Author: PoeticAF

abandon

/ PoeticAF / 2 Comments 
I’m trying to unlearn the inebriation of mindchatter
I receive moment by moment abandoning its safekeeping to the void
to forget to disparage its vociferous call to conformity
shaped by worldly cold, dripping, dropped

by all my nascent backstabbing, I am unlearning
to rush ahead into the urbane
to reject, to regurgitate, to disabsorb myself of self-criticism
Let this be where I forbid blame

to forget my own need for identification, to return to each gentle moment
here & not with questioning I observe without attachment
				present & revealed

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo is to:

Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite. 

I chose Rachel McKibben’s poem salvage to base my poem off of. You can read it here.

Image created by plugging the first 2 stanzas of my poem into an AI image generator..

The Sentinel of the Bois-D’arc Grove

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The sentinel of the bois-D’arc grove
silently sailing
through the cathedral of winding
branches
tempting us
shhh, listen
come closer
enchanting us from across the distance
he perches hidden above

Dripping golden tendril trees
seductively glisten
as fingers of light drawing
limbs
looking up
mmm, reach
resurface
drawing us from the watery deep
dark clouds prophesy from a distance


A long, lofty teapot grave
quickly teeming
where the deciduous rotting
offshoots
decay
decomposing us
aaaah, release
return
steeping our very substance
torrents of rain sink into the dry earth


The flicker of light up ahead
luminously darts
while the dusky paling
boughs
becon
exhorting us
oh, follow
seek
remembering the pulse
that held my great, great grandmother in the womb.

Response to Day 2 of NaPoWriMo 2023

Woven in patterns

/ PoeticAF / 3 Comments

Oh, that book
It’s been tucked on a shelf, I tried to forget where
But I know it

Damn, it looks so sweet, young, innocent
Just a girl etched in relief on its cover
Against a background of contrasting expectations

I run my fingers over it and feel the fibers
Woven in patterns
I see the worn binding that still tries
to hold the pages shut

For so many years I refused to open it
But deep stories and histories untold don’t fade
Unopened books can only wear on the outside

So I have read it more of late
Even recounted some chapters in careful utterances
But history cannot be atoned simply in the retelling

And here I find myself stepping in pattern
You across from me
Your voice and mine
And it’s so hard to meet your eyes
Why does simply moving and speaking on this part of the journey
Slay me so wide open?

The little girl on the cover looks at me
Her painted eyes know my discomfort
She doesn’t want to perform what she is not ready for
She doesn’t want to be compelled or pushed
But she can’t speak up
Against the background of contrasting expectations

We step again, our feet woven in patterns
I look at you
Bells on my ankles echo my steps
My voice is a bit quiet, I know
But I’m still singing
Go easy on me
My eyes are painted on the cover

Divestment and withholding

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It’s sometimes like divesting
myself of another
of you
I no longer care to be concerned
about your coming and going

this is natural? it happens with
lanky children who
grow up and move
their own boulders of sand
and we let them

But here it’s different
there is a deep, intimate knowing
distinct from that of parents
and children

Your signature is requested by
such & such a date, if unanswered
then by default our union is
legally unbound.

But our history; our family tree
remains. It courses in our children’s veins.
This investment remains
with
holding
on



This chapter is without

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I could measure my time in chapters of days with you
and days without
the story started long ago

this chapter is without
I know not its number
but it must have a 2 in it
it starts as I’m driving home after dropping you off


I can’t remember the song on the radio but it made me cry
Then there’s a week
(maybe 2)
when I cry often
and regain my
equilibrium
I sleep deeply
nap daily
I hold back because it all feels too much
my neck hurts to turn
backwards glancing at all that
beautiful amazing cloud-filled water
and my legs yell at me
from my right knee joint as if afraid
to walk forward


I declare
what I need to do
but don’t do it
Oh but wait
I remember now
now I look back and see
the way I walked anyway
why do I feel guilty for what I did and what I didn’t do at the same time?
for what I do and do not
for my voice and my silence equally
for who I am called to be
it is useless and profits me nothing


Then after stretching my arms
up
out
and pulling myself around
and down
and inside
I realize that I no longer need that guilt
I breathe in deeply
and my heels reach for the earth
one step at a time