He spoke of his friend Laughing at the comedy Love and joy graveside I see myself now My intentions unfulfilled I can only laugh Through the screen I smile His system in need of breath I should have said breathe Watching with my child Funny silly videos So disconcerting The sounds from the phone Cacophony of sweetness Tingling my ears I think about a bath flowing hot soothing mmm,aahh coaxing out my ache
The Ritual of Buoyancy
The ritual of buoyancy Stopped cold for sake of safer sounds Perhaps when in our infancy The ritual of buoyancy Composes certain symphonies The new world harmonies abound The ritual of buoyancy Stopped cold for sake of safer sounds
abandon
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.
The Sentinel of the Bois-D’arc Grove
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
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
it goes
Day One
Small Burdens 