On being
You don’t have to write to write a poem–
sometimes you can be a writer;
sometimes, you just need to be.
VII. Have You Met My Friend, Proust?
Proust was a man of many words.
If you could say it in five,
He’d say the same thing in 50,
and I loved every line.
So often, I find myself
staring at the empty page
seeing a polar bear
in a blizzard eating snow.
My words become
Lightning bugs
Signaling in the night;
only to disappear
as I draw close –
twisting my ankles
on the roots of despair.
Hats off to you, Marcel.
It took you 54 pages
to give your mother
a kiss goodnight and
It took me 30 years to read
Remembrances of Things Past.
I suppose somewhere in
the Universe, that makes us
Even Steven.
Just one thing before you go
back on the shelf–:
May I borrow your pen?
Art: Typewriter; Country Music Hall of Fame, Nashville, Tennessee 2015 by Virginia Galfo
Already
I’m sorry, not easily said.
You know I mean it when I say I
love you, but you knew that already.
Even if I don’t always show it.
You know I mean it when I say I
Think of you all the time.
Even if I don’t always show it.
And now It’s even harder because I don’t
Think of you all the time.
I’m sorry, not easily said.
And now It’s even harder because I don’t
love you, but you knew that already.
still
still
i exhume no worry when i see
sun spears glinting around your head,
poised to strike us down. on bear lake
the wind got so heavy our boat drifted
off with two anchors down.
i would dash your name
in the dust-film of old countertop,
clutter the air with specks of scribble.
the cottage sleeps all day long, while
we him in its belly.
against
the driftwood spine of boardwalk,
you sit,
legs flowing
off the edge, twin
waterfalls paused at toetip
before they collapse into shimmer.
how can you
still
hold my lungs taut in fear.
how can you
still hold me with your voice,
when to close your lips
is to let go.
Hour eight
Why don’t you stay awhile?
The water’s warm, the dog don’t’ bite
You have time to make time
and I can make it worth your while.
The water’s warm, the dog don’t bite
there’s worse ways to spend a day,
and I can make it worth your while.
Just don’t you walk on past.
There’s worse ways to spend a day,
why don’t you stay awhile?
Just don’t you walk on past.
You have time to make time.
Define trier (ii)
The talk of an outlook of someone
Did agitated certain groups
One cannot control how the others want to perceive himself
As gossip existed for the reason of talking bad
Did agitated certain groups
not taken any preventive measures,
the gossip existed for the reason of talking bad
would backlash their future
The certain groups indeed took several preventive measures,
likewise, the talk of an outlook of someone
should have not stand in as a backlash towards anyone’s future
For one cannot control how the others want to perceive or deceive him.
Always there
I may have never seen you
But you are always there in my heart
I may have never felt your touch
But i always sense you with me
I may have never told you my stories
But you always guided me in my problems
I may have never told anyone
But i do miss you a lot grandpa
Journey to a Past Life (half marathon #8)
I closed my eyes, entering all the colors of the rainbow and drifted into thirteen.
Thirteen…
Thirteen…
Thirteen…
I am moving at great speed through a forest. The head of a daunting black horse bobs in front of me. My hands hold its leather straps and I feel its galops between my legs. I don’t know why, but I adore this horse and fear for both of our lives. My vibrant hair flies backwards. It’s red-brown length catch the colors in the sun and melt into the shades of the surrounding trees. Pine, jade, yellow, orange, red brown leaves. I rush past branches and see the early morning sun franticly searching for me. My light chest matches the horse’s heavy gallope.My chest gallopes. Hot breath. Sweat. Wild heart inside my chest. My eyes are lost in the green. They spot the white line too late. A quick white line is drawn from the treetops down to my body below. I am struck. Stone or wood or steel or obsidian pierces through my skin, fat, and muscle. My wild heart explodes as the arrow finds its way home. I fall, blood kissing the forest ground, and the horse still gallops to thirteen…
Thirteen…
Thirteen…
Thirteen…
I come back to life.
OCD Ode to Some Kinda Love (Pantoum)
I have no obsessions,
They have me.
I have no compulsions
I do things voluntarily.
They have me
These little rituals I do.
I do things voluntarily.
I can’t stop thinking of you.
These little rituals I do.
I drove you away with my junk
I cant stop thinking of you.
Since you packed up and left with your trunk.
I drove you away with my junk
Wondering every day if you love me.
Since you packed up and left with your trunk,
I’ve got nothing but time to kill.
IWondering every day if you love me,
Do yu, do yu do yu do yu do?
I’ v got nothing but time to kill
I’ll tell yu that I love you that I love your true.
Do yu, do yu do yu do yu do?
I’ll say a million times that I love you
I’ll tell yu that I love you that I love yu true.
It’s just a think that I have to do.
I’ll say a million times that I love you
I have no obsessions, (they have me)
I’ll tell yu that I love you that I love yu true.
I have no compulsions I do things voluntarily.
Prs 1:25 pm 8/13/16
Scribbler’s note: I know this turned into a very bad country western song,
and that the meter needs to be cleaned up for it to scan for any possible tune,
But I really do have mild OCD, and I love you, gentle reader, but I’m not gonna dive back in there.
It was starting to have a life of its own like a runaway truck filled with bricks on a downhill slope.
It took too much effort to get out and stop.
Voices
There is a child hidden in my heart that refuses to come out. This child is there for when the world becomes unfathomable and I need to pout. This child allows me to laugh at knock-knock jokes and silly burping games. This child, however, has no face; no name.
There is a teenager hidden in there as well, one that never went to prom or danced barefoot in the sand. This teenager is there for times when the world is smothering me to the point I forget who I am. This teenager allows me to believe in love and dreams. This teenager, holds the hurt of never making the team.
There is a young woman that mothers both of them; as she won’t have a child of her own to adore and hold. This young woman tells me stories of youth and grandeur when I was bold. This young woman assures me it is not too late. This young woman refuses to look in mirrors, though, because of who she ain’t.
There are many more people living inside of me. A daughter, a sister, a teacher, a friend. They tell me things I should do; things I can be and then, they tell me not to let go, even when it is hard to listen to the child cry, feel the teenager hurt, or hide that I am low.
There are many people in you. I can hear them call. They want to be heard, they are trying to stop your fall. Each of them bares a special pain, but each of them can make you whole again.
Voices
Lue
August 13, 2016