Not same
I am not same
as I once was
I left myself
some where in the past
I have started to
trace footsteps
behind you
I have started to pause
on your path
The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics
Part XVIII
Letting go of the hands full of flowers is hard,
but their fragrance has begun to choke me,
and I cough so hard,
it pulls the fibers of my spinal cord,
rattling my entire body,
everything is unclear and drowning seems inevitable;
I fight the diseases,
every single moment
of every single day,
and everyone around me says,
hang on – it will get better…
I’ve been hanging on all my life,
it does not get better;
the beatings come in different forms;
I am tired – bruised, bloodied, broken,
I loved with all my heart,
and it was mutilated – put through a meat grinder,
I cried all the tears,
and then some more,
I felt the highest of highs,
and all the increments of feeling from that high,
to the bottom, where sediments lay,
the disease of my brain opening every door on every floor…
– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 1 AM
#18, gold and white.
There once was a beautiful bird.
Guilded in sunlight and gold was this avian delight.
Sweet and able to read the hearts of man she was also
Coveted. Hunted. Desired.
For all in the land wanted to be the person to possess her.
Exhausted she flew from branch to branch
Over every hill and forest she flew
Over every valley and tussock.
Over every home and city
She flew, only pausing on a branch long enough to bathe, drink and eat.
Her heart was strong and true
But even the strongest and most true can only burn bright for so long.
She fell one day in the middle of a blizzard. Gold pure light lost in a white blast of rushed wind.
What a waste. Sacrifice to the hunters.
Hope they’re happy now.
Prompt for Hour Eighteen
Caesar Crossing the Rubicon by Wilhelm Trubner, is one of my favorite paintings. Unlike most paintings of titled Caesar Crossing the Rubicon does not feature an army led by Caesar, instead it is a painting of a dog eying food on a table. I have posted it below.
Your prompt is to write a poem with a stereotypical title for a poem or painting, but the poem itself does not comply with the expectations raised by the title.
Third Person Curses
Hell- they knew how to torture!
Not dragging one down to the fiery pit,
But watching- observing,
Unable to speak, to shout- to warn.
Unable to guide her steps back to safety.
I screamed at her, but no sound was heard;
I ran to her but I did not move.
These nightmares, when, whilst alive we dream
Of straining for sound, striving for movement,
They are surely remembrances of this place from before we were born.
There is nothing to make one value their power more
Than to take it away.
Watching my beloved walk toward her certain death,
I repent.
Minutes to spare
I never realized how hard writing poetry is on a timeline.
How the essence of a limit on when you need it written can turn a passion into a foot race.
Minutes to spare every hour since I started.
Going strong but I just hope to keep the momentum going.
There’s nothing more nerve racking to see the clock ticking forward.
Urging me towards quantity over quality.
Pushing me towards a quicky rather than meaningful material.
I will stay the course though, I will keep making it quality over quantity.
I will not be denied.
Come lets find..
Close your eyes
Take a deep breath
Search inside
You will find the rest
Go past all those places
Leaving behind all those faces
Soon you will enter the valley of solitude
There is silence
Full of peace
Its a point where souls meet…
Hushed and Haunted Rhythms
There is a certain nightly hour when an eerie hush cushions the earth.
All becomes dormant, all becomes quiet
Except
The little sounds thrive and grow and pulse and move and shake and quiver.
Close your eyes, turn off all the lights and listen to their stories.
The manic march of the wall clock; tick-tock, tick-tock
The determined deep vibrato of the refrigerator
The soft subtle “swooshing” of the ceiling fan; still on a focused mission to drive away the heat
But listen closer; go deeper within
Cup your hands to your ears
Beyond the heavy footsteps of your boldly beating heart, listen for the other rhythms.
The ones you usually ignore.
The cacophony of caffeine cruising through your veins at dangerously high speeds
The brawling beasts in your belly; escapees from a banned mosh-pit
Your long laboring lungs like violent waves crashing.
The longer you listen, the louder they become.
Harder to ignore
Sometimes sneaking into your waking world.
Miss Havisham
I read her name
At fourteen years
and I thought she was
A fool—crazy.
She stopped the clocks
The night her heart
Shattered. Wore lace
Everyday. Insane.
But now, it makes sense,
Why she would want to live
Waiting. Wishing. Wondering.
I finally understand.
My clock stopped
September 9th.
I’ve finally “Crushed all hope,”
As you told me to do.