Ode to Robert Fulghum
I remember when I first started reading your words.
In your sharing I found that, I
Too~ admire, and wish
That I
Could also, imitate “Words I Wish I Wrote”
8. Drift Away
“At the point where language falls away…” first line from “Spelling”, by Margaret Atwood.
Songs and poems and words we dream at
beneath the sleep of night, and the
beginning of another thought, a point
a dance, a light… where
every line becomes a language
to be seen… whereupon it falls
and drifts away.
Prompt eight
Still, we are standing
Lost hope of put together
Where people fell in
we fell out, out of the
light into the shadowy
depths of our dark room.
We keep plenty safe,
Lying to the light coming in
Keeping appearances at we and our
Holding hands in view not love
Too many years without hope and
dreams. We diminish we hold the
door. Talking to the breeze gentle
as we scream at each other in gloom.
“standing together in the shadowy room, safe in our love and the gentle gloom” – Sara Teasdale
Muse
Some say that inspiration
is the work of muses in our heads.
My muse is stubborn, obnoxious, dull.
He throws about the papers
in the office of my brain.
“Give me inspiration!” I demand.
He laughs and takes a nap.
I can’t be expected to do his job!
Look at how he’s wrecked them,
all my good ideas.
Now, never-finished stories sit
(I suspect he ate the ends).
When I put a pen to paper,
my muse becomes quite riled.
He snatches everything I might have used
and hides away in some deep cavern.
I think he must be minuscule
to do damage so tremendous.
His hair is long and blue and spiky,
And his eyes a scheming green.
I asked for beauty, emerald forests,
Instead, he gives me this.
Does his ego know no bounds!?
When will his antics cease!?
Well…
I guess the poem wasn’t bad…
But he still won’t get a raise!
Prompt Seven
inside-out
because of his eyes
the moon waxed
out of tune
and like a dying star
she waned
because of his eyes
her tether
to the earth
held fast
and kept her chained
because of his eyes
she let things go
the house
her health
a child un-named
because of his eyes
The Golden shovel
The Golden shovel by Hayes
Da, promised to leave me everything,
the golden shovel we use to bury the dog.
But my Dad didn’t promise anything to me because, we were poor then and
The only thing he promised is my education.
Education can’t be taken away from you, Dad said and will give you a ticket to a better life.
to time
If there was something there, and all we had
could be carried, this slip-thin gently-used old love we
had used along would remain; but
this is us, the ones who had enough of the world.
And you wanted more, but I had enough.
Enough to carry and sustain, but you and
she had your minutes, while I had enough of time.
“Had we but world enough and time..” To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell.
Hour 8 – Prompt 8 – Unleash
Attempt at golden shovel
Inspirational lines – “The music in my heart I bore,
long after it was heard no more”
from The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth
Could I trust the
words of the music
that weaved magic in
the glorious picture it painted, in my
imagination, that my heart
desired to believe? I
chose the risk, instead of broken dreams I bore
It took a long
time to overcome the vicious circle of self-pity, after
I decided that it
was time to move on. It was
hard to leave the echoes of past, that I heard
in my heart, to ensure that the voices had no
control on my actions any more
(c) Vijaya Gowrisankar
The Words are Marching
The Words are Marching
VCS
I wrote a hundred thousand words
I tossed them in the air
I wrote them in a coma
I wrote them on the stare
I tried to keep the words down
With chicken soup and ginger ale
But gypsy curses and wandering street light people
Threw my words like cookies
Back out of me and I brayed them
From the steeples
I thought that eventually
They would be picked clean
When I hung around at rookeries
But it was not to be
A million words came marching
And jumped right out of my cerebellum
Not caring a dash about what happened to me
Words are thoughtless creatures
Even when used thoughtfully
Marauding little beasts
They have complete control over me
Sometimes they pick my hands up
Even when I’m sleeping
And ghostlike pluck the keyboard
Into unknown symphonies
The words are coming from the rafters
They live in the crannies in the walls
They live in desperate lovers
They make the weak tremble and fall
They make the strong the same if they’re not careful
The words are marching out of me
Brazen creatures they! Coming out of my hands, my mouth my eyes
And yet you make them say to you as you would have them speak
That’s the way they like it
Twisting
Making wind
Tornadoes swooping down on landscapes
Leaving ruin
Or bringing us to brand new worlds
The choice is theirs
It isn’t up to me or you
Journey’s End
When we took on the world it was just us two
Hard to believe we’d trod so many roads
Hard to believe that our paths have now diverged
We had the perfect journey to believe in
It started with sunlight so bright in lights of yellow
Now we depart in different was with hearts cold as wood
jj2017
Golden Shovel From ‘The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost