The Single Woman's Lament/Anthem
Here I sit, might as well be Medusa on land,
scaring men away for fun.
Heart as hard as a wizened plum,
held in my hand like a rock, a sung song.
Known to no man, this is where I wander
sorry, forlorn, alone, fate done for.
Or so you think.
Here I stand, might as well be me, all at sea,
but strong, carefree. Master of all I survey,
free to choose any way forward,
any delicious way to just be.
Heart as red as a ripe apple, a song waiting
to be sung; its melody bright, nascent,
enough sustenance for me.
I will know him when I see him.
Enough of your quibbles and questions!
I will know him when I feel him.. Stop interfering!
Love is a balm that takes time
to find, love as an unexpected gift given;
not a commonplace must-have item
simply taken, checked off, become drivel.
And if not, leave me alone.
Alone is not an unpalatable state.
Alone can be complete.
I'm happy as I am. Solitary star dancer.
Seeker of dreams. Siren on a rock.
Believe it or not.
Here I am.
Today's prompt was to write a poem featuring homophones.
Love Story in Homophones
I never knew I could love you too.
But I did. Even when there was already
the two of you, a perfect pair,
to pare my nerves.
Where this love that longed
to be lived aloud
was not allowed.
Or that a wound could be wound
so tight around my neck, like a noose
that will never become loose.
That I could be deserted
in a desert of barren intent.
Or that something so great -
could grate like this, the never-ending wait
like a ten tonne weight
on my soul. A love that made my heart soar -
only to leave me heartsore.
Or this measure of 'some' love be the sum
of all the love
I would ever receive.
The whole of it - the love, the light - leading only
to this hole inside, where what we were
is no more.
***
The Adulterer's Dilemma
I love the two of us, I do.
But I love her,
too.
Lucky for some.
Unlucky for lots.
Thirteen times
I love you,
lost you,
a thrifty count of joy.
A curdled clot of not.
Today's prompt is to write about either a dull thing or a significant object that we own.
Sea Glass
This piece of sea glass I found
when you died, its opaque blue-green
the colour of trapped light,
is ordinary, extraordinary.
An artefact from faraway,
a message from the deep.
Solidified lament I keep
as talisman, smooth soother
for the sharpness of grief.
Polished by sand and waves, grit and tears,
the lap of days, months, years...
makes me wonder
will the edges of sorrow blunt too
into something beautiful?
Something to carry as treasure,
a pocket pebble-sized thought -
gift from an ocean of love.
Today we have to write about our origins. Meh. Went for something different.
There's more to come on this one. Just don't want to fall behind so posting it in this very early first draft stage...!
Origins of a Poem
A moment.
A word, an image, a trickle of light
on the tongue. Thorough delight.
The flare of feeling,
freeze-frame flutter stutter of love.
From heartspace
realigned with mind.
The rising swell of emotion
translatable in rhyme.
A hurt, its bruise hammered out
in lines.
The wingspan of wonder. Ephemeral delight.
In the space between your eyes
and mine; golden path of memory
translated into a myriad of rhyme.
Excavation of the psyche, treasure found
at the right time, gold, gold, gold!
The honey of happiness
harvested from details,
spread thick
on the bread of the page.
Today's prompt was to write a poem inspired by slang terms for weather. Got not one but two!
Rainy Season
This mizzle no more.
Skift of words
turned into downpour,
no more drizzle,
cats and dogs galore.
Day teeming
with inspiration.
And the poems
are bucketing down,
lashing, bouncing,
stair rods from heaven
watering dry ground.
***
Good Mixture
I was oil.
You were water.
Unable to mix,
a ready disaster.
But together,
the light we had
refracted
into iridescent delight -
miniature galaxy
of colour,
exclamatory
against the ordinary.
What they would call
a 'petrol puddle'
and step blandly
on over.
Today's prompt was an interesting one, to write our very own 'Sei Shonagon style' list of things.
Also tried the alternative prompt - to write about something that is hidden.
Especially Delightful Is...
The thrill of birdsong in the morning.
The way the light filters
through curtains.
R
oadside daffodils
yellow as yolks.
The smiles of strangers.
Good morning greetings.
Unexpected sunburst.
The shadows of leaves
in a sidewalk breeze.
The fingernail curl
of a new moon.
Finding turquoise things.
A cat's purr. A congenial official.
Kindness, like a bloom, in the midst
of grey indifference.
The sparkling effervescence
of a drink between friends.
***
Hidden
There's a poem hidden in this day.
I just have to know
where to find it.
Will it make itself known,
before too long?
Or will I have to seek it out
like a shy cat
with food and some sweet entreating?
Like a daisy sprouting through concrete,
it is discreet.
It will require attention.
Feck the prompt today, just went with poetic spur-of-the-moment inspiration.
Suburban Evening
Pavements sun-baked
glint their day kept gold.
Trees bask in tufted limelight.
Dappled shadows reveal new angles.
Telephone wires underline
the apricot infused score of sky.
Birds, in pairs, fly high,
chasing the long light.
Cherry blossoms beam, pink
in their secret dreams.
Flowers bow their heads.
Birdsong crescendo breaks
as the benediction of evening
descends and a new moon
appears like a silver wish,
a longed-for friend.
I'm having a very tough time of it this week in regards to writing poems. I just can't seem to get going. It's been a very stressful week with truth be told, little room for poetry. None of that headspace required (or heartspace).
Today's prompt is to write a poem that emphasises the power of if. This is all I've got for now.
If
If I could only write a poem
good enough
to share here,
then my heart
would surely feel
more free.
Today's prompt is to write a sad poem using simple language.
'and death I think is no parentheses' - ee cummings
The Punctuation of Closure
Death as either a full stop
or an ellipsis.
No more or more?
This is where it ends.
Or this is where it leads on
to something new...
the thrill of a constellation
unseen.
And therein lies
the unsolvable doubt.
