7 Begin
Just keep swimming
and falling
into each other.
Tumbling
while growing,
Catching, attaching.
Just keep growing.
Dark dark dark
Light.
Silent silent silent.
Noise.
Baby Girl
My baby girl, full of Grace
strong, beautiful, radiant.
Seeing past the pain
until
it overwhelms and engulfs once more.
My baby girl, full of Grace,
trying to breathe
trying to calm
until
she can rest, but not progress.
My baby girl, full of Grace
trying so hard,
over time and pain
until
there is progress with no results
My baby girl, full of Grace
given an emotional decision
without food or sleep
until
she chooses the necessary, but not emergency
My baby girl, full of Grace,
until
her baby, beautiful Grace
open eyed, ready to be
In her arms and heart.
Hour 7: In Is In It—Chiasmus…
By willjxn
Being that “in” is even involved in the word being—
Incidentally insightful introspection—
Individually, in can only be, if there is an I to be in it.
“In” is a word that works it’s way in and out of th”in”gs.
I is an independent part of in and it too—
Intrinsically interjects itself in it—
Finally, You can’t even inculcate thinking without “in” being there.
Hour 7 : Poem Inside Out
Once I lost in thoughts
With a bundle of blank pages
Hearing the cries of a horse
Who missed from its flock?
Soak in misery and timeless clock
Dark trees and haunting shadows
Perplexed mind moved in meadows
On the plains of bulky ice
It marked foot prints as dice
Roll on the vista of mind
On the table, a printed paper I find
Inside Out
tight green milkweed pod
twisted teardrop fruit splits open
silk seedlings fly free
[Prompt 7]
Poem 7
A British Science Fiction For South America
Five electric eels
Swung out over the ecclesiastic highway
Driven now only for acoustics
Waiting choirs complained of unbefitting stones
And the dogmas of their ingrained brethrin
Irritate their alternate
And pass again,
At a speed of rules,
Five electric eels overtaking in sequence like
A juggling highway.
Obscene ducks were carefully
Redirected from sight.
The recordings were obdurate
People were divided between
The many and the few
But the many had been absorbed together
Into one mind, particularly linked
That all who lost signal screamed rabbid unbearable
Or in peaceful lockstep harmony
Such unhuman seductive harmony
Such immense immortal promise
Transisted
But the rot came like to the scotched
Banana plant
And now all must wear special jackets
And howl as what was supposed to leave
Struggle behind with new existence
Resiliently betrays the lot
That had been the plot of the few gone wrog
And now they consider with guilt
The chant
And use landscapes for flutes
Compositions of brittle perfection
Interlacing Norman castles
The Winchester cathedral now
An office space
For goblin clerks
And more mythologies
More than I can bear
For we intone reality
With fantasy
Summon and spell
Not from warbling mirage
But sleight of hand and throat
Fear and nonchalance
The piecemeal societal psychosis
Terrific, horrific effecting
Unpredictable yes
Send in the shrunken submarine
Cautious all ye
Who tinker here
Hope
The death of Hope is not the end.
Empires rise,
but they also fall.
A man must endure,
even when Hope dies.
The end of Hope will not be his end.
For there are things that burn brighter,
desires that cut deeper,
needs that gnaw at the bone and rend the sinew.
In those times of trial and suffering,
a man must endure.
Endure to the end.
Endure to the last.
Win or fail,
gain or loose,
live or die,
a man must endure.
For one day,
through the dark,
through the death,
Hope will burn bright again.
#6 Inside out
Looking from the inside out,
casts a spell of dark self-doubt…
I wear a cloak, a mage’s hat,
Say abracadabra and all of that.
But still the demons reappear.
I feel them lurking, drawing near…
I wave my wand, drink some potion.
Inside out is a revealing notion.
I hide my face, I wear my mask;
keeping inside in is a formidable task…
Don’t let them see, don’t let them know.
So much of me, I dare not show
So much that’s fragile and reticent,
I’m complicated and omnipotent…
There’s much, much more I can’t expose.
Let them wonder; they can all suppose.
Looking from the outside in,
blemished heart bleeds tainted sin…
Can you love me, think you truly can
Even being so damned inside out that I am?
My First Marathon
It was 1980 something and the gun shoots
runners off
one step two step
running with the stride like no other
it passes quickly the 10k mark
my mind is daft
my body chaffed and burnt
at 13 miles, I get a second wind
I am indulging in what I do
fatigue is not an option
20th mile I’m sore and wreaked
with my conscience, I endure
question myself and wonder why I am here
remember the miles, sweat and blisters
finally, I can see the crowds and finish
I cross the line and collapsed
a journey of endless proportions
in a few hours, I’m planning another
the addition has started
twenty-six miles 365 yards
that’s me sorted
my time here is done
Prompt 7
Except that stores are still open
and people still shop in them,
nothing looks
like the end of the line.
Aldi’s isn’t the Algonquin,
but it would prove –
to the alien beings waiting
their turn –
that
we were more
than consumers.
As the cashier
mechanically checks
out a dying race,
minutes
fold in
on themselves
and shrivel.