On my own two feet

you have been a crutch
something strong & solid
I could lean upon when
the world beneath me
was a turbulent sea

& I used you
      abused you.

I was a grain of sand
and you were a clam
with the magic touch
to make me feel like
the pearl I longed to be

& I clung to you
       hung on you

but I will work harder
to tether myself
in this turbulent sea

     I will strive harder
to showcase myself
as who I long to be

& I thank you
    for being my ground
      thank you
    for helping me shine

& I'm sorry
    for taking advantage of
    your generous heart
          sorry 
    for allowing my selfishness
    to overstay
    my welcome

Zero-Zero

I stare at the two googly eyes
   & wait

slowly the right blinks one
    then two
    then three
creeping (ever so slowly) one-by-one to the next number

but the left remains - a worm hole
boring into my chest cavity
sucking in my fragile mind

Is it me?  Am I doing something wrong?
Or is it just me hoping for a connection
    that will never be?

I'm the first to ring
      the first to knock
I fight tooth&nail to step through the doors
                           to engage with others

It's exhausting &
I can count on my left pinky toe (& sometime my right)
the number that will initiate first-contact

I stare at the zero ogling me
who in my mind's eye is reflecting
my worth

Sick–ular

Darkness
Bleakness
Sickness
Blackness
Consuming darkness feeds the bleakness
driving my sickness into blackness.

---

A note on form:  This is my second exploration of the tyburn.  Its complexity lies in its simplicity...at least that is the case form.

Bewitched

the witching hour lies betwixt dusk and dawn —

and the sunrise is the blush of a young
girl experiencing love's first kiss;

and a baby's first cry is a rosy bloom
opening its eyes to the budding light;

and her laugh is an onslaught of
fireworks spreading across my heart;

and his freckles are constellations
guiding her to the safety of home;

and every time you look at me, my heart
is a butterfly dancing on the wind;

and the sunset is rainbow sherbert
my eyes cannot wait to devour;

and the moon is a shifting sail drifting
through a bioluminescent sea

in the witching hour betwixt dusk and dawn.

---

Inspiration for this piece:  Over at dVerse Poets Pub, they are exploring metaphors.  I, myself, am quite partial to "like" (not so much "as")...okay I'm not necessarily partial to it, I just tend to use it without thinking.  Anyway, as you can see, this piece is a metaphor's dream.   

A note on form:  As mentioned in a previous post....  "At the moment, to my knowledge, there is no official name for this form (for the purpose of being able to label this post, I have temporarily dubbed it toria indirectly after its inventor).  It along with a handful of others was developed by one of the dVerse Poet Pub community members for a prompt where participants were asked to develop their own form (or a variation of an existing form).  This form was developed by Victoria C. Slotto."

Floating (in Time)

(9:27 pm)

She hits the breaks
                              and listens to
                              the smell of rubber
                              on asphalt.

(9:28 pm)

nothingness and more nothingness

(9:45 pm)
She tastes pennies
                              and listens to
                              the feel of metal
                              crushing metal.

(9:47 pm) 
She sits in the movie theater shoveling popcorn into her mouth.  The woman on the screen is a younger version of herself.  She watches as the woman runs, constantly looking over her shoulder and laughing.  Just as a hand reaches grabbing her movie-self, she feels a hand from the seat next her clasp hers.  She turns.

(10:11 pm)
She hears her name
                              and listens to
                              the static of
                              light
                              ---
                              light
                              ---
                              light
                              ---
                              light
                              ---
                              light
                              ---
                              hovering face

(10:23 pm) 
She feels the strength of familiar arms wrapped around her.  He pulls her around so they're face-to-face and cuts off her laughter with a searing kiss.  As he release her, her smile mirrored on his face, he takes her hand and they walk.

A soft gentle breeze rustles the leaves as the last remnants of fall float lazily to the ground.  They make their way to a small bridge that spans the creek.  The silence between them is as comfortable as a warm blanket.  When they reach the center of the bridge, they stop and gaze out toward the setting sun.  "I'm not ready," he says, his voice an odd echo.  "I need more time."

(1:55 am)

I need more time
we *sigh*
                we need more time
more time to laugh
more time to cry
                to fight and make up
more time to gaze into each others eyes
                to buy you flowers
                to slam the door
more time to talk of nothing
                to talk of having a family
                to have a family
more time to make a family
                to hold your hand
                to make you breakfast in bed
                to cuddle under the cover
more time to watch movies together
                to have you eat all the popcorn
more time to wake up next you
more time
                just more

It's not time for you to go
You're not done.
I'm not done.
We're not done.

(2:02 am)
She squeezes his hand
                              and listens to
                              the warmth of his heart
                              beating in time
                              with hers.

---

Inspiration for this piece:  Over at dVerse Poets Pub, the Poetics topic is time.  After pushing aside the array of sayings and songs that came to mind, I thought about writing the piece noting the time of events throughout, yet had no idea the topic.  The first set of line came to me from out of no where and there was just something about "listens to the smell of rubber painting asphalt" that I just couldn't quite let go of.  So after pondering, unsuccessfully, I wondered back to these lines and the story I felt would unfold from it.  I think I finally settled on writing this piece once the idea of her being pulled back came from "him" asking for more time...time, of course, being the key to the prompt.  If you get a chance, you should check out how some wonderfully talented pub-goers took on the challenge of time.

On the Back of a Butterfly

I hired a fairy godmother;
she was a bit bibbidi,
a dash Bobidi, but
no Boo (which is good
'casue I'm scared of ghosts).

She fashioned me a dress
out of dandelion seeds
and shoes out of spider's
webs (a tad sticky, but
apparently her charges have
had a knack for loosing them).

My conveyance was a tad
unorthodox for, well for
just about anybody
really (and obviously she
did not think about how
the giant Blue Morpho's wings
would wreak havoc on my
timeless updo).

Alas I made it to the ball
in time (if not a bit disheveled),
enjoyed a dance or two (though
the prince never looked my way),
and I made it home just in time
to see the sun rise (I'm quite glad
my fairy godmother learned how to
expand her spell duration past
midnight).

---

Inspiration for this piece:  Last week dVerse Poets Pub celebrated three years, among the events was a ball.  While pondering different ideas for the ball, several thoughts popped into mind...the idea of hiring a fairy godmother and arriving on the back of a butterfly were among the peculating ideas.  While I went in a completely different direction for the ball, these inspirations still lingered...thus the piece above.

On the Wings of an Angel & No Hooks Today (& It's All Okay)

I have unwittingly prepared two pieces today...unwittingly is probably the wrong word...it just was not my intent, but one found me while composing the other.

---

from the corner to the brink of insanity to the shadows to angels @ the sidewalk cafe to the rafters // & Visits with Mr. Linky

I.  (Wed., 07/20/2011)

I stand here on the corner
gazing into the window
and I have to remind myself to breathe.
This is not one of my usual haunts;
Its atmosphere is meant for social types,
and well, that's not really me.
I can do this;
It's just the open sign gives me pause;
Its bright red glow is like a stop light
I so itch for it to turn amber
then green

II.  (Tues., 12/20/2011)

maybe it's time
to still the paranoia
in at least one world
before irrational thoughts
and hard delusions
skirt the edge of insanity
maybe it's time
to not push the envelope
in an online world
where social angst finds a home

III.  (Tues., 04/30/2013)

It's time to step out of the darkness;
dust off this cloak of shadows;
unfurl these dormant wings intent on flying.

IV.  (Tues., 05/28/2013)

My dear sweet angel, thank you for carrying my voice through the doors.

V.  (Tues., 05/28/2013)

So here I sit now at the sidewalk cafe
listening to the voices spill out the door &
tip my hat as they leave for the night.

VI.  (Wed., 03/05/2014)

...& I'm jonesing for a fix.

That's why I'm here
           to
                listen
as your words permeate the air
infusing images
               scents
               tastes
              desires
throughout the room
gathering in the rafters
where I can
                     draw them to me
                     fill my lungs
                     awaken my senses
                         &
                     smother the voices so I might

breathe...
                just
                        breathe

VII.

I've taken up residency here
at the sidewalk cafe
where words overflow from the neighbors
& pool at my feet

Mr. Linky stops by often; he always
seems to know where to find me.
he visits between performers
chats me up about those who
have come&gone and those
still remaining on the set list

when he's done, he pushes in his chair,
eyes my notebook & raises his brow;
an understanding passes between us
as he tips his hat and leaves.

I wait on his booming voice
to find my nerves settle.

---

Inspiration for this piece (and the one to follow):  Over at dVerse Poets Pub they have been celebrating three years.  As things wind down, the prompt is to write an ode to the pub.  There are some very nice tributes from the array of talented poets that often grace the pub stage.  I admit I found this quite hard (for reasons I can't quite bring myself to rehash) to compose such an ode.  But it gave me pause to reflect back on the journey I have taken from the moment the doors officially opened.  The first six parts of the above piece are from different pinnacle moments.  The sixth stanza an ode of sorts to the pub.  Well, that and the piece that follows...

---

Just Like the One the Shepherd Holds

Time & time again,
I fear the hook
dragging me
from the stage.

(part of my neuroses -
playing devil's advocate;

if only I'd take a moment to
listen to the guy on
my other shoulder.)

The reality is
                     a shepherd works
to bring his flock together;
nudges them
                    in the right direction
when they deviate from the path;
pulls them
                from the edge of cliff
as they teeter on the brink;

his hook is like a cast after a break,
signed from head to toe
with the encouragement & praise of
all those who gather around
the stage awaiting their own
turn @ the mic.

---

An aside:  Thank you to all of you, pubtenders and patrons, who have taken the time to scrawl across "the cast."

My words went on vacation & all I got was this lousy t-shirt

Before the day is out,
I itch to put word
to paper

and this is all
I could come up with.

I took a detour 'round the moon

I inscribed my words upon a mason jar
etched out my hopes and dreams
imprinted myself in purple perminent marker

join me
take a jar
pick a color
scrawl yourself in words

tonight we'll catch fireflies
and watch our shadow verse
dance in the light
across table clothes
amid garden statues
along manicured hedges
aloft the stars

join me
take a jar
pick a color
& scrawl yourself in words

---

dVerse Poets Ball:  In celebration of three wonderful years, dVerse Poets Pub is throwing a ball.  The festivities are already underway with poets all over join their voices together to bring this event to life.  With a backdrop like the Boboli gardens one can only imagine the magic surrounding this event.  I, myself, found my way here on the back of a beautiful blue butterfly.

There's No Better Way to Fly
(my new notebook)
[image by rmp, that's me]

Short Circuit

I'm finding it hard,
as of late,
to like me;

it's not because of any
wrongdoing on my part,
I'm just hardwired that way.

I'm tired of looking,
               wishing,
         hoping,
dreaming;

it's times like these,
as the glass jar shrinks in
around me, that I wish
there were no air holes.

To my comrades-in-words

pen; pencil; keyboard
notebook; napkin; internet
it matters not
your weapon of choice
nor where you lay siege

when you - my fellow word-wielders -
draw a line in the sand
you dare yourself

to defend truth and honor
to see beauty in the ugliest
    of places
to see light in the darkness

but also (and just as importantly)

to cull lies and wrong-doings
to see wickedness in the wondrous
    of places
to see darkness within the light

when you – my fellow word-wielders –
draw a line in the sand
you dare the world

to open their eyes
to take in their surroundings
to understand the power of
    love and hate

and hopefully

to embrace the truth & lies
to look beneath the surface of
    beauty & wickedness
to speak up against the darkness
    & in the light

pen; pencil; keyboard
notebook; napkin; internet
it matters not
your weapon of choice, dear poet,
nor where you lay siege, my friend,

but how deftly
(in wielding your words)
you pierce the heart.

---

Inspiration for this piece:  Over at dVerse Poets Pub, festivities are brewing.  The celebration of three years is being kickstarted with odes, either to a specific poet or poets in general.  I don't know much about odes, but....  If you get a chance (and haven't already), check out the festivities at the Pub and all the odes that are floating around over there.

A note on the ending:  The ending gave me pause for quite a bit.  Trying to find the right way to get across the idea of "meaning-maker."  This phrase obviously did not fit well in and of itself as the ending.  So I thought about using the word message somehow.  Eventually, in keeping with the theme and having the right idea I found "you drove home your point."  (get it...point; pencil...point; sword)  But still it did not sit right.  And in looking up alternatives for message, I came across the word heart.  And if you check out the "About LFA" you will understand why this line hit home.  I did toy with the idea of putting the two lines togehter at the end, "you drive home your point / and pierce the heart," but for some reason I felt it didn't have the same impact...but that's just me.

Who Chooses a Murderer?

I had a dream
I was terriffied
alone
          in a house
with a
           murderer
I picked up the phone
and







nothing
my fingers hovered there
over
        the numbers
but
       there was no one

I put the phone down
went to the stairs
and
       sung (yes, I sang)
out to him
       (terrified - yet lovingly)

I'm in a house
alone
with a murderer
and where
                  do I turn?

I woke
it took me awhile to pull
myself upright
(sleep paralysis)

When I finally did,
I walked around my entire 1st floor
in a haze
sat down
a chair away from the couch
and there the dream still hovered

I had picked up the phone
stood staring at it
with impending doom
and I had no one
no one
no one
             to call



(alt. title:  I should no better than to take a nap during prevning*)


*prevning (according to Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory) is the ambiguous time between afternoon and evening.

Awakening Beauty

The mirror reflects back
what people see with their eyes
not with their hearts.

The ugliest duckling
can truly shine bright
through compassion & truth.

The greatest beauty
can easily be tarnished
with greed or hubris.

Take a marker to your mirror
and shatter your beauty with the truth.

~ Mean ~   ~ Sarcastic ~  
~ Willful ~   ~ Inconsiderate ~   
~ Dishonest ~   ~ Gossiper ~

Use Post-It notes to cover your mirror
with the truths your eyes belie.

[Harsh]    [Coldhearted]  
[Egotistical]   [Spiteful]  
[Bully]    [Indifferent]

Take a hard look in the mirror;
change, so all see you 
with eyes & heart.

---

A side note:  Thank you, Jeff...after your comment on "Scribbling Beauty," I thought it wise to alter the view, creating this counterpart to yesterday's post.

Scribbling Beauty

The mirror reflects back
what people see with their eyes
not with their hearts.

The greatest beauty
can easily be tarnished
with greed or hubris.

The ugliest duckling
can truly shine bright
through compassion & truth.

Take a marker to your mirror
and alight it with all your beauty.

~ Smart ~   ~ Funny ~   ~ Loving ~  
~ Giving ~   ~ Gracious ~   ~ Witty~  
~ Honest ~   ~ Considerate ~

Use Post-It notes to cover your mirror
with the truths your eyes belie.

[Friendly]    [Warmhearted]  
[Understanding]    [Supportive]  
[Thoughtful]    [Devoted]

Force the mirror to reflect
not what eyes see, but rather
the heart's truth.

We're here today to discuss your options...

As the world slipped out
from beneath my feet,
all you had to do was hold my hand –
that's it – and then let go;

you were meant to keep me
from falling.

Now here I am...here you are...
here we are....

It was a simple task,
to keep me grounded,
and now I fighting every last breath
clinging to this cliff;

you were suppose to let go,
supposed to keep me from falling.

Now here I am...here you are...
here we are....

I was ready to let go,
but I can't take you with me
and for once in my life I'm not ready
to be anywhere that doesn't hold me.

Just as I was ready to let the world
snuff my light out, you had me falling.

Now here I am...here you are...
here we are....

Is it wrong that I want to enjoy
every second every minute I have left
with you and I wrapped together
waiting on what brought us here
to tear us apart?

When all that is left here is you,
know in falling,
I finally lived.

Don't Ask Why // The tv ad says "depression hurts;" that's an understatement.

did you ever notice...

the smile never reaches her eyes;

the cuts on his arms & legs
that bleed feelings - or lack thereof;

she sleeps away her days,
along with her nights;

the way he keeps his head down
as though in solitary confinement
where the walls are made of people
pointing and laughing at him;

how she holds up the corner
while others float easily about engaging
& enjoying each others company;

he writes of darkness he longs to escape;

did you ever notice?

None the Wiser

I don't think he knows
it's him

or maybe he fears
he's wrong
or perhaps
he's saving me from
embarrassment.

Part of me wants him
to know
to understand
he give me pause not
to disappear;

Part of me fears him
knowing
'cause
it's stupid to feel
this way

and what
if he doesn't
care

and what
if in knowing
he disappears.

I don't think he knows,
       my angel
       my breath
       my friend
       my reason for returning
                             continuing;
I don't think he knows.

I write of him
in ambiguous terms
distancing us
even more so than we
already are.

So how would he know?

It's time to stop writing
of him
to him
and just accept the gift
he un-knowingly gives.

Flight of the Babbling Words

This notebook is a fresh start —

and glass shatters as champagne
drips along the ships bow;

and wings unfurls ready for
butterflies first flight;

and hearts skip a beat balancing
fear beside fresh unknown love;

and sweet succulent fruit ripens
waiting to dance across taste buds;

and applause erupts forth as
the first notes ring through the air;

and the earth splits open from the pressure
of foot on shovel breaking ground;

and words like birds seek purchase
on lines ready to sing;

in a notebook of fresh starts.

---

A note on form:  At the moment, to my knowledge, there is no official name for this form (for the purpose of being able to label this post, I have temporarily dubbed it toria indirectly after its inventor).  It along with a handful of others was developed by one of the dVerse Poet Pub community members for a prompt where participants were asked to develop their own form (or a variation of an existing form).  This form was developed by Victoria C. Slotto.

"I can’t decide a name for it–maybe you can, but here’s the recipe:

• Open the poem by stating an indisputable fact–perhaps based in science, as I have, and then let your imagination take over and see where it takes you.
• Each stanza should have only two lines, each beginning with the word “and…” Think of a child who has discovered some new to her wonder and comes running, breathless, telling you all about it. It should have a tone of excitement.
• The final line should reflect back on your opening statement." (Slotto, 2014)

I'm not sure how fact orient my fact is (as it relates to the "recipe"), but it is indeed a fact.

Inspiration for this piece:  I just laid to rest a notebook that I had been writing in since March of last year.  This marks the second time I have managed to actually fill (from start to finish) a notebook.  While that may not seem so significant, for me it is.  Anyway, while staring at my new notebook, I pondered ideas on how I might christen its pages...well, you can see where it lead.

Write What You Know

How do I change my poetic flow?

or more to the point,
    how do I alter the current
    and change my course?

I'm stuck drifting (sometimes plummeting -
    there is no in-between)
down a dark cavernous tunnel
where the only glimpses I see
in occasional bouts of light
    is
        my own reflection.

I'm tired of me
                       &
                           the darkness.
I want to loose myself in lush
    river banks             in rich
    foliage                    in intoxicating
    bird song                in all the wonders
    that surround me     including
    that which scares me the most
    human nature.

I suppose the real question is
    how do I change me.

Along the Way, Smiles One

There's one for whom
I hold my breath
certain the hand will reach out &
pull "me" to the surface;

without fail the smile spreads
across my face
such a scarce sight (as far as
'genuine' is concerned).

My heart lifts
even if for but a second.

So I hold my breath
and wait
for the smiles to
awaken me.

Filling the Hole (When Dirt Won't Do)

I.
What's a people to do when people need people
and not a one will do?

II.
It's hard to be the center
all points sitting at a constant distance
connected to one another but not
to the center.

III.
How do I become one of the luckiest people
in the world?

IV.
When you keep your arms stretched out
what else would occur, but to become
the center
constructing your own tiny world
of one.

---

Inspiration for this piece:  So I was listening to a record and heard (though I couldn't place it) a familiar song.  The song, which I looked up of course, is called "People".  And while the recording I was listening to was not the original, this song is from Funny Girl and originally sung by Barbara Streisand.  The lines that stuck with me as I wrote this piece was..."people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world"

I'm a planet-hopping moon

Where do I belong?

There is this constant tug...
           a push-n-pull.

Hope....longing....desire....
                  draw me in like a glorious light
     a tractor beam stealing me from the ground

Fear....disappointment....hurt....
                   drop me like discarded debris
     a meteor plummeting head-first to the ground

So I skirt around social circles
       stealing glimpses of the light
       but never lingering too close
uncertain when I'll find myself
       plummeting &
                             I always find myself
                                 p
                                   l
                                    u
                                     m
                                      m
                                     e
                                    t
                                     i
                                      n
                                        g

Seven-or-Ten-ling (The curse weighs...)

An aside before the piece:  While the first stanza came relatively easily, the second was a bit of a pain.  In the end, my torn thoughts resulted in to separate second stanzas.  Leaving me unable to decide which was the better fit.  Part of me had thought maybe I could throw all three together and expand a sevenling into a tenling, but I wasn't really feeling the three together...then again...

---

Seven-or-Ten-ling (The curse weighs...)

The curse weighs heavy like sleeping
beauty, snow white, and the beast
all waiting on true love's kiss.

The hero lies deep within - chained,
voiceless, and locked away - fighting
a wicked evil bound of fear.

Magic does not exist, not in enchanted
carpets, not in glowing hair, nor
in mirrors that hang upon the wall.

I'd kiss the mirror if it meant releasing my hero.

---

A note on form:  As stated above this was intended to be a sevenling.  Under normal circumstances the poem would consist of three stanzas (3 lines, 3 lines, and 1 line) totaling seven lines.  Unfortunately, I was having difficulty settling on the above stanza 2 and 3 as the second stanza of this piece.  I was torn with the order of the stanza 2 and 3...part of me felt like I should put them in the reverse order to flow with the linked words in the final line (kiss, mirror, hero); in the end I made a minor tweak to the first line of the third stanza in order for it to flow better in its current spot. 

"You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take."

If I could take away the pain,
my sweet, you would never know pain.

When the quiet stirs fear-filled thoughts,
let my voice silence all your pain.

Purge the toxins.  Relax the mind.
Let go the tears. Embrace the pain.

Salty oceans depend on you;
they ebb and flow on joy and pain.

The sweetest touch would be nothing
if you were never to know pain.

---

On unearthing titles:  I'm not sure why, but in the process of writing this piece a song came to mind, Hate Me by Blue October.  I borrowed a line form the song to utilize as the title.  

A note on form:  The above piece is a ghazal.  Truth be told, I am not particularly fond of this form, though I have explored it on one or more occasions.  I don't know exactly what possessed me to utilize this form...there was just something about the first line that popped into my head that made me think...ghazal.

And the Record Plays On (Repeat)

I'm stuck in this groove,
perpetually spinning in circles.
Just when I think I might lift myself up,
I find myself right back where I started
- the same tune rising -
eternally singing my life away.

Like a Fine Persian Rug

It's not their fault;
my words were strategically crafted,
as so often they are,
to hide the pain searing tendrils of hope.
It's not their fault,
though if only they knew the hidden truth,
they'd see the lie of
it's not their fault.