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.