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."