Profesh (Hour 13)

I am an illustrator of thoughts,

I am author of sentiments,

Producer of poetics,

Director of dialectic diction,

I am a liaison of literature

Scripter of scripture

Writer of picture

Mixture of blood ink and liquor.

Composer of the spoken texture

Builder of verbal architecture

Lyrical director, ink think and inventor.

Painter of paragraphs

Blacksmith of wordplay

My birthdays are earthdays

On Fridays and thursdays

I’m steady in earthquakes.

I am the word based word face word ways word pays.

My profession is proficiency in prose and propaganda poetics, paragraphs and ethics, Prolific methods, penned penitence.

accupation. Computation.

Problem solving. Calculation.

My profession as provider.

I’m a lover and a fighter.

Hard to say, but,

I’m a writer.

 

Hour 14 – this body (revived)

this body was a person once

with uninterrupted skin

and lungs ballooning with ambition

it even knew its own name

 

this body isn’t much for purity culture

but perhaps it was the hands that touched it

that took away the self, the animation

or perhaps it was the slow decay of mourning

 

or the woodgrain patterns of trauma

all building upon each other

to make this body a tree

 

but this body was a person once

this body was a person once

my body was a person once

Prompt 14 – Night Replacing Day

Image Courtesy of Pixabay

(No Redaction – No time since I woke from my accidental slumber a few minutes before the next prompt was due, lol!)

 

A red ball of fire lies low, aglow,

Upon an amber bank of clouds so high,

Hesitant to descend where shadows flow,

For countless times it’s graced the endless sky.

Then, in a graceful curtsey, it takes flight,

And coolness shrouds the earth, the day’s retreat,

Venus appears, a gleaming jewel of night,

With shy winks in the midnight’s dark, complete.

The moon’s bright disk now joins the nightly stage,

Bathing all in a silvery-blue embrace,

I wish to follow on this timeless page,

And join the moon in her celestial race.

Yet I remain, an earthbound, dreaming heart,

Yearning for the moon’s nightly, wondrous chart.

Antoinette LeRoux © 2023

Hour 8

So many poems so much sleep wanted. Note for the future don’t go to a ren faire the same day as the marathon.

Hour 8

 

My arm is a notepad waiting for words

Usually a shopping list

Sometimes tic tac toe

A few times the smallest chapbook

I fill the lines of the notebook page

With different words

Each mark etched until I shower next

Hour 14-Tokyo Dreams

Walking the streets of Tokyo {redacted} {redacted}

The heat was a lot to take

We stumbled through Temples and Shrines

Occasionally taking a break.

The beauty that surrounded us

The people, places, and Torii gates

Filled my soul with a yearning for more

To learn, {redacted} {redacted}, see new things at any rate.

The splendor of Mt. Fuji

In the distance we could see its peak

Booktown was spectacular

For a bookworm just like me.

We ate melon pan and shaved ice

The {redacted} taiyaki was delicious

Yakitori, tempura, and ramen

Our list of foods, it was ambitious.

I am sure I will go {redacted} one day

But until that day comes

I’ll continue on my journey

To make it {redacted} great {redacted}.

H14.P14

Simple is the REDACTED wrapped around me

The breeze whispers in my REDACTED

I REDACTED down into my lungs

It spreads through  my veins

I carry REDACTED  with each step into the new day

It is my REDACTED my beloved my heart

Radio

Against all odds,

it persists

perhaps solely for those behind the wheel

but nonetheless has manage to

thrive where others have crashed & burned.

 

Perhaps we’re secretly more old-fashioned than

we care to admit but

I think it will always have a special

place in society,

the lyrical masterpiece that gets us

through our day

& delivers us safely back home.

Being, patiently #14

I saw him, old and bent
Gnarled
Waiting patiently
Or so I thought
On the park bench.
He explained
When I asked
What he was waiting fot
That he wasn’t waiting at all
He was just
Being, patiently
Not being patient at all
Because being parient
Was doing
And he was just being
Pariently, without hurry
Or the dusruption of thought.
I apologised
For my intrusion
He laughhed
And said
That I didn’t intrude
Nothing could
Because
He was me
And I he
Just like birrdsong
And barking dogs
And the crying child
And the roar
Of the passing bus.
I smiled at his madness
And went on my way
And I learned
To see the oneness
In a sunrise
And now I know
Why he smiled,
That it was me
Who was mad
Not to see
The old man was right
All creation is one
Nature
She is me
And I am she.

Hour 11, Poem 14

A path through the forest,
Into the green wilderness…
Where does it lead?
Where does it go?
Why does it glow?
To lure the travellers along
Or to simply show off?
Are the faes behind it?
Or is it some other folklore?

You’ll never know…

Hour 14: Once upon a time

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