Hour 10
Bear with me as I describe
the absurdities of time:
ever passing, ever increasing,
ever deconstructing, ever changing.
It cannot be stopped, cannot be prevented
in any way. If you wish to avoid it,
there is no hope.
For every second that passes,
things are given and taken away.
If the balance is upset,
the world will crumble,
as time is the foundation of life.
Hour 11
Oso, the great bear
soft ruffled fur
meets me at the door with toothy smile
bows in his downward dog
follows at my heels
croons in play
rests chin on my foot
gazes up with copper eyes
sees into my soul
#12 – In the garden fountain
A beautiful landscape
With a garden
And a fountain
In the garden fountain
I meet you
You rub my back
The fruit of love
Sits in your thighs
The golden appeals
You move through the vine
In the forest of my flesh
Where flows a young stream
The fruit of love
Is on your mind
You are off the mark
The x on the spot
Sounds your end
Like a trumpet horning in early dawn
The fruit of love
Is in you
Exactly at the centre of you heart
A beautiful landscape
With a garden
And a fountain
In the garden fountain
I meet you
You kiss me back
POEM 12-MOVEMENT
It would be great to have
a remote control for everything.
’cause everything will be under control,
will not move too much, will not deviate.
But everything would be much more static!
Nothing would be spontaneous or genuine.
It would be a frozen universe, that is why
I will destroy the remote control.
Human nature is more beautiful
after too white snow melts.
So, let’s take a chance
and move between the lines of life!
Hour 12 — Moving Around
I have recently come to realize
Our commonplace human lives
Could actually be drawn as graphs
Just a few lines to mark our typical movements
These lines repeated again and again
Marking the passage of time
in days, months, years
Hundreds upon thousands of people
Living out their predictable lives
With overlapping lines of movement
Home to workplace
Friend’s place to the shopping centre
Maybe sometimes, an interstate move
In which case, new lines are drawn
Which start repeating
Over and over again
In a bid to befuddle
the human-movement-pattern cartographers,
What if we started making
new movement lines in our life-graphs?
Like going to a different store
Or meeting some new folks
Maybe taking the long route home
With some deliberation, we could ideally be making
A brand new movement line on our life-graph
Every single time we went somewhere!
Now, wouldn’t that be swell?
The letter
Patterned stationery
pretty envelopes, stickers, ribbons,
scissors and double sided tape
was what I purchased
when I decided to write to my former self
the desperate girl that chased nothingness
in search of love
it all needed to go away
and it wasn’t easy
its never too late to let go
sometimes it felt like it
Cupid’s arrow lied again
in the midst of chaos
she grew feeling unwanted
burden became her relationship
it changed who she was meant to be
climb into yourself
don’t fall back to your old ways
fall up fall down fall off
but don’t go back
a good loving relationship starts with you
so be who you are
She wrote until there was nothing more to say
reciting every positive quote
she opened up her envelope
and put all the papers inside
Tortie ‘Tude
She thinks she’s smart,
with her tortie ‘tude self laid
across my poetry
Hour Twelve
Your prompt for this hour is to write a poem about moving. The move could be a real or imagined. It can be about moving as a concept or moving as a reality.
——————————————————————————————————————–
Through nebula clouds of shimmering dust–
amassing as meteors, planets, and comets;
falling through the heavens heavy as black
holes–I awaken in a new form. Laden with
memories of past motions, movements in a
symphony—playing notes that resonate through
time. Moving as swiftly as leaves carried through
white water—rapids that roar as they flow.
Emerging from a volcanic eruption, lava carries
me into a deep ocean trench, where I solidify—
petrified as wood. I appear silently, fulgurant—
accompanied by bellows that permeate the
storm clouds. Floating with winds brought from
southern seas, the ways of the crazy cloud will
never change, and my dear Ikkyu, I mean for them
not to. I’ll move down the gullet like fresh moonshine
scorching all those bad memories right off the back
of your throat; who really likes the taste of anguish
anyways? Syringes carry black tar into a blood vesicle
highway, rushing apathy to the senses. I’m moving
out, to establish home within.
NAS Prompt 11
I can blame it all on Cinders
she always licked the kitchen floor clean,
so I did not learn to sweep with a broom
till long after I had any interest.
Cinders gets the blame again
when it comes to not being very attentive
she loudly proclaimed whenever
siblings were crawling into danger.
But the neighbor, with his fish-burying garden method
gets the blame for my broken heart.
My first, best pet had to move to Aunt Rose’s,
and life was never the same.