still standing
standing still
both feet bolted
fear clamped
desperate
to flee
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.
Seed scattered.
Roots slowly rot,
losing ground to this horrible disease.
Stripped naked of hope
she sat hugging knees to chest
sole embrace,
soul distraught,
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,
clinking cacophonously.
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?
I am afloat
no eyes, no touch
in this senseless world.
This cadaver cavernous world
dreams dissipated, despair afloat
you see me, but do not touch.
Ignored. Here, not. Not for touch.
Gasping in your fragile world,
I am no one, simply afloat,
afloat, a glass shard, in your no-touch world.
Tritina written for Day 7, NaPoWriMo. The Tritina: three, three line stanzas and a final concluding line. Three “end words” are used to conclude the lines of each stanza, in a set pattern of ABC, CAB, BCA and all three words must appear in the final line. Another poetry sudoku! Photo Credit: Pickled 2, 2009 by Antoine A. R. Hunt, Bermudian, 1967: in the Collection of the Bermuda National Gallery.
Holograph, barely here.
I talk like a moth flitters to light,
shadow boxing.
Grin and bear it.
Buck up.
It’ll get better.
Pearls of wisdom faintly heard.
Like oil bubbles’ thinly veiled colors,
disappear in darkness.
Skim me not.
Help find the me.
Please.
Quadrille (44 words) written, including the word grin, as prompted by Bjorn for dVerse.
Card table covered in dusty gauze scarf,
book case with tattered paper backs
two chipped coffee mugs
and one stuffed black bird.
This basement flat, windows dark
gold stars and silver moon
taped on black garbage plastic.
She sits, tarot deck in hand
gnarled fingers poised to read,
nail tips brown from nicotine.
Curling grey wisps of hair
bejeweled barrette, three stones
so obviously missing.
I watch wearily. Smell her breath
and incense stick. Shove down
this nauseous urge. I must hear.
She must tell me what I need to hear.
And she hoarsely begins to speak.
Written for Ms. Quickly’s prompt, this way to the oracle.
Photo Credit: Ruxandra Moldoveanu.
Happy in her new digs,
plywood and metal scraps,
original resident dead.
A step up from cardboard,
if she could eradicate the smell.
Comic strips, the colored ones,
wallpaper of choice.
Condoms stored in knock-off bag,
Pick your flavor, pick your place.
But no, not here. Not in my space.
Golden locket round her neck
broken knotted chain.
Daddy’s picture kept within,
missing god knows where
always hangng near.
Mama’s image burned one day.
Albatross memories
seared in heart.
Flailing arms and slurred tongue,
bottle thrown. Crashed into her soul.
YOU. GET. OUT.
And so she did,
grabbed the locket and ran.
Happy sweet sixteen.
Birthday promise made that day
always kept, these many years.
Sobriety.
Eyes tired, never shut.
She saw their faces, every john.
Every thrust she felt,
every punch and hunger pain.
But slurring, oblivious sot?
She would NEVER be her.
Photo credit: Linda Lacerna. Somehow, in this holiday season, my heart is drawn to those who have not – the Lorettas of this world.
Shrinking I am, walls closing in on me
head in a vise. Eight by ten, five by
seven, four by six, wallet size. A
postage stamp stuck on some
old godforsaken envelope
thrown out. Unneeded,
Your old cameo. I’m
a person with pain.
To you, nothing.
Disappearing.
I am a void.
Am alone.
Am I a
not I
am
Ø
