Saturday, June 29, 2013

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.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

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.


Tuesday, June 4, 2013

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?
 

Sunday, June 2, 2013

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.