“apologizing to the other passengers. As if car sickness was a crime.” page 111, 5th line in 3rd paragraph of The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.
“You the sand I’ve crawled across.” page 111, 5th line in 3rd stanza in Jelly Roll by Kevin Young.
Apologizing to the other passengers
as if car sickness was a crime.
Commuter train to end of line
end comes everyday.
Nauseating life of dregs,
there and back and there again.
Everyday merry-go-round hell.
Cell phone glued to your ear,
apologies for my stench.
I was you until I burned,
abandoned by the man.
You happy across the aisle,
my respect tossed to winds
abracadabra, like magic dust.
Path of self-worth, weed-whacked,
lost soul like tumble weed.
Arid dunes, grain smothers grain,
My brain is a desert skull.
Bleached-bare eye sockets,
parched blind of caring.
And you sit there like him.
You the sand I’ve crawled across.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya asks us to bridge the gap: take a book near your bedstand, open it to page 111; copy the 5th sentence/line in the 3rd paragraph. That is the first line of your original poem. Choose a 2nd book and do the same but, this is the last line of your poem. And she admonishes, NO CHEATING! When I saw the line in The Kite Runner I was ready to pick a different book! But, no cheating…so Disillusionment is what came out of this prompt.
Spinning. Top handle pushed.
Heel of hand slams down.
Pumps up and down,
fast, faster as head whirrs.
Manic music loop hums, buzzes.
Commuter rail speeds like top.
Speeds to dos, never dones.
Programmed straight line
but circles back. Races there
then back again. Then there,
back, and there again.
Riding circles in straight line track.
Back and forth and back . . .
going nowhere somewhere same.
No exit, detour, changing lanes.
No corners to cut.
Desperately need to circumvent.
Hell’s spinning in my head.
Straight line circles on track,
back and forth and back again.
Flat circles straight through Dante’s hell.
Cats in the cradle fingers frozen.
Razor feels cool in hand.
Razor-cut corners. Find corners,
arcs through blue veined tubes.
Red globules travel through body
to heart through body to heart . . .
. . . till corner is cut and circle is . . .
. . . your image blurs slowly . . .
like over-used hopscotch chalk.
Jump off grid at double squares.
Heel of hand feebly strikes on top.
Off line, pace slows,
sounds slur, world blurs.
Circle spins slower . . . slowe . . .
slow. . . slo . . . sl . . . s. . .
Stop chasing tail.
Written for Day 22, Napowrimo. Prompt: To write a poem that disproves the statement “A circle can’t have corners.”
veins frozen still
warm love disappeared
vapid space adrift
Poem inspired by personifying the huge, monolith icebergs we recently saw in Antarctica. It seems to me that sometimes people feel like this.
deep within the soil
perennial seed lies dormant
safe from winter’s scorn –
would that I could sleep as sound
oblivious to my pain.
Frank is hosting today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He’s asked us to write a poem about sleep or to use the word itself. My post today is a Tanka: 5 lines with a 5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllabic content. A Tanka should include a shift in tone after line 3 or 4. Here, line 4 shifts from nature to the personal. Added note: written in the voice of another.
He lost his head that day.
Disappeared into green lush woods,
the gardens of his mind.
Some nurturing space of his own design
between the borders of insanity and reason.
Day in and day out
he plotted and planned.
throughways and roundabouts.
exit ramps and entry lanes.
Cement road-snakes for autopilot mannequins.
Metal caskets on wheels,
rushing here and there and everywhere.
Head full, he just stopped.
Could not cope.
Could not recognize
escape routes from today
into the morrows.
And so he stared,
that morning at his desk.
Retreated into a nowhere,
his forest of nothingness.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Grace is hosting and asks us to use the word “border” within the poem or in the title. And, extra credit if we write somehow about a mental state.
Sculptur is in the de Cordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Lincoln Massachusetts. Eternal Presence by John Wilson, 1987; a study for the full size, seven-foot tall sculpture which stands outside the National Center for Afro-American Artists in Boston.
both feet bolted
A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. The shorter the better. Misky posts Twiglet prompts every Tuesday. Anxiety uses twiglets 32 (with both feet) and 33 (still standing). Photo in public domain at Pixabay.
I was a flower
dew drop petals waving to the sun.
I was tall. Hopscotched on chalk
balanced one foot, then two.
I am brittle sans bloom.
Roots slowly rot,
losing ground to this horrible disease.
Stripped naked of hope
she sat hugging knees to chest
done with dreams.
Photo in public domain. Misky’s Tuesday Twiglet prompt #6 : “done with dreams.” A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought.
Like a magnificent crystal chandelier
in the wake of a coarse wind.
Swaying erratically. Shards of glass colliding.
Each piece hitting, pinging,
She felt like this.
Except she was enclosed. Caged.
Stifled in some cold garment.
Arms wrapped around her torso
in comfortless embrace.
And the ceiling was bare.
And the walls were bare.
But she was that fixture,
except without light.
Sia – Chandelier (Official Video) – YouTube
Sharing with dVerse for OLN where Bjorn is hosting from Sweden.
THANKS to Bjorn for pointing me to this video after my poem was posted with the photo below. Bjorn’s poem written on October 2015 was inspired by the video. I wasn’t aware of dVerse at that time and never heard the song or saw the video until Bjorn mentioned it. The video does uncannily fit Misfit which is very eerie! Stop by dVerse to post your own poem (the more the merrier) or to imbibe/read other posts. Tis an amazing place!
you loved me
as I was you said
then dismembered me
your hands, your will
debased my sense of self
erased my core
left me sightless
looking for me
Hosting dVerse for Tuesday Poetics — a virtual pub for those who enjoy working with words and creating poetry. Today, I’m asking folks to find a sculpture that inspires them — and then to write in the voice of that sculpture — become either the artist who created the piece, or the subject of the sculpture. Don’t tell us about the sculpture, rather take on its voice. Come on over and see what others do — or how about joining us and lending your voice too?