Every day,the incessant beatingagainst eggshell membrane,pulled up taut,freed, loosed, tightened againwith earthy Resonance,occasional crash punctuation,the Heart hammers to outfrom its trap.
Stone angelwatches over our Town,no alms for the Irish or the Poor,stricken by poverty of checkbookor of Heart,wilting in mid-August sun, tempershort & patience shorter--Bless us, please.
Kerry has introduced the Real Toads to a form new to me and right up my alley, yippee! It’s the TRIQUAIN.
Dreamversedaringus to seizethe Words they give usbut we hunker down forgettingthese are the only ones we havethere are no extraswaiting behind the next stanzato surprise us witheditedWords leftfordead.
For Grapeling’s word list prompt to the Real Toads: Carpe Diem
I haven’t been writing. The explanationis I’ve been living. But what is livingwithout writing? And also, how manybrilliant lights must be extinguishedbefore we give a collective fuck? I meanan actual fuck, not a flowery, piningwish-it-weren’t-so sigh, glorifying deathall glittery & shit, strung with quotesand the most flattering photosof the actor in his prime or your friendwhen he wasn’t completely wasted.I actually caught myself thinkingcomedians have it the worst, as thoughmorbid six-foot-deep depression were justanother station on the track of lifeif you’re unlucky enough to board the C train.Lucky for the rest of us, I guess, untilor maybe including the moment of our losswhen we rally, circle round holding hands,light some candles, fetishizing deathintoning you’re always in our hearts as thoughit’s true. But it’s not. Mostly we keepour totems squirrelled away in a boxunder the bed, reduced to trivia in a gamewhere the prize is another beer. I haven’t beenwriting. Maybe he had stopped telling jokes.
A history of my hips,fiercely jutted in defiance,then submitting.Swaying, waxing with childpliably bearing,war-tugged just shy of splittingbut always springing back.Reaching, striving,circumnavigatingthe expanse of you(I will meet you here. I canhold you here.)Wilted, still unbroken,the enervation of yearsyou read in my hips.
Late entry for Flash Fiction 55 at Real Toads.
It’s like when someone says you’re too emotional& at first you believe it, breathe in those words,burp them for a tight seal, hold them closeto the bone of you. You exhale the rest upon learningabout your unappreciated dramatic element, unable to stopthe lid from clamping down firm & strong, not allowingany light in. No wasting time poking air holesin that thing. What could you do but write it all down& wait for hope to germinate? Hope sprouts the slenderestshoots, breaks the seal, births one slight ray of sun,light enough to locate the chamber closest to your breast& revive all you knew. Even Tupperware has its limits.After all, those who call you Other have their own crossesto bear, their own little wars. The disposer can takethose words. Just be sure to let the water run, and believe.
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: JERUSALEM
It’s the tinkle of an ice-cream truckoutside a clouded window, the wishingfor an intervention, but not really.Did you say something?It’s the goosebumps radiatingfrom your very core to the tips of youat just the thought.I didn’t hear you.It’s surreptitious snacking, secretsbest kept buried. It’s what you thinkyou want but can never have.Can you repeat that?Heavens to Murgatroyd! It’s who you love.
For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: Can You Hear Me?
I’m here, still here, and not going anywhere, but please be patient, gentle readers. I’m working on patience, and on being gentle with myself, too. I’ve never been particularly virtuous on either score.
I started a new job two weeks ago. A wonderful job! I’m pleased beyond measure about this change. The clouds seem to be clearing. I’m hopeful that I’ll be in a new groove soon, and that the pretty words will flow more regularly. Meanwhile, working on patience and gentleness.
A meme popped up over on Facebook with a wonderful quote from Sandra Bullock:
I’ve made peace with the fact that the things I thought were weaknesses or flaws were just me. I like them.
Love that. Working on that.
This poem avoids negativity,airs no grievances.This poem cannot bear exposure.This poem wishesthings were different,cannot imagine a pathnot paved with disapproval.This poem settles.This poem has lost 30 pounds,doesn’t want to talk about it.This poem needs a lunch break.
This poem is loosely based on Hanna’s Boomerang Metaphor.
What if red antswith big long antennaeare endangered?We need to rescue themfrom the wading pool!The girl in the flamingo swimsuithones her bug phobia,tends it with extinction concerns.A spider might travel your legif you remainperfectly still,as you are part of its landscape.Maybe you are its destination,or its angel.You surely are mine.
Meet me in the glintwhere wind meets lightas memory fadeswith your appetite for Blue
Only we two birds,fledging low below clouds,are finally ready to Dive--pinched nose, holding hands
Once we’re deep under,twine your legs round my legs--your Heart withers so cold below,don’t you dare let go.
Flash Fiction 55 at Real Toads.
In my dream everybody’s hereand everyone lets goof pain, affronting shame & blame,a miracle or soit seems,to dance as if in dreams,the samein daylight as in night--Let’s dance together without fearof being wrong, or right.
My occasional music prompt is up at Real Toads:
Sky,your cloud tiers,like a wedding dress,all ruffles & chiffon,tease,showing a little leg,& I thank you for that.The acheis manageable now.Where before I bloatedwith the weightof all the absorbing,now I’m lean& mean to lift my skirts,dance, inspired,not in spite of you.I’ll have cake,toss handfuls of rice,release myself--To you, sincerely.
For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: Conversation
I’d like to lie here in the shadeclematis twining roundthe maple trunk, then round my armtethering me to GroundAnd youwrap round me like you doNo harmbefalls us as we lieNo fear of hair braided in bladesof grass, our patch of Sky.
For Play It Again, Toads: Kerry’s prompt about the Robert Herrick stanza. I love, love this form & am pleased to be reminded of it. Thank you, Margaret!
What if our days are better spent alonethan searching for that one partic’lar High?The searching, seeking, wandering from homethat leads us out of atmosphere to Sky,awaiting clouds? A perfect Rainbow roamsas far as eyes can see, to rectifythose years undone, so many songs unsung--Our search for Self already has been won.
Outrageously late for Kerry’s prompt: The Yeats Octave