sore

lying in the dew-laden grass
for at least the scope of a season:
summer enriches understanding
the night that sparkles through the gaps
of this breathing green canopy;

along with the things that seek to use me
to reach those heights--
just as I let them eat me, piece by piece
so at least some lesser parts of me
will one day scrape
across that glassy vista

when summer ends, I rise again
and pull the saplings from my skin,
whole except for breathing in
and just the slightest bit sore.

--
Title is prompt. Weirditudinal.

hoot

what wakes the night within me?
makes blood turn to electricity,
but leaves me anything but static:
careening from thought to action,
where even the space of a blink is too long
left in dark; numbing silence pounds,
stabs sharp
and leaves me lying wide awake,
too lost in thoughts and worried aches
to dare a restful night.

--
Title is prompt. That, and being an often uncomfortable night owl.

flag

pounding breath, painful
is all that truly remains of you--
these photographs and poems only serve to
make a pretty border around your life
which warps the truth of things

I don't speak, don't breathe, at the service
for if I do, I find myself panting,
overcome with the memory of running until my muscles burned
and my bare feet felt close to breaking
knowing you were faster, legs longer
but the only thing you'd left me
was to try

and in the end, it was all I needed;
legs longer, limbs stronger
only made you fall that much harder
one misstep that cost your life
and with a ragged breath
returned mine.

--
Title is prompt. This went a kind of creepy direction I hadn't exactly intended. Maybe my NaPoWriMo this year will follow that same path. If so, that's fine; I like creepy. :)

future

words written, held
especially in my hands
as more than just the universe
pours forth
without a reservoir of any consistency

but when the sun strikes the water
just right,
enough to melt this cultured ice,
and the shooting stars above
can bring the night reflection
and break this lonely mirror glass--
a shuddering wave,
the turning page,
brings this lifeblood back to my skin
enough to sink, to drown
or simply
dive in.

--
I drew a picture for this one as well. It was a fun concept I'd like to revisit with more skill, if I ever get that skill, since I so rarely practice.

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:

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.

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.

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.