living still

pressed into the moss,
I am living, living still
breathing water green and stagnant--
a repair for what I've lost.

there are plenty enough holes
for the picture of this scene
to invade my very core,
climb inside and push away
all the things that once bought moments
in exchange for nothing less
than a moment ever after,
set as prop against the dream

but I am living, living still
decomposing by half-measures
as obscene amounts of nature
take the best of me away

--
Prompt was a lovely picture of moss and waterfalls. I then made it creepy, as I'm apt to do.

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.

across

a slant falls perpendicular
to the earth,
slipping shadow beneath dusky leaves of ivy--
hidden places gather secrets
silky as cobwebs,
though woven with much more care.


night breaks the silence,
as these hidden places open to the stars
and release a dewy trickle of whispers,
of all the deeds thought buried in this soil,
all the tragedies this garden remembers
without comprehension--
a repetition innocent as the first buds of spring
pushing, pressing on the flagstones;
as nothing more than a reflection
of the way things are
by moonlight.


--
Title is prompt. My brain interpreted it as both across and a cross, so I tried to pull aspects of both into the poem. Turned out odd.

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. :)

curled into the wall

curled into the wall,
a moment of complete distraction--
she watched the window break;
a shatter spread across the floor
met the dark stain of her calves,
as footfalls play
connect-the-dots
for the official story.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.