Hour Seven

Fresh
A small child, an elderly woman
Playing at life

Day After
A novice, an old hand
Playing in seconds and generations

Free
Tangles, loose ends
Playing at weaving and tearing to shreds

The trick is knowing which is which.

Unsynced

What the hell am i doing
Feel like I’m digging deep
Pulling out words incoherent
Am I just on the surface of idiocy or can I shine
My soul is bursting to pour out

Inside out, outside in
Such a blur of misconception
Come on now bleed it out God this is wretched
All your life you’ve wanted to do this
The chance to ignite happiness, pain, or whatever

For Me!

prompt#7 deseeded

Prompt #7
Deseeded

I love you very much
Love you
Naturally sweet but
Your trapped hardness wept
And softened you within
Weakening your defense
Which glowered in recognition
Of the worm I am
Who hating you, invaded you
Boring the resistance offered
By your thin skin
That protected what was indeed
Your rock-hard strength
Your creative seeds.

I hated you
Hated you very much
Wanted to know why
Where your strength lies
Separate reason from feeling
Even if it were to kill me
I had to find the tunnel
That took me inside you
And gave me insight.

Hatred was might
Love Is light.

 

 

 

Put Down Your Pencils (a ghazal)

This poetry prompt prompted only a pout:
Purposefully vague, we’re to write from the inside out.

Weep for us all, our president is a lout,
He distracts me from writing from the inside out.

He’s a con man, a creep, his daughter’s products he touts,
Such corruption breeds leaks from the inside out.

If only we had power, if poor people had clout,
I wouldn’t be writing from the inside out.

In my dreams, they turn tail, their defeat is a rout,
Prison memoirs they write from the inside out.

My conscience says, Sheila, abandon all doubt,
Resist, do what’s right, from the inside out.

Cat got your tongue?

The cat’s got your tongue,

So the blackberries will rot on their bushes

Your mother will click her disappoint

Your sister will lick whipped cream and ice cream

And rub it in that you are in trouble again, yes you, yes trouble,

And you can stare needles back at her,

But it doesn’t matter because

And your voice will blur with the clouds if you try to speak

You make friends with the cat, yes friends, yes a cat, yes it’s hard,

But it’s the only way you will earn your freedom

And plot your pay back.

Sartorially Challenged

 

Turned inside out, or backward, I must freely confess

More than once I’ve worn leggings or backwards a dress.

While dressing mornings in the dark before it turns light,

I’ve worn two similarly-styled flats—one navy, one black.

I’ve mismatched silver and gold ear rings almost habitually,

Regularly donned panty hose with ladders almost ritually.

Sartorially challenged, it isn’t any wonder, I often greet

All fashion pronouncements taken for gospel as effete.

Poem 6 – Poems are Pointless

Poems are Pointless

Fast, quick get pen to paper,
Don’t hang around we won’t have the time later.
Just write the words, anything will do,
The beautiful of life is the chance to re-do.

Words are meaningless so just throw them down,
You’ll be a lyrical genius or maybe a clown.
The eye of the beholder is what it’s all about,
You may get lucky and they’ll be a lout.
Caution to the wind, ignore the spelling mistakes,
We all work off word and spell checker’s great.

The poem is for reading so just make it short,
The time barely matters it’s just a cohort.
Enjoy yourself and just take the mick,
I bet you my word this is the best they will pick.

How to travel fearlessly

Just go. Don’t even think twice about it.

Turn off your brain and watch yourself sail

Down the highway at top speed come what may.

You may have to come back down every once

In a while to refuel but, once that’s done, you’re free to soar

Among the heavens once more, not a care in the world,

Waiting for the universe to decide when it’s had its fill of you.

Poem 7

“Mom, is this how love is suppose to look?
Do dad’s mean words show his love for you?
Is his hand supposed to make your skin turn colors?
Is love supposed to make you cry?”

“No, baby girl.
This is not love.
This is a monster.
A monster I can’t get away from.”

Looking from the Inside

This poem stems from a memory I have from my sighted days. On a small patch of wasteland in the city of Swansea, Wales, there was a shopping trolley / cart, upside down with flames from some odds and ends that had been set alight, licking at its metal mesh.

Looking from the Inside

I cannot begin to describe
to you, the misery of the burning bars -
vainly striving to contain the fire.

Created to contain, but deceived — not told
of the blistering commodity to be their charge;
summer flames biting at the vapours of a winter night.

I could have seen the dawn
but for the darkness
clouding my eyes.

Ssitting by this memory
I evoke a cup of tea
and the wrapping

from a coffee cream,
and I construct reality,
from what used to be
a dream.