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.

inventory

I removed my heart from my chest,
finding preference instead
for a knapsack
that I like to forget in the hall

freed of such baggage
as bought by the need to live,
my evening walks are far more relaxing


though it's the very devil
to clean the blood
from underneath my nails.



--
I dunno; don't ask me.

matriarch

dust
spat to the sky with heavy breaths
to linger, gather
draw forth rain
that tastes of our mother's mouth:
the life from which we came.


--
Title is prompt.

peek

mere gossamer for modesty--
sliding limbs grow stiff, soft
yielding
and the buzz of your day to day life is forgotten
until, as she quivers, flushed in the dark
the red velvet curtain
abruptly slides closed

over the bill slot
a green light flashes,
enticing you to match it,

but the scramble to return to fantasy,
finds your pockets empty.


--
Title is prompt. Hmm. Smutty. :)

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.

torn from a glance

 stalking calendar myths,
may to december--
 the night sky spills like
a horseshoe losing its luck,
leaving a trail of candescent garbage
spread across the bowing wheat;

enough to follow,
just enough to find
until the words come like they were supposed to
the first time


as summer flips the last few rays of sun
like a butter-gold coin,
to decide each day whether to make the moment
last

until what came of late winter
is woven back
into the shirt that clings to bone too much (more)
every year

and my wayside wonder bites her thumb
before holding it to the sky,
courting the indecision
we threw away,
neglected in the fumble to make lips mean more
than spitting poetry into the breeze.

--
Word prompts: cotton, horseshoe, predator, kingdom

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.