21~15
(~i wish i’d said yes~)
(when you needed me most)
~found the money somehow
for your surgery~
(my ghost)
Hour 9 Prompt 9
Hour 9 Prompt 9
A Stitch in Time Saves Nine
Stitches. You know, those things that happen
when you thread a needle and then draw it
through some fabric. If you have a tiny hole,
mend it fast. If the button is about to fall off,
add a few stitches to keep it on. If a seam has
lost a stitch or three, just go over the stitching.
But we don’t do that any more. If the button
falls off or if the seam rips, just toss it away or
maybe put it in the Goodwill box. A stitch in
time might save nine, but very few will find
that out any more or even understand what it means.
Hour 15 – To the Scalp
To the Scalp
Would you like it a little shorter?
The scissors are poised for my reaction,
flashing in the reflection like the glint of the sun
and I, ready to photosynthesize myself
into metamorphosis.
Gods, I should have said yes.
Let the whisper slither itself out,
untangling from my innards.
I should have said yes.
Should have asked
for a razor and some faith.
Let the strands of my
self-induced femininity
fall to the linoleum like
October snowfall.
Too early, I suppose,
I had to wait for my season.
Now, the buzz beneath my skin
is echoed only by
the clippers pressed against my scalp.
A femme settled in
the space betwixt your lies,
my chin held higher
for this levity, this lightness.
I wish that little one –
the one who shakes their heavy head
and lowers their eyes in smothered shame –
could see me now.
I still find remnants of that distant child,
long hairs woven into sweaters well-worn,
and know it is time for them
to find a new place to call home.
Hour 13
The royal ballet, noble music,
costumes and a good story-
a true cultural experience,
an evening well spent with someone dear.
Did you try this? Or did you ever get asleep
listening to slow ballet music?
Such music is a refined companion,
especially if you need to be soothed.
(Prison) Schuttelreim
If you choose to walk unthinking into my path
Please allow the correct excuse to pass me.
The Grill
The wheel, the nail, the compass, the printing press, the internal combustion engine, the telephone, the light bulb and the internet are all great inventions. Unquestionably game changers.
But nothing compares to the Grill.
Why you ask? And you should.
1) It belongs to men. 2) You can cook your steak and onions together on it without offending anyone. 3) There is never any worry about spill, stain or smell. 4) Drinking beer, while grilling, is a rule carved in stone.
Undoubtedly the others are great inventions.
But, as for me, I’ll take the grill every time.
The Feel of Truth (Hour 16)
Con people often wrap truth in packs,
deceiving the eyes that sights it,
or in sacks that makes it stink.
They often foul up the truth,
injecting pungent impurities
to make it smell bad.
They contort the narratives,
passing false testimonies from mouth to mouth,
so truth can remain buried from generation to generation.
They lace truth up with bitter pills,
so those with the guts
cannot force it down their throats.
What they seldom do is to change the feel of truth,
to skew instincts, emotions, and cues away;
for truth can be felt from across horizons and within close range.
Truth thieves are meant to face the law,
to be barred from societies where they do not belong;
certainly cowards have a space in that boat.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 16.
Lonely Little comfort Zone
POEM 17
Night falls and the sky is stygian, until stars appear like pin holes of light.
The chartreuse shrouded moon makes me homesick for some low lit room.
The shrill call of locusts fills the night like a siren. I grasp the darkness and shake it for fireflies.
Sleep is evasive and the deck beckons me. Peer upward it urges. Crickets fall silent and traffic sounds fill the void, muddying the summer ambience.
I try to reach up and grab a hunk of night, before clouds gathering in the west spread, blinding the moon and shutting off the stars . As I skirt the edge of midnight waiting for storms to arrive in the declining hours of the morning, grumbling and flashing intermittent lightning ,like furtive glances, I can’t manage a yawn.
I won’t begrudge it the sweeping downpour that washes the world. I’ll find comfort in the darkness, I’ll find joy in all the rain.
Boskydell
Timid rain refused to push away the heat of the day
a summer night marked by dancing mist and light
as the cricket mindless orchestra plays
headlights on black pavement
the radio playing midnight blues
the moon’s silent moaning
and possums crossing the road
Hour 17 – The Thing about Grief
Inspiration – “I stopped thinking about extreme grief as the sole vehicle for great art when the grief started to take people with it.” – Hanif Abdurraqib
The thing about grief is
it is alive and warm
like a child
and begs to be fed, nurtured
you obey and it grows
within you
eating you
mimicking you enough to
convince it IS you.
Hoodwinks you to think
you are ‘over it’
and have ‘moved on’
but it is there – festering, biding
its presence betrayed
only through your words
and paints
and lonely sobs on a winter night
conjuring memories
picking at scabs
making sure every laceration lasts
till the agony it inflicts becomes your succor
a leech disguised as savior
until the day comes
it pushes too far
the mask rips open
and you jolt awake