They lived a merry-go-round life
senses dulled by blurred vision
maniacal calliope music
mired in manufactured grooves.
She rode the blue horse
its mane gilded in gold
hands cold on metal pole
forever spinning forward.
He rode two steeds behind
eyes wild with lust
chasing her round and round
never gaining ground.
Desperately out of synch
his up to her down
so close, but always out of reach.
Gold ring dangling in neon lights
they rode on and on and on.
extinction has become
a way of life
push ‘em back, push ‘em back
way back
thieves in the night
spread into the world
Serengetti, oceans blue
chrysalis and hives
letter writing, long white gloves
walking unplugged and fountain pens
family dinners, darning socks
rotary dial and porch talk
push ’em back, push ’em back
way back
civility disappears in spews
listening usurped abducted
mouths agape without ears
warnings ignored
das Ende, el fin
fine, mwisho
push ’em back, push ’em back
way back, yeah team
NaPoWriMo Day 27 — using day 26’s prompt to write a poem with a refrain. Confession: I was a high school cheerleader. “Push ’em back, push ’em back, way back” was used when the other football team was getting too close to the goal line. That “refrain” popped into my head and then I started thinking about all the things that have disappeared in my lifetime — far too many to mention here. And I realized, extinction has become a way of life — how strange to put those two words together! “the end” is offered in different languages. It is after all, a worldwide problem. Thought the Japanese word for “the end” was quite interesting, containing the English word “wish.”
Tomorrow, I shall be loquacious
an incandescent individual
not taciturn or bellicose.
One who is the debutante
dressed in white tulle
written up on the society page.
Today and tomorrow’s morrow
I will be me.
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 24. We are to write a “mix and match” poem. List fancy and unfancy words and then let your imagination take you from there.
Born into a mystical place of she-wolves, Tohi was granted one wish from her sungod.
And so it was that she arrived in a New World. She watched humanoids thrash in cold waters, struggling to reach land. Found walls with no doors. Saw fences and miles of barbed wire, shredding dreams to shards of despair.
Tohi wept, tears that grew from soft rains to rivers of grief. Graveyard plots grew in numbers and the ground was sodden until it could hold no more. And she became the final witness, as this New World became the Last.
Weep for your children
for they see the hatred sown
and will reap its fruit.
The first three paragraphs are written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted each week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. She provides a photo prompt and asks that folks create a story, flash fiction, in 100 words or less (word count: 96). The haiku that concludes the post is written for NaPoWriMo day 23. Taken together, prose + haiku, they become a haibun. Tohi is the Cherokee word for peace. Photo Credit: Madison Woods.
Can the rough stuff on the wall.
Spray it rough, slingin’ words. Crap tough graffiti.
It’s me sprawled here. My stuff. My hustle.
Sling the crap y’all. This ain’t no conference call.
Life sucks, no shit. And you’re no prize, sweetie.
That paint’s my soul. Hands rough from slingin’ shit.
Are ya listnin’? I can scrap the words and shift to muscle.
Shit happens and guess what? I’m still here takin’ the hit.
Photo Credit: Audrey Johnson. A San San (means three three in Chinese) written for Day 14, NaPoWriMo. A San San is a seven line poem, ABCABDCD rhyme scheme with three “terms” repeated three times. Also written for dVerse Open Link Night!
Once delicately balanced
upturned to the sun,
finely veined plumeria petals
lie strewn across the path.
Last eve’s maelstrom winds
unexpected. Wreaked havoc.
Battering, felling
these blushing blooms.
Perfumed scent mingles
with rotting leaves.
They shall decay
and disappear.
I trusted you,
until you became another.
National Poetry Writing Month continues with day eleven’s prompt: write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does. Photo Credit: Bert Grantges.
Gaggle me group think
wisps of snipers
brooding, hence their evil
festers in murmuration.
Starlings not, cowards yes,
they prey on innocence
maim, murder,
crow hatred as they kill.
Life and exhaltation, a lark to them,
bombs strapped on chests
with heaven their goal,
wing straight to hell.
Let us become congregations
like plovers in flight with doves.
For they are small as one
but pure of heart,
powerful as they soar
symbols, nay beings
of peace and love.
Written for dVerse. De asks us to write a poem using the names given to gatherings of birds. She thoughtfully provided a wonderful list from which I’ve chosen the following: flight of doves, brood of hens, congregation of plovers, exhaltation of larks, gaggle of geese, murmuration of starlings, murder of crows, and wisp of snipe. Photo credit: Nevit Dilmen.
Moon sliver fades in and out through shards of clouds in pitch black sky. I peer from my window, wrapped in warm flannel, pane thrown open. Tree frogs mute with wailing winds. And I know, though I cannot see, ocean currents are whipped in fury, hurling themselves upon eroded shore.
Mother beats her breast
mea culpa my children
peace I cannot bring.
Written for dVerse Poet’s Pub, Haibun Monday #9. Hosted by Rajani who asks that our subject include the moon. Photo by Lucretia.
Day’s end tinges waters pink,
visceral beauty before my eyes.
Across the globe, streets stain blood red,
violence explodes in wails.
Gulls soar ‘neath pastel skies,
disappear on horizon as day dims to end.
I kneel in prayer for a mother’s grief,
her dreams lost in Turkish setting sun.
Dedicated to my dear friend, Aslihan. Turkey has yet again suffered an unspeakable violence. Yeter translated: enough. The word appears was added today on her Facebook page. Photo from our deck as sun sets on this Bermuda day.
Somewhere, light years away,
what was held in trust
shall revive.
The first one thousand miles
between earth’s implosion
and moons’ forever paths,
churns debris, seeds of possibility,
until a shooting star ignites
and a new land births itself.
Small roots find their way
and those that flower understand,
heritage matters.
The Universe remembers
those who strove but could not save
scorched earth, her favorite son.
And so at Latitude 38
she creates a divine place,
reconfigured in her galaxy.
A quiet place of timbers
where midst aquamarine waters,
her children shall try again.
Found Poetry: following titles taken from the bookshelf in our Bermuda rental: Held in Trust by The Bermuda National Trust; First One Thousand Miles by Gordon Phillips; The Light Years by Elizabeth Jane Howard; Heritage Matters by Dr. Edward Harris; and Latitude 38 (a magazine). Photo: from a walk along Bermuda’s Old Rail Way Trail. Poem is inspired by Global Warming, something that too many seem to deny.
lillian the home poet 