just

to burn like this
at a self-driven stake,
in the filtered light
of raindrops on the windshield

to gasp for breath,
struggle to remain existent
between the lines, tripping
though I was the one to draw them.

and I can't for the space between my bones
remember why;

it's just
always been this way.




--
Title is prompt. I'm trying new meds, and I think weaning off the old ones is wreaking havoc on my moods. Hormones don't help either.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.