Alone w/ Hope

Alone w/ Hope
(image by rmp, that's me)

 

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Inspiration for this piece:  Lately I've been pondering hope.  And while it seems wrong, it does quite feel as though it is burning me from the inside out - an all consuming fire that rages, suffocating me.  I know there is a poem hidden somewhere in this feeling, but it has yet to surface.  In the meantime, I dug up this picture, which was used as inspiration for a previous piece (totally unrelated to hope).  I took what little words I had and crafted this. 

 

Behind the image:  I couldn't help myself...I had to take this picture of a way-to-busy-&-gaudy casino carpet...most people I've asked see an owl.  I see a face burning in hellish flames clawing to escape.   

PEACE

PEACE 

release 

quietus 

 

wary fingers move  

~ curious ... uncertain ~ 

seeking a form of closure 

 

"life's inevitable repose." 

 

---

Inspiration for this piece:  Three Word Wednesday (3WW) offers up a selection of words every week.  My fingers itching to compose again sought out the word for this week in the hopes of finding some form of peace.  The words offered up this week were curious, inevitable, and wary. 
 
A note on form:  There really wasn't much choice in the matter.  I have a tendency to lean toward this form when the last Wednesday of the week crosses paths with 3WW.  This is a clarity pyramid.  Typically the syllable constraints (1,2,3 // 5,6,7 // 8) lend themselves toward a triangular structure (thus pyramid), but as is the case with some crazy multi-syllable words this effect is not always fully achieved.  This piece would be an example of that departure. 
 
Exposing word choice:  I initially settled on a 'word' to write my second stanza with after composing the first line of the second stanza.  I proceeded to finish the stanza before turning to the first stanza and the 'word' I had selected, "DEATH."  After quite some back-and-forth trying to uncover the next two lines, I looked at the word "closure" (stanza 2, line 3) and that in conjunction with "quietus" which was one of my choices for the initial 3-syllable line for "DEATH," caused me to change course and settle instead on "PEACE."  There is something about "PEACE" that just speaks to the overall verse in a variety of ways; I just couldn't help but steal its essence. 
 
 

on following

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An aside:  You'd think by now I'd be over it, but every time I even think to press/click/tap that "follow," I can't help but hold my breath, clench my teeth, furrow my brow, and -- inevitably -- chicken out  (or should I say goose out).  *sigh* ...Maybe tomorrow...

More Than

More Than

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Behind the image:  Monday started "Week of Respect."  There were an assortment of activities going on all week.  On my way out of work on Thursday night I found the stairs decorated in honor of this week.  I couldn't help snapping a picture of it.  Go figure, shortly afterwards I unearthed some words of my own to compliment those adhered to the stairs.

Sharp Tongue

Sharp Tongue
(image by rmp, that's me)

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Behind the image:  This summer I went to the aquarium and took a crazy number of pictures.  One of which was this little guy who blended so well into the background that if not for his sharp point teeth you would have thought him a log.  I took a complimentary photo of him beneath the water (see below). 

On poetics:  This is my eighth post utilizing an app called Poetics.  There are definitely some quirks with the app, but it is the first version and the bugs are minimal.  What I have enjoyed the most in these creations is the strategic placement of tiles, plus deciding when to join words in one tile and when to separate a word into multiple tiles.  It provides for some interesting visual placements to emphasize an entity of the verse. 

About this poetics:  Yes, I covered up the teeth with tiles...the intent was to make them a bit like teeth.  Along with the "teeth," I altered my original composition from using "knotty" to "k(naught)ty."  I'm not 100% sold on the final creation. 

Double vision?
(image by rmp, that's me)

Captured

It has been quite awhile since I've written...not that my recent posts of what I've tagged as poetics (due to the app used to create them) with short little numbers typeset upon an image aren't writing, but....

The last time I (really) wrote was almost exactly two months ago.  I know I've spoken of my unmotivated self for even longer than that.  I'm beginning to think it might be more than just lack of motivation.  It's not writer's block; though little has escaped me as of late, writing is not an issue.  I feel like I don't have anything really meaningful to say....not that everything I've ever written in the past has been meaningful...  Maybe inspired it a better word. Or maybe, I really don't care....which is a horrible thought really.  I don't know. 

So in an attempt to break myself out of this trance, I'm going to do something I have not done in quite sometime.  I'm going to compose something right here right now on the spot with little to no thought; forgive me ahead of time for how poorly this will turn out.

---

Captured

I took a flower
captured it
still-life in my phone
stealing its beauty
(and imperfections)
to relive over and over
as time steals its beauty
forever from this world

I took a flower
captured it
in my minds eye
searching for a new beauty
(redesigned imperfection)
to give it new life
outside of the one stolen
by me
by the world

I took a flower
captured it
forever making it my own
so its beauty
(and imperfections)
could belong to me

#1 - At the Center
(photo by rmp, that's me)

#2 - At the Heart
(image by rmp, that's me)

#3 - A Delicate Beauty
(image by rmp, that's me)

IF

IF

---

An aside (or rambling depending on how you look at it): I thought with the passing of summer I'd find my way back, but I still cannot seem to get a firm grasp on my creative flow.  Even my reading as been horribly spotty.  It makes me a bit sad knowing there is all this amazing poetry going on out there and I am just lost to it -- or it's just lost to me -- I don't know...maybe it's a bit of both.  I'm not giving up, but at the same time I'm not quite fighting it. 

Golden (though Orange Duct Tape will Do)

Golden (though Orange Duct Tape will Do)

---

An aside:  I was reading over the poem and I could help but feel as though my choice in keeping certain words together in a strip altered the way I wanted it to be heard.  So I went back in and changed the version you see below to the one above.  I realize it seems like such a subtle change, but still....  The only thing left lingering in my head is whether or not "it" should be replaced with "she."  hmm...

Golden (though Orange Duct Tape will Do)
[original version]

Alone

Alone

Poetics: Butterfly

Butterfly

Poetics: Teardrop Memories

Teardrop Memories

Poetics: Oddly Perfect

Oddly Perfect

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Behind the image:  I've mentioned the sketch pad I rediscovered.  In it was a page of mathematics exploring Perfect Numbers (more specifically Odd Perfect numbers).  On the back of that page was a horrid drawing of an angel.  Upon taking a picture of the math, I found the angel lightly in the background; with a little assistance from a photo editor, I managed to draw out the angel.

original image before editing

Poetics: a journey's start

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About this poetics:  With the assistance of an app called Poetics, I took my last poem and reinvented it.  I've been trying to spark my creative flow and am hoping that this might assist.  I suppose only time will tell....

a journey's start

each lap of the waves

vibrates out

calling hatchlings home

---

A note on form:  I thought to ease my way back into the whole poetry thing with a short verse.  My initial thought was a haiku, but what hatched out was a Kelly lune; although I suppose I didn't deviate too much considering the lune is known as the American haiku.

Behind the images:  This would be what one might call happenstance.  First night of vacation landed us on the beach as the sun was on its downward trip (early evening) and there before us was a crowd of people lined from shoreline up to land dune.  We made it just in time to see the last dozen or so make their way into the oceans waves.  So tiny & cute.  It seems crazy when you think about it; those tiny little creators have to travel the beach (what might be all of 2 dozen steps for me—but miles to them) just after struggling free of their eggs.

Just Me

"Give me something, give me some
      give me something to remember you
          before you fade away
              I'll be calling out your name, hey."
                                                -Give Me Something
                                                  O.A.R. (of a revolution)

I turn the music up
allowing it to wash over me;
the vibrating tendrils
wrap themselves around me,
but it's not enough
to dull the hum.
I'm stuck searching through memories --
calling out for something more,
anything to lessen the numb;
give me something, give me some.

Time seems to blaze by
scorching the edges of my mind,
burning pictures
I long to cling to;
all I'm left with are embers
of what I once knew.
now I'm stuck combing through memories --
calling out for something more,
anything to keep me from coming unglued;
give me something to remember you.

Once I could conjure up
your soothing embrace,
the only one that could ever
wash away the pain.
But now, even your phantom arms
are beginning to fray
and I'm stuck scanning through memories --
calling out for something more,
anything I can replay - replay -
before you fade away.

The candles flicker still;
though yours are only seen
reflected in my eyes.
Deep breath, I hold it in;
but I'm running out of air
for a wish I can't betray.
So I'm stuck here, all alone
just living out your name.
With every breath I give away,
I'll be calling out (y)our name, hey.

---

I will always share two things with my mom, a name and a birthday.  I never thought much of this day, at least not where I was concerned...it's just another day.  But this is number four where I'm still waiting for it feel again like it is just another day...

The first year, I was no less lost than I am today.  But all I could do then was gather the words to me and let them pour alongside my tears in an attempt to feel (or not feel).

With year two came Treading Tears; written in blank verse which employs both meter and rhyme (two things I don't much care for), but in adhering to form I could diverge the emotional onslaught this day now brings.

When year three rolled around, I found myself Unarmed; this piece too was written in a form that typically is not so daunting, but I chose to add meter to the rondeau form.  The frustration of fitting form did as before, allowing me to make it through.  

Interestingly enough, all three (make that four) have one thing in common.  Something I still long for even today, yet will never again feel.  

Treading Tears
written in blank verse

Unarmed
written in rondeau form

---

Behind the images:  Sometimes I wonder how I ever created so many poems directly on the computer - no prewriting involved.  These two are prime examples of the craziness that comes with the creative process, especially when form is involved.  My lovely scribbles, side-ways writing and stress-notation seen here are why I wonder how I spent a good number of years composing digitally.  It also seems sad to me that when typing (and deleting) you loose the footprints of the verse; yes, it is true that occasionally I erase instead of crossing out, but still there are hints of what once was hidden there on the page. 

A note on form:  This is my second attempt at a glosa.  Oddly enough, I selected the same artist for inspiration.  Though I suppose it is not so surprising; since first discovering them I have found their music soothes when I feel out of sync with everything around me--they give me something I can sync to.

I 'blank' me

---

I 'blank' me  

  

There are three words that haunt me.  

Uninvited they break into my thoughts;  

escape from my lips without restraint.  

I hear them;  

I feel them.  

  

There are three words that plaque me;  

festering deep within me, they itch at me,  

driving me crazy until they explode unbidden.  

  

I want to rip them apart.  

I want to turn them inside out.  

  

There are three words I wish of me,

crave to believe deep down inside—

pray for to overshadow the others.

I need to replace H.A.T.E.

I need to find L.O.V.E.

---

This was one of my found poems—tucked away within a sketch book I recently rediscovered.  I felt it fit quite perfectly with my previous post.  As you can see it was written almost exactly three years.

All Sraclbemd Up

I hvae srcetes hdiedn wtiihn the cfoidns of my mnid -
oens I drae not alolw to ecspae for faer tehy'll fnid tutrh.

So tcuekd aawy tehy saty wehre olny I
hlod the key to ulnokcnig tehm;

gartend it's a nmbuer cbmoo
and I seem to hvae raerargend
all the slily lttlie nmbures lkie teshe ltetres

if olny my barin was as good at tarnlstanig
mxeic up nmbures as wlel as tihs globbeydoogk

I mghit uenatrh the hdiedn srcetes
and dsiplel my faer.  

---

This is my second poem utilizing this form, well not so much a form as a study on the brain's ability to read words as long as the first and last letter remain intact—okay, whether it true or not, I thought it a fun way to write.  (I recently came across something that made this bubble to the surface.)

The first poem was inspired by a prompt back in 2011 from Poetic Asides, which asked readers to "write an 'it ain't none of your business' poem."  I actually left off the final line of the poem from the first because only one of the words had enough letters to mess with and even then it was a four letter word not making it difficult to translate.  Today I add it back in except I'm taking all the words, removing the spaces and then applying the mixed up letter formula; it still shouldn't be too hard to figure out.

Here is the first...


for my eeys olny

I hvae a prahse taht hunats me
erevy wkanig day and ngiht
I fnid msylef cughat by tiher tturh
tehy ehco in my haed
wehn srsets stes in
it paluegs me
utnil tsohe diveslih wrdos
euprt lkie pisoon form my lpis

imahtee  

FRAGILE — don't open until...

don't open until...
(sketch and image by rmp, that's me)

EMPTY.  She stares in utter disbelief; her heart pounding in her chest. EMPTY. She reaches into the box.  Her hand swirls around touching nothing but air. It pauses mid-box, then first touches the bottom before each side within. EMPTY.  

  

So caught in her disbelief, she doesn't notice until her shocked (and empty) hand rests upon her chest. The intense rhythm causes her breath to catch. Stunned, she looks up from the empty box and stares into his knowing eyes.  

  

As his smile reaches his eyes, her heart skips a beat; and suddenly, she knows. From the moment she had met him, her heart had been set free.  

---

Behind the image:  In my last post, I mentioned how I dug up an old sketch pad only to find some poems hidden between its pages.  I also spoke to my impressive (or not so impressive) talent of drawing.  I was inspired to snap some pictures of one or two of my creations and tweaked them a bit before posting them on my photo-tweaking blog (rmpInFocus).  Though not so sketchy, this piece spoke to the poetic side and so I snapped it up as well.  

A bit of rambling:  While yes, this piece in some odd turn of events did sprout from the sketch above, it definitely took on a shape of its own.  I'll take help from anywhere I can get it.  Still motivation eludes me.  Some might equate it to writer's block, but in the case of such an episode one desires to write, but can't.  Yes, there is a part of me that does desire to write (wouldn't be here typing this right now if I didn't), but it's not that I can't...I just don't feel inclined to.  So why then am I?  Because while I feel relatively calm and relaxed (no pressure or anxiety floating about), I can't shake the feeling that if I maintain this lack of inclination, I'll sink into the abyss.  And it is summer, there is no reason to deflate in such a fashion.

An aside:  Still working on catching up with all my reading.  Been pacing myself for fear my lack of motivation might rear its ugly head in that neighborhood as well.

Prose vs. Poetry:   Poetry is my go-to for a slew of reasons I'll spare you.  At first I thought maybe I could allow this particular flow of thoughts to cascade into a poem, but (1) that was way too much work for an unmotivated individual like myself and (2) it felt more prosy to me.  [and "no," (2) is not a cop-out for (1).]

Windows to the Soul

Windows to the Soul

You can hide behind the mask  

        of your smile  

But should someone look into  

        your eyes  

All the smile, all the laughs  

        would be seen as lies.  

For that though, someone would have  

        to take the time to look.

---

An aside:  As I was doing a bit of cleaning, I found a sketchbook that I've had for ages.  I don't draw, not really.  I can copy (free hand) cartoon type images relatively well, but I don't really have talent to draw of my own imagination--assuming you want to recognize the drawing.  I have a couple things I can manage in isolation (like roses and eyes).  Anyway, while flipping through this, I noticed that apparently at some point I picked up the sketch pad and decided to pen some poetry (and random words/thoughts).  Among them I found the one pictured above and thought I'd share.

An (aside) aside:  Catching up on my reading is taking quite a bit of time...of course it doesn't help that for every five or so I read another piece is posted.  I'm definitely beginning to feel the poetic juices flowing, kicking my unmotivated backside into gear.  Hopefully by tomorrow, I'll have a new piece to join yesterday's post.

Sleeping Beauty

I dream of...
fairy tale kisses with happily ever after...
fairy tale villains defeated by true love...
when will such a kiss awaken my dormant heart?
will the villain within me ever be defeated?
is there a true love out there awaiting our happily ever after?

I dream of...
a prince, brave and true, who will fight for me...
a prince, hansom and sure, who will steal my heart...
will he be willing to fight me for me?
is the thorny thicket around my heart too overgrown?
will I know him immediately and let down my defenses?

I dream of...
feeling (finally) the beauty buried within...
feeling (at last) the love that surrounds...
is my beauty buried too deep to ever reach the surface?
are my defenses too strong to ever let love in?
will my eyes ever be opened to feel the truth?

I dream of fairy tales...
based in truth...
fairy tales distorted with time, but still possible.

---

Inspiration for this piece:  This is a convergence of three things. (1) dVerse Pub tender, Victoria C. Slotto posted an exploration of anaphora (repetition of a word or expression at the beginning of successive phrases, clauses, sentences, or verses especially for rhetorical or poetic effect), which sparked (2) a tickle of a form that is not a form [see "A note on form" for more details].  And then there was (3) dVerse Poetics post with Mary tending the bar that provided Disney characters as a prompt.  And while this post has absolutely nothing to do with Disney's Sleeping Beauty, it explores fairy tales and adds in bits and pieces from the story line as support.

On unearthing titles:  I wasn't completely sold on this title; I did not go into this poem (a) knowing the title nor (b) knowing I would focus on details from Sleeping Beauty.  I actually had both Princess Aurora and Snow White in mind as I began thinking about dreams, which led to sleep and being awoken by a kiss.  But mixing a spindle and a poison apple did not seem natural.  Plus Briar Rose is my favorite princess and fairy tale, so how could I not choose her.

A note on form:  This is a variation on a Triquest, called a Monkey Triquest.  And what exactly is a triquest?  It is something I made up around the December of 2010 (though the first poem written in this form was in May of 2010, which the form was based on).  And yes, I even incorporated variations, three to be precise (though one variation could be adapted like the first two thus providing five variations).  I don't think I've actually written a poem in this form since early 2011.  It was neat to revisit it.

Echos of Silence

Silver Pearls
(photo by rmp, that's me)
[check out original unedited version @ rmpInFocus]

one day
             my silence
                             will echo

it will start as a whisper
of something forgotten
as you walk into a room
and look about
for what?
you can't remember
it will nag at you
until you shake off the whisper
figuring
it will eventually come back to you

it will grow to a soft hum
of a once heard song
that lingers at the edge
of your mind
you can feel the notes clash
refusing to take form
it will tickle your senses
until you push away the hum
back
into the recesses of your mind

one day

             my silence 

                             will echo

it will build within you to a shout

that whisper

that hum

will finally take shape

into words long ago read

and you'll be drawn

to rediscover them

as you begin to search for me

the nagging whisper will return

as you find my lost words

the tickling hum will resurface

it is then

that my silence will be so profound

it will echo deep within your mind

one day

             my silence 

                             will echo

of this i have no doubt

for there is no room 

for doubt

it is not something i can afford

my words have power

meaning

passion

these are things i cannot afford to loose

they are at my very core

without them i am nothing

and so i cling to the idea 

one day

             my silence 

                             will echo

---

A bit of rambling:  I dug up this poem from just shy of two years ago (July 4, 2011).  While I don't my silence has been long enough to echo for most, these still fingers and dormant words are quite profoundly echoing in my head.  At first life just too crazy, but now that things have settled down I find myself completely unmotivated.  Sure I could blame the elusive muse that most artistic types speak of, but I'm not the artistic type--I suffer from a left-brain logical dominance (at least most of the time).  So really it is lack of motivation, hopefully my right-brain will decide to come out and play soon.  In the meantime, I'm going to catch up on my reading (my reading list currently sits waiting for me with 63 unread posts all full of what I'm sure is amazing poetry).  Hopefully a little light (or not so light in some cases) reading will help jump start me.

On a side note:  When I dug up this poem, I had to smile at the original note on the bottom, "a One Stop Poetry--One Shot Wednesday offering."  This was my second to last contribution to OSP's One Shot Wednesday and my fourth to last offering to OSP before they closed their doors.  While the link to onestoppoetry.com no longer works, I got another brief smile today by adding in "blogspot," which brings up the original blog with its last post (though not the final post for OSP) dated Friday, January 28 2011 -- Friday Poetically with Brian Miller; unfortunately it last for only about 11 second (yes, I did actually time it) before the automatic redirect tries to link to the non-blogstop blog and I get "Oops! Google Chrome could not find onestoppoetry.com."  Sad, but I know I can always console myself with a tasty pint of poetry now served by Brian Miller and Claudia Schoenfeld or any number of talented pub tenders at dVerse Poets Pub. I'm getting a tad thirsty just thinking about it...

The Recording:  Creating this had me missing Aviary's editor--it was much more user-friendly to someone who knows nothing about editing sound tracks; I found it much easier to toy with the sound compared to Audacity, but unfortunately they felt the need to close down all of their free products to focus on their photo editing...which I also use so I can't complain too much.

Behind the image (title):  I realize I probably could have come up with a better title for my image, but there is just something about those silver pearls (which were not originally silver) that just draws me in.

Courting Song

Beady-Eyed Cicada
(image by rmp, that's me) 

  

Cicada sing,

birthed seventeen years past.  Arise  

cicada.  Sing!  

Perpetuate the cycle, ring  

out your mating call, harmonize  

until the ladies heed your cries;  

cicada sing.  

  

---

A note on form:  This past Thursday dVerse FormForAll introduced the rondelet.  While this was not the first time I've come across the form, it had me exploring it once again.  It is a tight little verse containing only seven lines, of which three are identical (or at least supposed to be).  I've always had a thing for repetition.  Still, prior to this reacquainting, I had only written one rondelet....or so I thought.  Upon review of the poem, I realized I messed up the syllable count on one of the lines, but after a some thought I was able to remedy that.  Thus far, it is may favorite of the three rondelets I've written thus far.  I have included it below, as well as the one I wrote on Friday.  (Friday's speaks to my absent as of late from here.)  

  

Inspiration for this piece:  If only you could hear the way the woods cry out endlessly, you would understand.  I have never seen a cicada prior to this year.  I found the one pictured above on a hibiscus plant on my father's deck.  They are quite freaky looking things.

---

Insanity

Insanity
walks with me like a faithful friend.
Insanity
speaks in tongues of profanity
pouring (from my lips) without end.
I walk on with hope to transcend
insanity.


  

Un-Spun Crazy

Life's been crazy—
each breath a luxury of late.
Life's been crazy—
no time to write or be lazy.
I long to once again create—
spin words in hopes I might abate
all this crazy.

US – Love (love less than us)

I need you to know  

if I could,  

             I would,  

                        but I can’t  

and you won’t.  

  

Still I need you to understand  

that I understand  

while I can’t  

                you won’t;  

even if I could,  

                   you wouldn't.  

  

So really, it doesn't matter;  

    I don’t matter;  

    we don’t matter,  

beyond the concoction in my head  

where we live  

                  in nonexistence while  

you’re there and  

I’m here  —  Sep  

                      a  

                         rate  

because I can’t  

                    though I would  

                                         if I could,  

but you won’t  

                   although  

   

maybe if given the chance  

        if I took the chance  

           you  

                 might  

    

and we’d stand a chance.  

While You Crossed the Room

Him:  Hi.

Her:  Fair warning, in the time it took you to cross the room, in my head we married and adopted three kids—all stamped “made in the USA” so no worries there.  But it’s all good ‘cause I can definitely compartmentalize fabrication from reality—as long as the real kiss isn’t worse than the one in my head.

Him:  Are you trying to scare me off?  Or trying to get me to kiss you?

Her:  Well, reality does have a way of getting in the way of fabricated love.  Then again, if the kiss is better than imagined, I might be inclined to add two kids of our own making.

[He nodded in contemplation of her logic; then locked eyes with her before leaning in and kissing her until everything disappears around them.  He pulls back; her eyes still closed; his face just inches from hers.]

Him:  I think we’d make rather cute kids.

Her:  hmm…quite beautiful, if I do say so myself.

[He closes the distance and kisses her again.]

---

On (or about) conversation:  I have always liked dialogue.  Maybe it has to do with the fact that I struggle so with it in the real world.  I suppose part of it also stems from my dislike of details, which is why I tend to write poetry over prose—you get to cut out all of the extra nonsensical words and details.  I actually wrote a whole novel completely in dialogue prior to going back, typing it up, and adding in all of the extras; I really do have an aversion to lengthy prose.  Maybe I missed my calling as a playwright or screenwriter.

They Say Write What You Know

one day, someone will step back
look at my words as a whole
& see the contradiction
in me
and who I appear to be.
 
I spin a mixture of truths
& falsehoods -- an intricate
pattern so tightly woven
of dreams
and hopes wrapped in silent screams.
 
one day, I will be called out.
but with the record set straight,
shall I be deemed a sham or
be praised
for how real my lies are phrased?
 

In the Air

He nods at my notebook,
"You write?"
 
I feel my brows furrow
"Since I was in kindergarten.
 
started with the alphabet
then put 'em together
  to make words.
then sentences

eventually came paragraphs
  those were tough, but
 
I think I managed to mastered them."
 
He doesn't balk at the subtle
   sarcasm,
a small smirk buds at the corner
  of his lips, "I meant,
do you write poetry?"
 
"Poetry?"  I shake my head
raise a brow at  his audacity to think
  I write poetry.

"No...
  *sigh*
             No...I    *sigh*
                           I breathe
                                          poetry.
 
I hear, taste, smell, see,
         touch poetry.
 
but write poetry?
                            No.
I would never be so presumptuous."
 
"Well then," he pulls out a chair,
     settles in, "you've peaked my interest,
 
what does poetry sound, taste,
                    smell,  look and feel like?"

I sized him up for a moment
   deemed him worthy

"it sounds
    like the musical serenade of the cicadas;
 
 it tastes
    like copper from a bloody lip;

 it smells
    like salty ocean waves lapping at the shore line;
 
 it looks
    like the wrinkled old eyes of a lover's gaze;
 
 it feels
    like distressed furniture -- smooth in spots -- rough
                     in others."
 
"Hmm..."  he sat back -- thought-filled eyes
         staring into nothing;
As the cloud passed he looked up at me,
   smiled
"The cicadas
                    really do
                                   sound
quite beautiful
                      tonight."
 
"Yes; yes they do."  and we sit
          silently breathing in the poetry
                                        surrounding us.

BEST

BEST

prevail  

overcome  

  

being poor's only  

a liability  

if she lets it define her  

  

"rising above the hand you're dealt."  

  

---

A note on form:  This little number is called a clarity pyramid.  It is meant to start with a single syllable word (all in caps that doubles as the title).  The two lines that follow are to be synonyms or some how clarify the definition of the word; these are two and three syllable lines (respectively).  The second stanza, also composed of three lines (5, 6, 7 syllables respectively) pose a scenario or real-life application of the original word.  The final stanza is a single 8-syllable line (written in quotes) that defines the first word.  

  

When beginning this explanation of the form, I said,"It is meant to start with a single syllable word."  The reason for this is that sometimes (as with any poem) inspiration does not always follow order.  In this case, the second stanza founds its way to me, followed by the last line.  The tricky part was finding the word that matched my definition.  

  

Inspiration for this piece:  3WW (Three Word Wednesday) post a challenge every week of three words to be used in one piece (be it a poem or prose); this week's words were badge, darken, and liability.  My intent as is the case on the last Wednesday of the month is to use all three words in a clarity pyramid.  I'm still working on that.  But in the mean time, this happened along; and rather than throw it out because it didn't hit each word, I ran with it.

Exposing word choice:  After coming up with the final line, I had a general idea of a word.  After my brain puzzled it through, "overcome," sunk in.  The trouble was identifying corresponding one and two syllable words.  "Prevail" came naturally.  But in working to find just the right opening word, the idea of using "best" with its less common use just spoke to me.  There was something in the idea that if she was able to best the hardships that lay in her way, then she would become the best her she could be.  It seemed all the more poetic.

Talk to Me, My Dear

The storm has passed, but still I fear
the charge that lingers might just steer
our hearts to diff'rent hemispheres.
Please stay right here! Please stay right here!

I've never know a love like this
where time stood still with every kiss;
oh how my heart just can't dismiss
this taste of bliss -- this taste of bliss.

So talk to me, don't shut me out;
dispel my fears and budding doubts
with gentle words that heal and shout
our love still sprouts -- our love still sprouts.

The storm has passed, but still no cheer;
the way we wade through this frontier
forecasts our future life, my dear.
Allay my fears!  Allay my fears!

---

A note on form:  The above verse is a monotetra.  I've spoken to this form before in two separate pieces here on LFA.  In actuality, I started this piece just after posting my first, (Smush) Like a Bug.  I made it through a stanza and a half before I meandered away.  I found my way back today (and yesterday).  And as I said in previously, while it has a fun sound to it (making it fun to read/listen to), writing to this form can be rather frustrating.  Of course that probably has more to do with my aversion to rhyming.

Reflection

Beautiful – it doesn't happen quite that often;
so I stared for awhile, unwilling to let her go.
 
I tried to hold the tears at bay
though they're far less rare than this sight,
maybe that's what sparked their journey.
 
Beau – tiful
                   Be – a – u – tiful –  
                                                Beautiful –  
silently whispers to me; I'm scared to let her
                                                                   go.
 

Our Dance (is Finally Over)

"Then the rain came knocked me sideways
   Hope the wind will catch my fall
      I know we all deserve a couple scars
         It's just getting old."
                                     –Almost Easy
                                       O.A.R. (of a revolution)

It's too easy – far too easy
to walk down this path again.
Then, drinking you in had me disappearing;
fading into me, into you, into us,
way more than I could handle.
But you were like a beautiful song that plays
entrancing me out of myself
your fingers strummed the very core of me
consuming my nights – stealing my days.
Then the rain came knocked me sideways.

You couldn't see the storm rage inside me
though you felt it I'm sure.
Now here we stand again and it seems so easy
to fall back in – let it take control – 
spin us around like an old record
whose perfectly worn grooves touch and enthrall
familiar waves (intoxicating) strive to take hold
and it's oh so easy to get lost in the music of us,
but when the storm returns, throws me against the wall,
(I) hope the wind will catch my fall.

Every time I think it won't happen
your hand stretches out before me
inviting me to dance.  I should know better
than getting caught in this whirlwind
where the only thing I'm left with is a bruised heart.
How many times will you play its strings like a guitar,
breaking them one by one – though really
it's my own damn fault thinking I was stronger
the past serving as a lesson – a guiding star;
I know we all deserve a couple of scars.

I said it before, I'll say it again
hurt is all I have to offer you, me, us
I'll always be undecided – torn up inside;
longing to feel our harmonies sync
knowing I'm to scarred to match your tune.
Still it's way too easy letting this feeling take hold,
finding everything I need in you, but not
what I need of me.  I have to let go;
this song of ours has been oversold.
(and) it's just getting old.

---

A note on form:  Yesterday, over at dVerse, they introduced the glosa.  It's an interesting form meant to pay tribute to a poet by incorporating/quoting four lines from a piece of their work.  It then is followed by four stanza of 10 lines where the tenth sequentially comes from the original quote.  For more detail, check out the Pub's FormForAll:  Paying Tribute, Page and the Glosa.

A side note on the form:  So I didn't technically (depending on how you look at it) choose a poet.  I chose a musical group that has a way of calming the storm that tends to rear it's ugly head.  Still, song is a poetic form; it just typically incorporates some musical instruments.

Bubble Letter Conjecture -- Negative Space Contradiction

"There's no 'I' in team."
 
"Yes, there is!"  she flits in her  
humming bird air.  
 
an "A" in bubble style is produced  
on the whiteboard.  
 
"See here...and that's the dot."
 
low & behold a lowercase i.
 
"Wow, using negative space,
I'm impressed!"
 
not that she knows what
negative space is, but...
 
Doesn't an i found in negative
space only reinforce my
original statement?
 
Plus, a lowercase i never
stands alone
               supported always
by other letters - friends - peers.

Except for when it doesn't,
but then it's a complex mathematical
enigma expanding the world of #s
where real meets imaginary.

That's right it's imaginary.
 
Seriously, i = square root of
negative (go figure - negative)
one.
 
So there you have it an
imaginary i living in negative  
space and I
                   repeat...
 
There is no "I" in team!
 

Letter #1: Walk Away

If you are reading this, then somehow you,
my love, have broken through my fortress wall.
I never once thought someone would pursue 

this heart of mine.  Yet here you stand enthralled
and I am at a loss to understand
how someone -- anyone -- could ever fall

for me.  Yet here you are with heart in hand.
I would have thought by now I'd have deterred
your interest.  So now I must demand

you turn and walk away without a word
just hand me back these pages -- leave before
you dig inside my soul where pain's interred.

You've reached the point of no return; explore
beyond this line and risk destroying me.
Still here -- *sigh* -- foolish man, I so adore.

---

A note on form:  On Thursday, dVerse Poets Pub FormForAll threw out a challenge--to write a terza rima.  Six syllables shy of completing the third stanza I crashed.  Instead I turned the pages of my notebook and toyed with a sevenling.  But I found my way back last night ending off the stanza and adding one, before turning out the lights.  This afternoon, I tacked on the last stanza and rounded off this piece.

Inspiration for this piece:  I stole inspiration from a series that I had hoped to write, but never made it passed letter #2.  The series was called Letters from D. Prest.  I decided to maintain the title of the first letter, which is roughly what this piece is based off of.  I am aware in doing so I leave this open for additional pieces, but after getting sucked into ten acts of a ballad after a similar challenge, I'm not sure I'm naive enough to allow myself to be tortured by another frustrating form.

Sevenling (I dream of)

I dream of everlasting love,
finally feeling whole, and
waking from this nightmare.

I wake to anxiety, tears that
refuse to fade and dreams
that dissolve in sunlight.

The only monster in the closet is of my own making.

---

A note on form:  This is another (oddball) exploration of the sevenling form.  I'm not sure what has brought this form back into my line of write, but here it is rearing its strange little head -- even though I'm still not really comfortable with the form (though maybe that is part of its charm).

Rebirth

Blushed Hues
(image by rmp, that's me)

Hidden in the whispering wind  

lies a secret only trees hear;  

a message so sweet and touching,  

they dust the earth with their pink tears  

blushed hues of love, joy and rebirth.  

---

Behind the image:  My favorite part of spring is the blossoms that adorn the winter bare limbs of trees.  While in general, I do appreciate a lovely flower, there is something about their presence on trees that instills an odd sense of peace.  So, I have been finding myself, when the occasion arises, photographing these blooms.  Afterwards, I have some extra fun tweaking them with an photo editing app.  Just for the fun of it and because it is easier to show and view the images, I have begun posting them (original next to recreation) on a blog.  As the blooms slowly disappear, I'm sure I'll find other things to transform.  For now, I'll stick with the delicate hues of spring dusted trees.

Stay

Still,
I hold my breath,
as tears perch
on eyelids.
 
Oh how I fear
blinking you away.
 

Sevenling (It's the law)

It's the law!  Buckle UP!
Hang UP!  Speed UP!  No
wait, forget that last one.

Tell the truth!  Cross your heart --
hope to die -- cross your fingers;
don't let them catch that last one.

Perfectly timed tears still ticketing pen.

---

A note on form: The Sevenling was one of the early forms I explored and to be quite honest it still puzzles me a bit. The poem has an seven lines (go figure) and each of the first two stanzas has an element of three (what exactly that means is for the experts to understand and me never to figure out). The final stanza is a single line that "should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition."

I think what I like most about the form is that it should be "mysterious, offbeat or disturbing, giving a feeling that only part of the story is being told." Oh, and some of my are definitely odd. Just for the fun of it, I have included all of my previous sevenlings.  Some more odd than others....

---

Powerless to Help

She stood there in the corner--her back to me
tears ran like wild fire from her eyes
with trembling lips she refused to turn to me

Fear bubbled up within me--holding me still
the desire to calm overwhelmed
with trembling arms I reached out to her with love

I curse the stupid chair and kiss her finger

Sevenling (I came across)
I came across a receipt in the hamper,
change rattling about in the washing machine,
and a twenty dollar bill in the lint trap.

I turned myself around searching
for my lost marbles, my misplaced lip balm,
and my elusive car keys. "Where else can I look?"

Aside from the keys in the fridge, I really should check my pockets.

Sevenling (I remember)

I remember the smell of fresh popped popcorn,
frogs flipping onto lily pads but mostly into water,
and the evil looking clowns drinking from water guns.

I wish to forget the sound of the organ grinder,
the sound of coins clinking against metal, and
the feel of being shot. But not the lesson learned.

Never trust a monkey wearing a top hat carrying a pocketbook.

Sevenling (Your laugh sounds like)
Your laugh sounds like nails
scratching on a chalkboard, tires
screeching, and jackhammers on a busy street.

I grew up on country music and reading
Stephen King. Have you ever heard of
Carrie, Misery, or how about Firestarter?

You have way more to worry about than your car being keyed.

As Spring Buds

---

Inspiration for this piece:  I was sitting outside this afternoon -- notebook open -- searching for some form of inspiration.  The first found me in the form of bees, big giant buzzing bees.  I posted that piece via twitter (@rmpWritings).  Just as the unnerving insects spurred my retreat indoors (safely behind the screen door leading to the deck I'd just vacated), music began to drift through the air from some neighboring home -- a tad loud, I must say.  But still, the tunes were recognizably welcomed, though they made me think of summer more so than the recently budding spring that has finally decided to grace us with her presence.  So I stole some images from two of the songs that played and well you can see above what it yielded.

A note on form:  At first, having just written an haiku, I stared at the first line of this piece thinking that is were I might again go.  Unfortunately, it did not feel complete.  So I expanded the piece into a choka, also known as "long poem,"  although I kept this one rather short.  It follows the 5 - 7 - 5 pattern until the end where it ends with a couplet of 7 - 7.

Behind the image:  Maybe it is because I've been too lazy to type up my poems (who knows), but I have been using my phone to take snapshots of my notebook.  I did the same with my previous post.  Of course what fun is it to just post an image of a page with my scribble on it.  In order to spice it up a bit, I have been toying with the image -- adding effects, borders, and whatnot.  

Loss & Rebirth

---

A note on form:  This piece follows the form of a monotetra.  Mono = each stanza ends with a single set of rhyming words.  Tetra = I like to think of the two ways:  (1) it is written in tetra meter; (2) tetra means four and there are four lines to each stanza.  You'll also notice the last line of each stanza has a special structure; the first four syllables are repeated as the last four syllable.  Even though I chose not to write this piece in iambic tetra meter, I still like the sound of the form with its final repetition in each stanza.

When the Last # is Laid to Rest

When she was young (but not too young)
they came -- took her and her family away.

"You there."  (her finger mimics pointing
left)  "You there."  (she points to the right)
"You there."  on and on they're sorted

separated

"We asked when we'd see our family.
'On Sunday,' they said."

come Sunday

"They walked us past the crematorium.
'There is your family,' they gestured."

she mentioned the showers --
they didn't know more than water
could escape those heads.

"My cousins were brought to the same
camp.  Four sisters, the only family I had
left."

she was determined to live
"day by day."

her goal -- to drink a glass of milk
again.  Seems silly, but to hear her talk of it
was like the Holy Grail.

"Did you ever try to escape?"
an eighth grader asks.

"No.  They were going to move us.
There were these girls I worked with;
they had a plan.  They wanted me to go too.
I said 'no.'"

the importance of family
rang in her "no."

"I wanted to stay with my cousins.
I could not leave them."

"When did you know you were free?"
another child asks.

"We lined up like always -- to be counted
before we were allowed to eat.  The guards
didn't come.  We waited.  Some of the kitchen
staff came out, said not to eat; it was poison.
We waited still, no one came.  Eventually,
someone tried the gates.  They were open.
Then we knew.

she got her milk -- a trade for cigarettes
(the soldiers said would kill the germs in them)
the milk tasted better.

Eventually, she found her way to the states --
sponsored by family -- on a student visa.

"I met my husband in night school.
I used to have long gorgeous ringlets." her
hand brushes her bare shoulder.  "he sat behind me
and would stick his pencil through them."

she speaks now to students;
not travelling too far from home.

"I used to visit with my cousin, she's here too.
But she can't drive anymore and I can't sit in a car
for more than 20 minutes -- pain radiates in my back
and down through my hip and leg.  I was struck
on the back while in the camp.  It wasn't so bad then,
but age seems to have aggravated it."

age she's lucky to feel.

her message is to love all regardless,
to cherish family.  she talks so her message
will live on in the young.

"It's important they know.  Eventually,
there 'ill be no one left to tell our story.
We need to do so now."

her words are haunting, you can see it in the eyes
of the young, but her point is clear
when all are gone it is the young who must
remember so such evils cannot rise again.

---

Inspiration for this piece:  Earlier this week, I had the honor of listening to two Holocaust survivors talk about their experience to a group of eighth grade students.  They had two very different experiences, but still they survived a time when most of their faith did not.  The quotes are paraphrased, but nonetheless hold close to the words spoken.  I barely touched on the experience conveyed, simply pulled bits and pieces.  It pales in comparison, I know.  Maybe I'll come back to it and fit in some of the other details (the bombing, the singing run, the feet wrapped in newspaper for shoes...).