with my two feet doing what i was suppose to be doing. but by noon i had to acknowledge the anchor of my reasoning was sorta sputtering slow quick in an unseen quicksand yanking all thoughts askew. preoccupied with more pressing nothings i just sorta let go in absence and went with the winged current i was caught in. washed ashore there at the end of the day entangled in bunches of tied up empty words going every which way rushing nowhere and everywhere. extreme the exasperation, i let up on the accelerator slowed to about 85 then 50 then to a cruising 30 and pretty soon i was idle. pulling the plug i parked in a peaceful place and i gotta tell you it felt good, real good. a long while later i settled into supine and the sounds of still. it was around midnight quiet outside and the world was sleeping. unhurried i could hear the momentum of universal slumber.

let’s see now it’s day 11 or is it 12? who knows what day it is but i’m pretty sure it’s way past 8. i’m considering picking up day eight and kick start to catchup. a few seconds pass. ok, i skimmed over my options and, nah, i think i’ll just cruise on in my normal haphazardous literary fashion and catch it next year.

Standard
short story, we write poems

opus

we write poems: conversation between two. any sort of two
photo:opera, sanako, flickr

Opera

arrange the setting.
two people.
it’s around early, middle evening.
opera in paris. a wonderful opera.

sharing the evening of passion and pain dressed up lovely. seated in their own, secret thoughts screaming. they do not touch or move. later when the second scene seamlessly pours over, each one emerges in flight, swimming in synesthesia. hinting of a crest the scene burns so brightly. remembering to breathe, air brings back their world. seated separately they never knew what they shared in silent conversation.

Standard
Big Tent Poetry, Poetry, SundayScribblings

only when i dance am i invisible

big tent poetry monday prompt: alliteration, pick a letter any letter and fly
sunday scribbling no 250: invisible [congrats “ss” 250 prompt!!]
photo: Robyn Hooz, flickr

at least once
a day
i step back
only slightly
to make sure
i’m still here
footstep free
a hundred miles
less than yesterday

the path i ponder
wonders aloud
so plainly attired in
colorful commotion
calamity and calm

with flowery flair
and secret signals
a haven of smoky puffs
soon surround
in powerful pursuit

and with a slightly distracted air
one speaks …and who are you?

seeing a slight
silhouette
of shimmering
he snickers and spits
while whispering
mysterious addresses
designed to depart in
sightless swaying
cobweb sublet strings

knowing the way
he’s friendly and fierce
opening doors
beyond his sacred
simplicity

hardly ever
do i hesitate
only when i
suddenly forget

and near the edge
of this day’s light
i hear a holler so
delicate

come home soon
we all miss you
so

Standard
Big Tent Poetry, Poetry

flashback forward

monday’s big tent poetry prompt: feet
photo: baby feet…,  mgrphotos, flickr

Baby Feet in my Heart

inquisitive eyes
hindsight hands
finger tracing translucence

an unexpected find
folded and found
torn and tattered
yellowed piece of paper
my hospital birth certificate

the paper says
i was born on this day
at this time and
stuck my feet in black ink
to prove i was

oh little feet
tell me the places
we shall go

size so small
soft as butter attributes
activated lines and shadows
eye witness to a future
the ol’ gypsy woman foretells

fresh little feet
did tell then
what now is when
how far i would travel
and the miles i’d run
to espy the rainbow’s
ancestral home

sometimes my feet sing
shifting from a long note
to a thousand quick beats of patter
skipping over burdens
as a child at play

oh he sez but they are pretty
otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed
it’s all in the feet he sez

consumed in a flashback
i’m walking forward
along weedy old tracks
some long forgotten
abandoned railroad line
remember the rattling train

Standard
Journal, magpie tales, Poetry

the sky is shedding feathers page three

what’s the weather like? white snow falling
everyday journal. day 3, page 3 [i think]
photo: magpie tales prompt no 46

sleepy eyed i peer through an early dawn window watching countless white flakes come crashing down, falling to the ground in a stark thud of lightness where no one can hear. amazing how such a roar could be so silent. the snow captures the imagination as to where and how this energy comes and goes, falling, falling…. perhaps i shall return to the warmth of blankets and recapture a dream i can no longer remember.

the picture tells the story. always leaving my gloves behind. how many pairs i’ve paid for and lost, countless.[ i like that word countless so used it again.] not caring enough to go back and retrieve. the brown leather gloves fit perfectly and kept my hands warm. someone else will enjoy them now. i can already see myself going to buy another pair.

Standard