pretty things

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Jul 5

7.5.13

Your face is unfamiliar, you are not.
You rescued me from the explosion,
cavalier, confident in your strength;
let me win ages later
just as triumphant

I once saw you drink yourself lonely
under a shadow of
never had and couldn’t see.
I was there.
The breath on your neck
whispers of admiration in your dark,
that was me.
You were so old back then.

I lost you somewhere between
seventy and seventy,
hidden between so many doors;
saw you in strangers I should have
never known and believed
I’d dreamed you up
after all this time.

I may still have.

May 9

(NP) Mirror, Mirror

Let me walk.
On melting tar or until my feet freeze,
I don’t care.
Let me walk.
I’d never take an elevator again.

Better yet, let me dance.
I’ll look like an idiot, arms flailing,
feet tapping to a beat
even the song hadn’t discovered yet.
I don’t care.
Let me dance.
I’d hop around constantly because I could.

If I can’t have those things,
let me have a talent for
forgiveness and patience,
fill me with
purpose and fight and love.
Let me learn the uselessness of control
and the benefits of vulnerability.

If I am not even capable of that,
let me teach it to someone who needs it
before my mind consumes itself.

Let me be useful if not inspired.



May 9

I find humans interesting but I have
trouble understanding them.
I think, however,
I will understand and trust you.

- Max from Mary and Max

NP: The Font of Eureka

Ideas rush in rivers through my sleep,

winding, wrapping themselves around

drowning all in their wake.  The itch

to begin claws through my lack of

                        imPulse

control.

The Golden Fleece at my fingertips,

the moon just            out                  of                                 reach,

births sweet agony and fosters it to

obsession obsession obsession.

Diligent fingers, hands, feet

where mind and heart has already left,

abdicating their daily kingship to rule the

abyss and dance en pointe along the precipice

willing hoping waiting

for the wherewithal to

                                                  f

                                                   a

                                                     l

                                              knowledge

Feb 4

NP The Event

“There’s nothing to do but laugh,” she said.  Her voice was sterile like the room holding us. 

She smirked and cried instead.

“Trust.”  She rocked her head, lamenting the word.  “I should have listened to myself.”

I agreed but wouldn’t tell her.

She felt her body, hugged where it was, then stared.  “So this is what shock feels like.”

It wasn’t until she threw up.

That night, the nothing ate through her eyes.  She breathed; she lived; she sat; she thought.

I was more afraid of breaking her trance, reminding her of what made her stop time. 

I couldn’t follow her into the void.  I can’t understand what scared her.  I don’t know how to fix it. 

So I sit with her in timelessness. I cradle her hand and focus on how she smells.

NP: Jan. 30, 2013

Today, I burned my back in the sun,
tried to stand despite the ringing in my ears,
the silent fluttering of my heart.
Today my hands were calloused and my feet were blistered,
my back was twisted and my pride lay dead,
yet I hear more cries from my elders calling for accountability
calling my people “entitled” and saying that we’ve never seen
the face of poverty
	the pain of hard work
		tasted the bitter nectar of ambition.
At whom do they point their knotted fingers?
Who do they chastise?
Which “them” will they blame their decisions on next?
For once, we, the bane of their advanced years, were
tutored by the idiot’s lantern,
given a credit card as a toy,
learned to self soothe and self care as latchkeys.
Why now is this new culture of isolation, selfishness, and debt our fault
when we were taught so well by you?

NP: From the Air

The city is a sea of jewels,
Her people fit into Matchbox cars,
Flow like rivers of light through a black field
And I’m happy to be in a world apart,
Allow my eyes to drink the truth from above.
Each one is a life or two, contained in a bright box
Speeding along with different intentions, to different ends.
From there
Individual Control
A fight for space;
From here
A Natural Current,
They float together in a dance to their destinations.
I’m nothing more than and atom wrapped in flashing lights,
Perhaps one of the stars,
And dismissed.
But they are more than lights in a river.
Each light is a person; each jewel is a home.
They paint a new sky on the ground,
Living stars

What Do I Do with a Little More Time?

Write!


I recently left my exhausting full time job to study writing and film full time.  It’s so cool!  And it’s temporary, so I want to do my best with it.


That being said, I’m going to resume posting horrible poems as often as possible.  For starters, I’ll be able to grow as a writer by working at it every day, or even every few days, like that.  I’ll also be able to grow as a writer because I hate letting people read my work, and I have hated it since childhood.  This will be a step out of my comfort zone (for sure), and I’m bound to try to get out of it, but I’ve been given the gift of time, and I really don’t want to squander it.

I’ll be adding theses poems to a series I’m calling “Naked Poetry” and adding NP in front of their titles.  This will be running from now until I feel comfortable about sharing my writing.  They’ll all be rough, since this is an exercise in letting go more than anything.  So enjoy and/or join in on the challenge.

Apr 2

April 2

flat reality
my hands the only solid
like watching a film

ethereal days
like this flake away untouched
feel like reflections

i won’t remember
this or any days like this
another day dies

Apr 2

Coolin' on the Corner: Okay Followers - National Poetry Month!

I’ve been titling mine by the day of the month.  April 1 has already been posted!

jeshuay:

I am going to begin posting my poems for National Poetry Month beginning later today.

For those who don’t know:

National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo for short) and 30/30 are interchangeable terms used to preclude the challenge some poetry writers engage in which entails writing one…