Prompt for Hour Eighteen
Write a poem to go with one of the following five titles:
At the Circus
Table for Two
Cloud Mountain
Evening Fog
Tea
24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Write a poem to go with one of the following five titles:
At the Circus
Table for Two
Cloud Mountain
Evening Fog
Tea
I see gold and silver
Emerging at the temples.
Jewels of wisdom
Or melanin wearing off.
The exuberance of youth
Paying homage as it leaves.
Bowing away gracefully
Placing jewels as she recedes.
Loss…not really.
Achieving accomplishing
Acquiring …
Not lost …but gaining.
Author’s Note: Yeah…I’m too addicted to the music I’m listening to do the Hour Eleven Prompt, so I’m going to do something that’s similar to one of the later prompts, except I’m not going to talk in the point of view of a well known character. I’m going to talk about a well known character, and that is Mew from Pokémon. She is my favorite character. In case you want to know about the music I’m listening to, that goes along with the theme, it’s In The Water by GAWVI and Closer by GAWVI. 🙂
Mew,
from the moment I saw you,
I smiled.
Your beauty,
from the inside out,
makes all the other Pokémon pale in comparison
to you,
even that popular Pikachu.
But Pikachu has soulless eyes
whereas yours have soul to them.
There’s a reason why you are so rare,
and that is why.
Despite your short appearance in Pokémon,
you have left a special place in my heart.
In you,
there is eternal joy.
From the bottom of my heart,
I thank you for being a part of my life.
You are forever missed.
Seventeen, My Seventeen
How I Miss My Lover
He said to me
That he must go
Where his ashes are
I do not know
Seventeen, My Seventeen
How I Want My Lover
He said he did not want to leave
I knew not then
How deep I’d grieve
Seventeen, My Seventeen
How I Need My Lover
I look for you
But you aren’t there
I turn around
You’re everywhere
Seventeen, My Seven Teen
We met when we were 17
Who would have thought that we’d have this day (after all the time we’ve squandered and lost)
as stage 4 slowly takes you away
in each of your belongings that i rummage through, its that one thing that seems brand new
photo albums long come unglued, me – sharing, you; I loose in this battle too, pathetic but true.
Posters of us from way back then still stick to you wall bearing witness to all. love and passion of drummer and dancer easily did blend
i give my heart anew to make this transition so burdensome for you
So strike up the band and wave your hand (El Maestro!)
As we dance away upon our cloud. never again to be without you
I wanted to try a Golden Shovel poem from an earlier prompt tonight. I happened to do this one, also on loss.
From W.B. Yeats – When You Are Old
“But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you”
The weather was always too hot for you, but
that didn’t stop us from taking joy from the one
thing we loved most–togetherness. You were such a man.
Afternoons were the times we talked and loved
best. Joy sparkled in our blissful oneness. The
trust in your soft eyes encouraged my pilgrim
spirit, your nurturing fed love into my soul.
No doubt crept between us, yet we parted in
disarray. My heart still beats with a hole in the shape of you.
My neighbour irons nights at her first floor window
keeping one eye for Love Island, the other on me,
After 6 months she asked if I’d be buying curtains
with such conviction it sounded like
she’d witnessed something still to happen.
These unemployed years
she contents herself with the amusement of
someone gratefully retelling a witnessed car-crash,
logging my late night hours, remarking that
my tv still glows between pole & frame
and how, each time she gets up to relieve herself,
she thinks I must be a vampire.
Doubtless all the black doesn’t help.
Yet, yesterday I saw a girl so white
she blazed from the distance
a planning notice resonates,
cheek flesh the hardboiled hue of Cool Hand’s bet,
neck a counter slick of skimmed milk
butting two unsheathed reams of clavicles,
with a sternum of tripe pinned so tight
her cleavage shone like lid-clinging
home-brand, Greek yogurt,
limbs tapering into the sun,
ankles, wrists as Tippex bright
as her High Top toecaps.
But
no matter how much breath her
floating step, dancing hem
filleted from me,
I could not say a word,
for in the instant of eye-shift behind lens,
of lip-rise and drop again
I knew
that every kiss would leave her mauled
like a drowned girl in the morgue
been mapped for bruises.
I don’t have the polite eulogy
in my memory bank
others seem to expect
I could remember the good times
if I could remember the good times
I can’t think of him without judgement
without his skulking exit
from an island long dead
I simply don’t know
how much of him was real
ambiguity sits quietly like a Buddha
and the truth is
I don’t need to know
Poem 3
Perfection
Toes curl away from the cold
Away from the rushing waves
Sand, such tiny particles
Collect in clumps at my feet.
Course and vile
Yet playfully soothing
I wiggle painted toes and laugh
from a depth not often sought
And I’m lighter than before
Seeking nothing more
Than to be perfection which was here from the start.