#7 Digging up Luggage

This went all kinds of wrong. For hours. It's a "Golden Shovel" form - the end of each line together becomes an Easter egg of a completely different poem. This afternoon it wanted to be iambic pentameter, and it was going fine until it broke me.

I gave up and did this version in free verse (because sleep has been all too absent anyway this week already). Bonus points for getting the stanza and poet that inspired it before the end:

~~~

This is the way of all things that we do
This is the mask of those we do not
That final touch that lets you go
Hurts. However slow, it's never gentle.

Here is the darkness I descend into
A clammy veil over all that
Comforts or delights - all that's good
I'm in that suffocating noonday midnight.

I know this feeling well of old
Experience enough for twice my age
"Call yourself a poet?! You should
Have written of that cold burn
By now" - the absence of your hand.

Without its shape I ape the brave,
Find other monsters to run at
Shout louder when you come close.

(She says: "What are you afraid of?"
"Guilt: that maybe if I saw her today
She'd be just a stranger from another age.")

I still have the capacity for rage
A flame to cup against
The cold and dark - a spark - the
Warmth that still leaks from embers dying.

And never mind what I'm guilty of -
I'll alchemise pain; from your unchanging love, mother,
I've made a raging light.

#6 What Next?

#5 revolutions

i am every truth i ever heard
words blurring into
birds flight
enlightened sky
nights delight

i am every word that ever found me
deeds hurling into
heads mending
ends meeting
in the light

i am every truth that ever left me
weft heading into
warp drives
a pilots night
heads might just

i am every maybe that unmade
frayed weaving as the
lights leaving
birds leading
me to night

i am every night that words made true

#4 Smoke Without Fire

Pulses quicken, sirens whine and blare
The sky is close, a touch is all it takes
Breath seems precious, nothing I can share
Pulses quicken, sirens whine and blare
Gasp for the memory of freer air
Unfreighted by humanity’s mistakes
Pulses quicken, sirens whine and blare
The sky is close, a touch is all it takes



I'm back to work after a couple of days off sick. The polluted air is thick here, waiting for wind and rain...

Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.

#3 Morning Calmer

It starts with a chitter,
A skitter of tiny nails,
A wave of that bog-brush
They're so proud of.

They're flirting with vision,
Skirting past eyelines,
The tree-line shaking
As they wake to the world.

Then BANG! a scattershot of nuts
As they thump,
Bump the tits from the table,
The sable-hearted bastards.

I crouch, seething,
Breathing huffs of discontent
Against this
Baffling barrier.

"Gently…" he says,
Lifting my wrath away
From coffee cups, dumping me
Among the laundry.

My lip curls and I hiss defiance,
Take stance, then slink away
To wash my face,
Grace personified in black and white.

Out of sight, he shrieks,
And I race back, heart thumping,
Thundering to the rescue,
Ready for anything.

He dangles my morning gift
In a pincered grip,
Grimacing with pleasure
As I purr against him.

Words of love
Pour from his lips
As I slip between his feet,
Leap to watch my foe.

You're going down, my boys,
The next time I'm let out.

This came from the Bibliomancy prompt from the NaPoWriMo site. Mine was the following:

Pretend you have instant karma instead of instant coffee. There’s a war outside between squirrels

*

from “Another Roadside Distraction” by Kelli Russell Agodon

http://bibliomancyoracle.tumblr.com/

http://bibliomancyoracle.tumblr.com/post/22828685311/pretend-you-have-instant-karma-instead-of-instant


Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.

#2 Closing Time

The The lighting here perfectly complements
My three-day migraine -
Sour and relentless -
Your hand stutters against your thigh
Like the strip in Aisle Six
That just won't die.

And I am tired
The kind where you can't remember
Otherwise,
Winding ourselves in grasshopper
Elastic knots
Cup it in your hands
And feel it jump.

We're stumbling slightly,
Steering around families,
Perambulating around the elderly,
Looking for celery because
You read that thing today,
That thing about how
It's now seven fruit and veg,
Apparently.

And I'm edging along the ledge
Of your temper,
Hedging my bets,
Letting everything slide deep -
The snide remarks,
The silences,
The frowning at the order
In which I take the aisles.

I'm gliding in the  ice waters,
Caught, shaking, as you
Turn corners,
By ambush images,
Five-dimensional,
Of throat-tearing screams,
Here in the depths of Aisle Thirteen,
Or the careening crash
Of the trolley ending its
Arcing bid for freedom
In the shock of pickle jars,
And mustard,
And eight types of olive oil.

Or, more likely,
But still grazingly far,
The deafeningly quiet,
Breath-bound tread
Of me, unencumbered,
Lumbering over linoleum
And tarmac,
And concrete,
And all the silent streets beyond.

In the final approach
You nudge me, reunited,
Point.
I frown-smile, shake my head,
Keep pushing on to milk
"But…"
"No, thank you, not tonight."

Checkout-bound,
We lock eyes,
And I surmise
Your glare's about me
Daring not to buy for you
Vicariously,
Victory of nothingness
Sullied in every breath
Because you still ache,
Sin in everything but deed,
Undone daily by your
Greed for oblivion.

And I…
Can only carry everything
And drive us home.

#1 Cage Aux Folles

Look at me!
Free to flap my wings
And chatter,
Map out my plot
In sensuous tread,
Admire my bob-tail colours,
The graceful wire
Of my horizon.

My song was made for flocking
No mockingbird, I chirp,
Flirt with my admirers,
Gulp down the praise
Thrown in handfuls,
Swing in short arcs,
Giddy with ambition.

Once, a small hand
Managed the insinuation of bars
Stroked my neck,
Begging for a dab of
Glamour by association.
I closed my eyes,
Leaned into a snatched caress
Blessed the owner with extra trills
That echoed long beyond departure.

They fade now -
Admirers and colours -
One drawn to the next songsmith,
The other to the too-small space
Beneath my feet.
I strain my gaze
To hills that were only ever vistas,
Heave shortened breaths,
And listen for the bell.

 

Inspired by a visit to The Birdcage, Norwich - image is a LuLu Guinness Birdcage Umbrella (thanks, Google).

Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.