Surrendering hate--A practiceMany might follow,In favor of love.ImagineWhat that would be like.
When the season turns Blue,bruised by silence buried in snow,no end in sight,light a distantremnant of Noontimes forgot,fought over, then ignored,stored for another dark week on Earth,it’s worth recalling how it feels,heels entrenched,benched like an understudy waits,ingratiates the Moon to draw its curtains back,black like night,flight impossible, no one watching undercover of the greyest shroud--Clouds.
Margaret has the Real Toads visiting past prompts, thankfully reminding me of the wonderful chained rhyme, first introduced to us by Hedgewitch.
These days, my eyes are red when I riseand leak intermittently throughout the day,lifting pink to my left cheek, saltysmears announcing my mood: maudlin, probably.I worry about the raised white pills floatingin the grayish sag framing orbs ordinarilyexclaimed and celebrated as crystal-bluereminders of the soul of a person. (a poetwho carries the weight of wondering whyher eyes leak all day though she swearsshe isn’t crying) (oh she’s sad all right,anxious too, but those eyes, they just leak)They just leak. That’s how it is now with eyes.That’s how it is with mood and soul and poetry.
Peggy has the Real Toads writing about eyes.
Don’t ask me whyI always think of youwhile washing dishes.I don’t associate youwith cleaning,or preparing food,or enjoying a meal.Each time, I thinkI should callor write you an emailor a postcardbut my handsare in hot waterand I get distractedwhile towel-drying,forgetting againuntil the next time.At leastI wash a lot of dishesso that meansI think of you often.Sometimes I thinkI should hit the road,show up at your placeunannounced.But there’s too manydisheswaiting to be washed,too many waking dreams,solitary imaginingsprobably betterleft to the imagination.
For Corey’s prompt to the Real Toads: Persons of Interest
The room in which I sleptwhen visiting my grandparentshad twin beds with lily-floral duvets,rose wallpaper, stained-blue vanity.I always liked the matching stoolwith its spinning mechanismand needle-pointed aster cover.I’d sit with my back to the mirrortorquing back and forth just slightlyreviewing the sparse assortmentof paperbacks scattered on shelvesamongst framed family photosand covered tissue boxes.I think I was eleven years oldwhen I swiped a copy of In Cold Blood,reading it on the sly, fairlycertain I wasn’t supposed tobut wondering why they’d leavesuch a book in the kids’ guest roomif they didn’t expect us kids to read.Reading in the bathroom, in the closet:“The Last To See Them Alive.”
Asters, lilies, roses. Blood.
Linking up with Write On Edge! “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953).
You rattled me from dreamsat the hour I’ve reservedfor your appearance--(Reality is debatable at 4 am,so maybe you are my dream?)Planted verse so true-to-life,certain I’d recall upon wakingto write it all down--(What is it with dreams,the ones in which you scream?)But of course I forgot it all.It’s fruitless trying to hold onto you, like an elusive lover--(And when it’s over, I’ll beunable to explain what it means.)
|"Thaw" by Elizabetta Trevisan|
The roadcuts through frozen cornfieldslike a causeway.
If your footwasn’t on the gas pedal,you’d think you were moored in ice
& about to sink.
Been a long timesince I pored overmy reflectionin any mirror,but now I avoideven a casualor sideways glance.I don’t recognize that woman.Who is she?
Kerry asked the Real Toads to reflect upon our creative aspirations for 2014 and write about our resolutions. I am reflecting! But so far, this is all I got.