prompt 8 Outside
I lament the day,
When I was locked outside.
I lost everything
my home,
my child,
my trust.
Anger kills the future.
Anger pains the past.
I lost reasoning
My child learned too fast.
My Own
Alone in beauty is not alone
a moment to clarify your position in the ethereal
ephemeral existence
comfort in simplicity
a smell of childhood, downy softened blankets
a mothers perfume
grandmas rose-milk lotion
crying into your best friends fur
falling asleep in the sun
newly cut grass
petrichor without the lightening
new dirt tilled soft by inquisitive fingers
finding your place in the world
Whenever I Think of Rain
Whenever I think of rain
I think of washing things clean
Of new beginnings
Flowers blooming
Whenever I think of rain
I think of kisses in secret places
Of tin roofed houses
Cuddling by a fire within
Whenever I think of rain
I think of you
The feel of your arms around me
Keeping me safe from the world.
The Melody
The melody
It comforts
Soothes and brings
peace beyond all understanding
Release tension,tightness
Sing!
Might of the muse
Power to delight
Inspire the instrument
Play not by sight
Use the melody
From memory
No enemy conspire
Against the comfort
Of the one
With the music
Empire
A strange feeling inside Butterflies fluttering A bubble of joy floating A breeze of happiness Rustling my hair My hands in the air A smile on my lips Filling me with joy You know why? Why the world feels So beautiful? Because I, I let go Let go of the worries knawing me The troubles haunting me And felt free Free of doubts...
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
In the pavilion, there are many people
All new faces but without the new smell
I want to reach across and grab someone and say hello and know them
But in the end, I know I will just walk past all of you without a whisper
As I said before, there are always people
But today, I saw someone with a purple purse
Now an accessory such as that belongs on the runways in Milan or Rome
But on your godlike shoulder, it looked to be made of crude, lifeless paper
I wanted to go closer but my shirt wasn’t right
There are many days when an outfit is a letdown
I knew that I couldn’t approach your picturesque form without a prominent plan
So I rummaged in my closet, prepared something for the next day, and fantasized
The next day, I searched the entire cemented pavilion
But you weren’t there, until I saw you buying flowers
I began to walk, then trot, and then sprint towards you in anticipation but then I saw him
He crawled up from behind you, held you in his bulging arms, and kissed your rosy cheeks
That night, my tears gathered on my baby blue shirt and turned it navy
I cut up my jet black pants and the loafers, I gave to the homeless man
My visions for our trips, our small family, and our red-brick house all faded away without a hello
You did nothing wrong and if it is meant to be, my eyes will once again be graced by your purse
Hour 7: Drag
Drag
Bluegrass reminds me of a shit town
Worse than dirt
You can drag your dreams up north on a bus
They won’t come back
From a place so shattered
It’s lonely out there once you hit the road
The stars look on and the trees pass in the windows,
But they all seem to live in the past
You can drag your hope around America
It won’t come back
Love lives in my heart like a mad dog
Trying to get out and
Who would you loose it on,
Wish it on,
When you know it won’t let go?
You can drag your love by the throat
It won’t love you back
Stained Bridge
I shouldn’t have crossed that bridge to your house
I knew you wouldn’t leave her for me
Even though it’s my nectar stained on your sheets
I shouldn’t have crossed that line but all I heard was fire
Pop! Pop!
My life on the line no more and yours no longer in the balance
I knew I shouldn’t have crossed that bridge and jumped over the broom
As I lay her bleeding
My child not breathing
Our blood stained on your fists
I crossed that bridge with my children
My fingers stained with berry juice that we picked
My hands I can wash easily of these actions
But the actions above these lines
Not so much
Because not all stains on a bridge can be washed away
Copyright © 2019 by Angelica Stevenson
All Rights Reserved
Hour 7 – Resurrection Fern
In our days we will live
like our ghosts will live
Then let us get to work
not in the service of
squealing like iron and steel on train tracks
trundling bodies like product
from one place to another
like cheap plastics
replaceable
not in the service of
getting ahead by making sure
that someone else is behind
struggling harder
not in the service of
“At least that’s not me”
But in the honor of
the free, living body
life unencumbered
aware and inspired
I want my ghost to live healthy
I want my ghost to live in sunsets
I want my ghost to be a reminder
that there is someone who cares
I want my Black ghost to help the kid
alive in the projects
with their english homework
In our days we will say
what our ghosts will say
Let pearls of wisdom
fall from my living mouth
as they will form on the lips
Of my ectoplasm
To ask you:
What is it that you are wanting in this
clamorous and magnificent existence?
Can you see your divinity
reflected in the eyes of a newborn?
Can you be a Rose of Jericho
and welcome the rain?
Three Dots
Three Dots,
Then nothing.
I wait for days
But no word.
I’m ghosted,
I think.
Maybe, I said the wrong thing
To you.
Hurting you
In some way,
Too stubborn to say what you need me to say.
Three dots,
And we are done.
Forever, a memory.
Two back to one.
Insecurity reins,
With those three dots
And I curse the world I saw them.
Three dots,
The death of love.