extraction

causes I placed myself in, unwanted,
adding another burdened mind to a swarm
still not sure what it looks to find
behind the chants and lazy dreams of better days;
and it's always the case that the deepest pain
comes from knowing you are the rot in the tooth
that needs to be dug out,
and having the nerve
to do it yourself.


--
Not about the Occupy movement. Not about anything, really. Trying to get back into poetry, dreck or not.

bat

up to bat, all dirty knees and dusty shoes,
traveling the streets that brought the fog rolling gently in
at a dead run, bad pun
but better than splitting the thick grey cloud
with flutter of misplaced wings.

--
Bats--baseball term, vampires: I'm so original. Oh well.

latter

seeing the world through a camera lens,
where the eyes can easily take a silhouette
and lend it more than mere shape;
in florescent light that neither seems too dim, nor yellow,
no warmth on skin from accustomed unnatural glow.

--

rather than title, inspired more by this picture, taken this morning as dawn broke through my dirty window, and the contrast between what my camera and my eyes could see:

studio

posed, poised fingers cast intriguing shadow
on parted lips
and other such headlines--
breathing in, out,
changing the substance of the photograph,
as the viewer catches unedited blinks, stiffness
struggles--

a war wages behind slightly bloodshot eyes
to find that certain mystique,
enough to shine through extensive 'shopping
and still sell the overpriced watch that dangles
from her well-shaped wrist

it is, after all, what they pay her for,
though it's a shame the struggle will be
discarded, cut away:
making this job look far too easy.

--
I've fallen out of the habit of thinking poetically.

fractured

fractured was the wrong thing to ask,
lost now in the words arranged
contrary to dreams
circling the dilemma anticlockwise--
though time holds all the cards in this game of chance
perhaps it would be better with a plot,
thoughts lined up as they should,
a quota for each day
to take like vitamins--
building strong bones
for your story.

--
More NaNo musings. I don't outline before writing; sometimes I wonder if I should.

winter comes

winter comes to burn the light I brought
searing through the snow of swirling thought.
find the words to turn the sunset back
as the ridges bruise an inky black.

winter comes to glorify the dark
space between the days which took my mark--
scrabbling for the crumbs I scattered, spring
holds the answer tied in tidy strings.

winter comes, and I am unafraid
chilled beneath stained sheets--the bed I made.
rest befitting wealth, this crown of thorns
pierces through the cross that I have borne.

winter came and left behind a dream;
I have not yet slept enough to see.

--
Thoughts about the coming cold, and how I'm struggling with NaNoWriMo this year.

homemade

I had a home made of shadows, but it was too dark;
The home made of music proved too much a lark.
My home made of colour was closer to please,
but my favourite by far was the home made of cheese.

netflix

I sit, legs crossed
against polished wood
listening to the snap of the sails
and lapping tide

a hard-won calm
for I have not yet caught a fish;
this morn has borne naught
but the teasing flicks
of fins on my net.

reverse

The sunset was behind me
as I drove my submarine--
I spun my craft 'round backwards
so I wouldn't miss the scene.

But that just made the sun reverse
and set late in the east;
So I drive now in forward gear
and the sun does as it pleases.

second

A second chance came twice
to lead me from my bed;
I called it evil, trouble, vice,
and bade it leave instead.

It left but soon brought back
an option third, but same.
I took that third time's charm because
it now called me by name.

puddle

I stepped around the shadow, singing
'not yet' to the noise
and walked myself back the way I'd come.
In circuits, always climbing back,
sweating in the sun,
I watched that patch of shade:
a cool reward for work well done.

But by the end, and having mowed
the last of unkempt grass
the shadow of the tree had peeled back--

the sun had moved, and dried to dust
my small puddle of shade.

collage

The tree was tall, and grew thus so
the leaves could find the wind.
They fluttered, flitted--to and fro,
and tossed their blossoms down like snow
that summer couldn't end.

smile

A broken window shows the sun
with cracks along its rim;
I turn my head, to see instead
a ball of fire that wakes the world
with a crooked toothy grin.

a current

a current running through my head,
from ankles down to toes.
it sinks into uncharted spaces
in between my bones.

in recesses of ice and fire
where indulgences once lay--
the seven deadly sins
grow less fearsome by the day.

I come to know the sound of it
when midnight comes to call--
for without this vibration
I would never know at all.

the current running through my head
grows softer with each line;
I tune my poems, verse by verse
before I call them mine.

with another brought together
I am given right to rest
and the current running through my head
sinks down into my breast.

atop the pillar

atop the pillar stands a man,
he wears the mask of death.
he moves as if stirred by a wind
but never takes a breath.

we all stand in his shadow,
but never seem to see
the land that stretches in the sun
where we will soon be free.

the man looks down for each just once
to finally meet their eye
and in that moment, takes a breath
so we may calmly die.

I lie with sheets

I lie with sheets, but ne'er entwined,
upon them like a grave--
the heat that rises from my heart
is far too warm to save.

It catches in the rafters,
with dust and shadowed wood;
I find I can't collect it
as I feel a dreamer should.

I let it drift away instead,
balloon without a string--
My heart grows cold atop these sheets
and I can't do a thing.

there is no sun

there is no sun at all today,
slanted or otherwise--
the harsh white light of tech instead
reflects my tired eyes.

for day has not yet broken
but dawn still comes too soon.
I lose the hours that should be dreams
inside this cluttered room.

my bed knows not to call me,
too timid and afraid--
I find myself unable
to lie in what's unmade.

so hours leave me waiting
for sleep to draw me near,
but I find only silence
dares whisper in my ear.

are these tasks then so fearsome
that sleep will not intrude?
the internet must shine too bright
and sleep dares not be rude.

--
Emily Dickinson is my ever faithful inspiration. I love how her poems often don't make sense, and when people complain about that, I just want to slap them and say, "Well, duh; she didn't write them for you!" I'm a big fan of writing not for perfection or publication, but to express a thought, an image, an idea. I most often write only for myself--I find I get better poetry that way.

sunshine

she formed her arms of crystal,
a spiral collapsing sun
as a glint in the mist of daybreak
split rays beneath her fingernails;
the world through mirrors spun.

--
This makes no sense at all. But I'm tired, and haven't written a poem for nearly a month.

wipe

an overflowing mind,
words that struggle to break free
and arrange themselves in order
until I have no words left
to give.


when my mind is empty
and night has come,
I take these daily goals
and line them up in rows
along the back of my skull
to keep their place
until another day is done.

then sleep pulls this zipper closed,
holds all these obligations in
until I can wake and give them each time,
until then, they have a place to hide.

--
Prompt is. . . yep, sleep deprivation makes me wacko.

monday

we sit at the edge, dangling our toes,
a fine pair
of hope and fear.

both looking to what the future holds,
for one small question
forgotten to avoid an answer,
until the date reaches
a week past no return

and I flip through the pages
to remember what held the balance--
hope and fear.
to see which one jumps, or
pushes the other.

--
I shouldn't write poetry right before going to bed. It gets very loopy. This basically deals with how if I'm looking for an event to come (getting a rejection/acceptance letter, grades being posted), there's this balance of hope and fear, of my optimism saying I'll triumph, and my fear saying not to be so sure. Kinda like that Red Dwarf episode.

haggle

what each minute is worth to me
in the tick of time lost:

buying back these moments
with desperate fingers
that look to the future
and take to make up the past
that I squandered

something to trade for a few extra seconds,
bartering promises
for more time to waste.

--
Yeah, I need to stop watching so much FMA Brotherhood and Babylon 5. Netflix is definitely evil, though part of the problem is I told myself that I could relax and watch tons of tv in May, and now that I'm keeping with this poem a day and also doing a story a day, not so much. So I still relax, I just end up paying for it later.

musical

ample misinterpretation
as I build a world on these lyrics
never meant in their creation,

and you will never know quite why
I click it back
to play again.

--
Prompt is. . . well, I've been listening to a lot of music while doing my crazy story a day challenge, trying to get myself to write. And I keep playing the same songs over and over, because I put stories behind them, and that makes them mean so much more to me. So if I can create such detailed stories to these songs, why can't I just create one for my story today? Gah.

melodrama

there's no call for it,
these feelings of uselessness, worthlessness
and the intent to do things
I never would do
with a clear head.

I should sleep.

--
Prompt is the fact that I've had a crazy long day filled with far too much stimulation on three hours of sleep. Also, commencement ceremonies are a droning awful hell, but it was worth it to hear them call my best friend's name.

cheer

sleep won't come
to one so obsessed
with making ends meet
in an unfinished story.

--
Title is. . . not at all prompt. Prompt is the crazy writing challenge I'm doing that's sapping my want to write poems.

worm

digging through layers of dirt,
I search for the sky--

wanderer with no legs, no destination,
but up
away from the press
of water on skin.

--
Title is prompt. Went with boring interpretation of word--not enough time or motivation to do any further, and much in need of sleep.

ease

an endless sky of yellow-white
takes breaths below the sea,
for as the ship finds bottom rest
I scale another tree.

I see the shore like heron perched
upon the earth's long legs
the waves like drowning men that lurch
their corpses from the dregs

across the water carried, still
until they reach the sand--
an army mortal man can't kill
is left to my command.

a scattered field of bone bleached white
spits glory from its shine;
I reach one hand out, clench it tight,
and call the wreckage mine.

--
Title and the weird picture in my head are prompt.

seethe

I split the sky into you and me
and found peace in that morning.

You stayed up all night with glue and tape
and tried in vain to make us fit,
over and over again.

But the more you try,
the more I pull away, sticky--
angry at the sight of more attempts.
How long can you place me beside you in words
before opening your eyes
to see I'm gone.


and I never was there:
Just a prop of paper-mâché
made to fit your expectations.

Is that why you cling to this
portrayal on paper
while I greet another morning alone,
comfortable
in my half of the sky.

--
Title is semi-prompt.

rain

I cracked dry from the pressure--
drought of hiding
in a barren world where I thought
the way I was
was just for show


and the rain only came back
when I told you no.




--
Title and Vienna Teng's song 'Drought' are prompt.

after

after all this month has brought me
you would think I could summon up
more than four lines
for a final moment before the curtain falls


but after all this month has done to me
you're lucky
to get this.



I am a
jumbled, mangled
sunburned and sleepy
pile of words

used too often;
I need all the ones I have left.



--see you next year.

absent

another day where the time
slips through my fingers,
falls out of holes created
in the pockets of my
genes--something about this
must be hereditary,
for it lingers, invasive,
festering
like a disease.


but really,
it isn't the time that's the problem:
it's my perception.

today I took a test,
finished a final project,
and put myself on the internet
for an assignment--
more than enough to comprise
a day started at 4 pm.

what bothers is the time I stole from myself
yesterday,
the missing hours swiped and spent
avoiding all my goals;

7 hours that should have been mine,
but instead belonged
to no one at all.

--
Title is prompt, and the fact that I stayed up 'til 7 am this morning, then got very little sleep, then did all my Computer Essential homework (almost done with that class!). And I have to get up at 6 tomorrow, and then I'm volunteering at a Japan Festival all day tomorrow. Ugh. Not looking forward to it.

waiting

I expected fanfare
fireworks,
sunsets and springtime.

I waited all fall, all winter
knowing it would come.


I never expected
to just stumble across it

lying in the dirt
like a crumpled candy wrapper.


--
Title and this picture are prompt. Short because it's been a busy day, and I'm dead tired.

because

just because it floats on air
is no reason
to let it float away


we might as well fill our water balloons
with witches.




--
Title and all the astronomy studying I've been doing are prompts. Really, people, it's hard to get that helium back out of the atmosphere. Maybe you could give it a little respect? It's only been around since the beginning of the universe. :)

climb

a place to hold on,
to watch, wait,
and wonder
for stars make shaky handgrips
as the night becomes the day,

and shadow surrenders
its courtyard eclipse
to let water play
in the sparkles of sun--
and leave afternoon plans,
for the moment,
undone

as the bustle fades to benches
and places to rest
in the lazy summer light,
and buzzing conversation
slips a breeze
through the circuit of these stones.

for these private public places,
sitting with no one to see
but tall terraced buildings
with mirrorless eyes
and a distracted sun
pacing slowly through the sky,


none but this handle to hold onto
and let the hours pass,
to watch the ways of a weary world
when it feels itself unwatched.

--
Title and this picture are prompt.

surrounded (bonus poem)

surrounded by the pitter patter
of rain and rustling grass
as summer storm
binds loose leaves into books:

the memories come,
swirling a maze of whispers--
midnight and full dawn.
peeling back the sky
to see what lies beyond


and if these words together can form
the time we all dreamed of,
chasing a thought through four minds
that find each note without question,
as the tone of the air
leads fingers and throat to where
they will best strike the world.

--
Why do I write the most poems on days when I'm clearly incapable of cohesive thought? I feel like I should be inspired, but I'm not. Oh well; maybe more will come of sleeping on it.

alone enough (bonus poem)

alone enough to find the words
that fell in the cracks as it rained,
things like rust and dust--
rhymes I never would conceive
to end my lines,
jumble into a steady syllabic mess.

though there's a beat to the patter,
even as it slips out of making sense.
a rubble of letters turned upright
into tangled languages,
weaving enough ideas to wear
backwards
like eyes on the nape of your neck.

--
Yeah, I started this, and didn't really finish it. Definitely got lost in that second stanza; I don't like where it went.

company

when I can't conceive one more marriage of notes,
they're already tossing the bouquet.
then turning 'round
to march down the aisle
in another dapple ensemble,
sweeping a train
of more instruments than I can name
over lyrics tossed
like petals from the rose.

where I can't even manage a paragraph
without falling irrevocably
into bad metaphor,
lost again in what one idea
can make of another,

when rather than blending,
I should toss them, let them
bounce
crash and shatter paint flecks
that I can fit together,


a puzzle that at least
has a picture of its ending--
more so than a paper
with a set number of lines
that I can only fumble to fill.

--
Title is somewhat prompt; bigger prompt is this. I've been watching the live feed all day, and it's been amazing--unlike my poetry today.

possess

an innocence carefully crafted
in gentle falls of white,
as toes crossed on hardwood gently tap
and wait for the dark
to set her alight

like a lamp, set aside and forgotten,
when the moment of need has passed,
for only in the grips of a night without stars
do we remember
how she shines.


and knees unused to prayer
find any place to fall,
and lips move silent desperation
in a stirring of the air
through the hall too bright with setting sun.

--
Title and this picture are prompt.

call

across the space of sunlit curtains
comes the sound of pages turning,
and the summer buzzing silence
enhanced by concentration;

against a background of afternoon
a story unfolds,
spreading to every nook and corner
of the place her mind has found
to let these words flow
in a stream without breath--
patient syllables intoned
in the echoes of architecture
no cathedral could claim.


intimate, personal sound
of a voice given no lips,
no language of breath--
merely the resonance of a thought;
a calm moment forming harmony
with sun
and hearing answer from the only name
she ever gave her dreams.

--
Title and this picture are prompt.

baby

he burst from the earth,
a bundle of limbs and pounding heart
exploding outward.

he formed a shape in the dark,
then crawled, slowly,
through thin ice and deep mud.


until the sun melted the white
into reflection of sky
and he had a reason to look up

past the weeds
and cattails, the murk
and mother dirt

and for the first time,
in the wake of that welcoming expanse,
he had a reason to dream of flight.

--
Title is prompt in that it brought me to this picture and told me how to interpret it.

bad

I was always too good
at mincing words--spreading sympathy
like jelly on bread.
so when your desert heart
spun stories of me
I was far too polite to dispute.

I left a promise
to keep you looking to the sky,
far from where I crept away in the night.
knowing in my own guilty heart
how you would count the days
until the rain brought the lie,
and the truth.

--
Title prompt led me to this picture, the true inspiration for the poem.

hang

iron fence, open gate
seems enough barrier to suggest
something special is kept within,
but whether that be the bones--
dug up by roots, dangling
precariously in the ground--
or the tree itself
has yet to be decided

for the years seem to take these bodies
(certainly the souls)
and smooth their names from stone,
while all that centuries give to this tree
is more time to grow.

as the sun sets and shows
just how dramatic a shade it can cast,
I am left to wonder
if the years will find this gate still open,
or show nothing
as metal is warped and wound by fleshy trunk,
swallowed
just as all the starry nights
these branches have seen;
all the clouds this crown has cupped.

--
Prompt is title in that it inspired one image, and helped me found the picture which this actually ended up being about.

worry

lowering my mouth and hoping once again
the flow still trickles by, enough to sip;
my own personal Ganges,
devotion and destruction, poison
I let murk the water
instead of filtering for gold.

because I know it will come--
I've reached that point by sheer practice
where these words come pre-assembled,
shaped to fit this space,
and some days all I have to do
is create a funnel of fingers
and let gravity do the work.

but I am still
all too used to the feel of rusty faucets,
trembling, but refusing to pour.
so I fear these words, this page,
every day.

worry for
those words most relied upon by bad metaphor.


because it always worked in the past
to carry all my smashed eggs in the same basket--
less to sift through,
as the majority rots through the weave.
but I would find myself inevitably hungry
and left with nothing
but broken shells.

--
Title is prompt. I was staring at this picture while writing it, but it really doesn't have anything to do with the poem. It's just an amazing picture.

kiss

it was nothing more than a rainy day
which brought these branches to the ground,
cacophony of falling water splits bark,
plucks blossoms
before they bloom.

she knew all this,
from her vantage under the bridge,
expecting the water to rise.

but instead she found a world mesmerized
by its own chaos--
a river from the sky pouring
just steadily enough
to leave no room for interpretation:
this was the end,
with nothing to cling to

but she remained ankle-deep in the mud,
bare calves flushed grey with rising chill.
it was the progression that most pleased her,
as the tingling crawled up her skin
like cool fingers leaving numbness
in their wake,

as they took from her
all that she was and freely gave,
and left her with nothing but
the taste of indifference on her lips.

for this flow would sweep past
even without her to be carried by it.

--
Title and the rainy day by the creek are prompts. Make that two not poetry days.

traffic

fingers blurred with spilling ink
from cuts straight to the spine,
traveling like light and shadow
along the watermarked binding;
lines that follow curve of page

with the scent of well-worn words
and all that remains
of the dreams of centuries past--
caught in an endless flow of turns
as the signs designate
a place to slow down;
a singular tree to the side
grabs the eye,
standing out like a neon sign

a comfortable weight in your hand
as you realize you stand
with all the knowledge in the world
and have no concept of it--
a paradox you set to fade
with every turn of the page.

--
Title is . . . hmm. Well, a prompt for awful metaphors, if nothing else, combined with this picture. It was most definitely not a poetry day.

drive

four times the hour fell past her
as she crouched behind the counter
regarding the stain on the tile,
no longer spreading.

as each chime hit she blinked
once
but never found the clarity she'd shattered
with one desperate blow.

it was the fifth hour,
as the dawn crept slowly across the back lawn
like a barefoot child with no concept
of what she'd done,

she released what she held clenched in her hand,
heard it clatter,
and soothed the grooves she'd worn in her palm
by picking up the phone.

--
Title and this picture are prompt.

bed

spilling cool clarity to the remnants of dreams,
she springs--
pausing only to decide if she's risen,
for this feels more like sky
than bare mattress on skin,
as what has no place as rain
finds her eyes
and sinks within.


--
Title is prompt which led me to this amazing picture.

boss

a splash of red shouts authority
to the timid pastel sighs of spring.
as branches open slowly to the sun
he is gone--a flash of wings in motion
and a call that shivers from crown to roots.

he rises as a shape against the sky
to break apart the florid silhouettes;
feet caught in bark, he hangs sipping freedom,
knowing power comes of more
than just the color spilling from his brow:
the keen senses that overtake the afternoon monotony--
no lazy warmth to be found in the green
as each moment is spent in competition with
the rest of the world
that wakes from long winter with the want
to fly again.

--
Title is semi-prompt, in that it made me look for something assertive to pair it with. I chose this picture.

cage

legs caught in running swish together,
scissorblades sweeping the long grass aside
as the girl laughs bubbles of glee to the sky,
caught with a balloon
tied to her wrist
and helium dreams a mile wide.

but as the girl grew older, she learned of the world
and how people think dreams
should keep to themselves:
be wrapped up in boxes
kept under your bed,
but dreams, like birds, do better when fed,
and always yearn to fly,
even when caged.


so she still stomps in puddles,
shrieking with the storm,
and climbs trees to be the first to feel the rain.
and as the years pass,
only one thing has changed:
she now keeps those helium dreams in her pockets,
and fears all the more being carried away.

--
Title is prompt. That, and today is my 22nd birthday, and I spent a good deal of it playing in the rain like a kid.

science

with pinky extended, I raise a toast
to the edges of the sun,
and swirl liquid mercury
like the birth of a star
across my tongue.


--
Title is prompt. Short one today.

in as many days (bonus poem)

in as many days as it takes you
to count each digit,
I will have met that goal.

--
I will be 22 in 2 days.

boat

a leaf carried on ripples
traces basin rim,
as nothing more than fate
prevents meeting the drain;
for however ornate
these patches of rust
the rain will hold her place,
until the water flows no more
from the lips of this cup.


a castle around my moat--
all stone and filigree,
to keep the dreams from dying
in the scorch of summer sun.
though the still water grows hotter,
I am cooled by the tides
as water rushes back to meet the moon.

but lacking a reflection,
I am left to watch the stars
through fingers filtering light--
I can see each constellation
in the freckles on my arms,
but as the midnight rain grows colder,
even these will fade.

and the rumbling clouds above will swirl
and turn a different shade;
with the moon as water's witness
and the sky as castle stone,
I will raise the clear-sky drawbridge
and drink in this night
alone.

--
Title is semi-prompt; mostly this was a free-write stream of consciousness thing. Not feeling particularly poetic today.

missing (bonus poem)

unsteady footfalls dragged these thoughts
from the morning,
leaving her to stumble in the dawn--
for lines of shadow are set apart
only
by streaks of dripping sun,
pooling beneath the faded wallpaper
with almost enough substance
to hold
in an outstretched hand;
cupping warmth in a desperate attempt
to breathe again.


--
Title is prompt. And then there's these poems: nonsensical images that fall into my head and I use the same words over and over again to describe.

empty

casual wilt gives petals to wind
as spring is come and gone in one
snap of frost; flash of snow
melting green from trees
and weaving fragile new sprouts together
in a desperate bid for warmth.

I sit in the aftermath
sipping the warming air, slowly
between my teeth--
trying to taste that elusive sweetness
of blossoms on the breeze.


I slept last night to the empty call
of winter sunset, spread across my lawn,
and expected to wake to the same.
but morning came with a clamor,
senses filled with the boisterous calm
of nature's strength--persevering growth,
as once showy garlands
find their footing again,
and spread brazen arms to the sun.

--
For whatever reason, there was no instapoem prompt for today, so this title prompt fit as well as anything. I think I've fallen back into my 'easy' nature description poems again--I want to try and branch out into different forms, because I feel like I'm just using the same tired imagery over and over again, and no longer telling stories.

my greatest wish (bonus poem)

my greatest wish comes of too much dreaming
of a place where no one knows my name,
where I am only as much
as I ever wanted to be--
a silent watcher from the attic window,
alone
but for my words.

it was illusion (bonus poem)

it was illusion that I let show
as a sparkle in my eye,
because there was nothing I wanted more
than to try and make this
work

but that's just what it became:
a struggle, a pain, an annoyance;
a weight dragging me down,
into what could be the perfect future,
but not for me

and suddenly words didn't work anymore
and I wasn't myself without them.


there's nothing I'd like more
than for it to have been true
otherwise
I never would have done that
to you.


but I am not her.
and I never was.
And there's nothing I want more now
than my certain slanted sun, my secret garden,
a glass coffin to rot in, sleeping
until the world has forgotten
what we very briefly dreamed of.


but my words do not work
when said from lips I wish were smiling,
and I am a coward; so these are my words.
I'm sorry,

but no.

grave

arranged in a loose spiral,
the woodland creeps across the stone--
slow steps of century allow roots
to break words, to make carvings
of their own in the vestiges of life

ethereal things,
carried by the wind like spirits
knowing their place in fog,
as seeds peel back the green
and steal the grey,

and each fall leaves more gentle rot
on the encroaching forest floor,
patterns drawn in wind and time
across the fading courtyard,
paths which no longer know human steps
to disturb the ground
with remembrance.

--
Title is prompt.

start

festering slowly away,
creeping just beneath
the stretched restraints of your skin

and no matter the antiseptic prayers you spread
in layers beneath
this clean white cloth,
it has already reached the blood.


blessed infection streaks fire through your veins
as you claw to let it free,
and the animal seeks to rise up inside,
to capture your spirit
and wear it as armor
to keep you from killing it
and yourself

but perhaps it mistakes the level
of your want to live,
for the water has always been
nipping at your chin
and it would be only too easy
to simply slip in.

all that would be needed is a weight
about the shape and size
of the plague that changes
the glint of your eyes
to a steady, flaming
red.

--
Title is prompt, along with this random wiki article, specifically the second to last sentence of the film summary.

thursday (bonus poem)

here in body,
not in mind;
sleeping in the car.




--
Text I sent which sounded almost like a haiku. I'm counting it as such.

shy

water brought an island something to believe in,
more than just a man caught by the winds,
this captured life glorified, described
by the stories
of the pagoda.


as the budding branches above me swirl
and make an ocean of air,
I wonder if the wind-crashing waves of sound
could propel my own dreams higher;
take flight
matching pace with the calls of the gulls
no longer out of place.

as the sky threatens to drown these hopes,
shattering storm into rain,
I wait for it to carry me away.
for the place my life is traveling to
seems to be the wrong destiny--
let ocean currents break these sails
and take me to open sea,

bring me to a place I can live
without my history--
anonymity; and with my death
create legend
from the quiet storm-tossed traveler.


winds of chance once brought man to the stars;
perhaps the spring rain
could do the same for me.


--
Title is prompt, as is this wiki article and the awesome storm that came up as I sat in the car today, tossing the branches in the tree above me so much that they really did sound like ocean waves.

poke

a place for healing hands to dig
the dirt of the human soul,
to find what grows of darkness;
carving recesses for fragile roots
with hands made strong by tradition
and hope

she wields nothing but a chonta wand
and a calm, unbreaking spirit,
but draws from all the things
that come of believing
in something more than a simple reality,
divesting power from spirits
who seek to plague the weakness of men.


time-honored fingers to silence fluttering lids
and bring peace to that which can only be cured
by faith; gaudy flash
of feathers, as healer comes
like hummingbird to fragrant flowers.
prodding the seed of sickness
and drawing it out as sacred duty,
sweet on the tongue.


--
Title is somewhat prompt; mostly prompted by this wiki page.

match

a darkened tunnel gives illumination
to lines in the sand,
fingers that draw with the striking of day;
a palette made of pointing at falling stars.

images that light me like sunfire, dragged across stone;
finding every crack
with the raw skin of my back--
an uncomfortable sensation
between my shoulder-blades,
of being watched for things accomplished
in past lives.


these shining sins draw a fetching border
for the lies I weave today
with cast away stone and towers
of blessed loneliness,
a place for the sky to describe these destinies.

one last flick of a broken wrist
cupping glory to my breast;
shaded lines of veins
trace my softly fading eyes--
no longer befitting of a soul.


--
Title and this picture are prompt.

three

words embossed with captured sound,
mouth pursing murmurs to press to the page
as the swirl of thought creates a moment
lit like fireflies and summer breath.


each gentle curve of soft-lit serif
mimics the limbs caught in motion;
fingers wrapped decorously in ink
spend a languid eternity
trapped in a phrase

as her lips flutter stories to the captured wind--
gossamer emotions and letters
stacked like bricks,
with her mortar-twitching fingertips
to build a life
and draw an end to the dream.


with both eyes open,
clasping the last memory of sun:
three butter-yellow pages
crinkled by time, worn
as a weight around her neck.


---
Title is a bare prompt--it worked more to draw my eye to this picture, and the three pages she holds in her hands.

lacking a vase (bonus poem)

lacking a vase, I put them in a peanut jar.

as one who used to live with clay under my fingernails,
this fact was somewhat bemusing,
and slightly depressing--these deserve a better fate,
but the clear plastic lets me better see
the lovely magenta
that the stems have turned the water
(and my hands)

I always said I would dye my hair that colour
when a chemistry concoction mixed up like that.
it was a crazy thing to say, but so natural,
commonplace
the three times I actually did.

distractions.



This doesn't change anything.
I can't do this anymore.

the suffocation of trying so hard to change myself
does nothing but hurt
and make me blame you for that pain.
And no amount of wishing
has ever given me wings; why should I have expected it to work
    this time.

        Because I wanted it more?


but then again,
this arrangement of spring reminds me
that I've been painting you the wrong colour in my mind.

you are more like these bright flowers,
but caught in carefully molded clay;
unfired, still working out your form,
and waiting for someone to see through, to turn your sides
clear plastic and reveal your hidden heart.

because as much as it kills me,
all of this has been dizzy perfection
meant for some lucky girl
who isn't me.




    I think I liked pretending too much.
for both of our sakes.

puppet

birdsong echoes across out-of-place snow,
sparrow waking cold to the chill of bowed limbs
held tight to ground
with arch of frozen white, caught mid-fall
and full winter

captured branches waiting
for tenuous breaths of morning
to warm what the night made of green,
to scissor-melt these fragile strings
and weave a net of soft water sound
to cast into the clouds,
bringing back the steady patter of spring.


healing rain to mend broken bark--
shatter snap of freezing melt,
where the drips hang frozen in the space of yesterday,
reflecting where spring had found her perch
only briefly;

moments of heat and green glossed over
by the temperament of a single sparkling storm,
giving dawn something spectacular to break across
for perhaps the last time
this season.


--
Title is prompt, as is the storm that brought over eight inches of snow when just two days ago I was getting sunburned in the 70 degree heat. The three am backyard was like something out of faerie: bright enough to read by, pure white sky and muffled silence, the branches large and heavy with white, and the tickling of feathery snow falling gently on my face.

spider

legs that hold lazy-day dreams aloft,
cupping water-lined belly
against shivers of chill waves
that crash only twice a day
but bring with them an end to a hidden place,
rushing into the gaps left of silence;
a calm flirting with disaster.

we draw our footprint legacy in the lull
and watch for the sun to splash the horizon,
sink beneath the waves
and send one last thrill
to the friends of danger


with far more legs than eight,
this never curled spider
brings asylum to beach--
sandy retreat for shoreline dreams.


--
Title is prompt, coupled with this picture.

famous

taking in metered sips of breath
and letting history roll across my tongue;

it's far less romantic to do the math
when I can dream my own chances
and picture parted lips;
a thousand voices whispering
of the ages I have taken in.


a simple explanation
for why each breath that trickles down my throat
erupts in a cacophony of whispers
as it reaches my blood--
for how many others did this breath let breathe?
stirring mind, gasping throat,
clenched teeth against raw lungs

or a simple, final exhale,
given to sleep.

how many gasps of wonder, shouts of anger,
before this reached my dreaming heart?
before I used and rejected and pulled in another
just as precious
and disposable
breath of inspiration.


--
Title is prompt, tied in with something my Astronomy teacher said today: that statistically each breath we breathe in is composed of the same recycled molecules which have been in the lungs of everyone else throughout history.