Liminality's Poetry Logbook
11 posts in this topic.
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Poem I | Daily Challenge I
The Campsite at Dusk
The campfire made, black drapes descending,
the shroud of nighttime shade arrived,
along came shapes laid round the staring flame,
along came beasts that bayed beyond the line
of sight; the smoke would raid the night
of lines of light, escapade lost from hands
clenched, that stayed within thin pockets. -
Poem II | Daily Challenge II | Prose Poetry Entry
Item: An old pencil box with a photorealistic cat print, kept over many years
Inscrutability
Conversation about me centres around the cloth pencil box: soft, metallic, old, modern, printed with cats - like an almanac? About that pencil box is a point of questioning. It says "Cat person". Says "Dog person - with a hint of bulldoggish irony!". Then there are the shadows. Watercolour strokes sometimes Prussian blue - sometimes! - pitch-black-tinted, they glide across the dirty white body, and make it cream. The cloth pencil box is the cream of conversation - but whose? Teacher's? Who insists on the weary quality of the thread, the stains, marketh a devotee? "Cat person - most definitely!" Mother's? It is an old ratty thing "only a dog would keep": chew-toys. Chewed bones. Owners, chewing me out overlooking their ransacked burial grounds. Conversation froths like cream - going sour now, strait is the gate that leads to losing interest. The cloth will always - be there! - however, with the eyes of cats inscrutable. -
Poem III | Daily Challenge III
The last time she heard of daylight savings
was in front of a television,
a Powerpuff Girls episode
set oceans apart, without
sweaty tropical drapes,
equatorial gaze
or the sense of
unchanging
fever
dreams. -
The progression in poem 2 is really well done @Liminality -> like from the chew toys to then chewed bones! That's great. Your daylight savings poem has some delightful word choice too even for a very short poem.
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Thanks, @alliyah! Glad to hear you think so.
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Poem IV | Daily Challenge IV
Meeting!
I ravel the chain
around the old chair,
past legs, seat and back, aught
are creaking, sighing
in the council meeting hall. -
Poem V | Spec
Translucency
Music is seeping through floorboards
for people who don't dance,
sitting under a dark window
hands on their laps.
There is music billowing
through yellow curtains - the bubble print
glimmers like dappled sunlight
reflected on water.
The glow through the lampshade
is soft, smelling of citrus,
of fireflies in jars. -
Poem VI | Daily Challenge V
On a Flat Unit with its Back to the Cemetery
There were white walls of a greenish tint
radiating, a hall stretching towards
windows
with the filmy grey tiles underfoot.
There was an expanse of glassy blue,
framed by dark alcoves that peered
suspiciously,
shadows tamed by too much sunlight,
the sunlight shot its prickly warmth
in hard rays between the patterned
graille
just as high voices filtered through corridors.
Stepping closer, there was the Wind,
her skirts fluttering as she bounded
endlessly
a vortex of a breakfast guest inside,
inside where the sharp clean scents
gave
to woody undertones wafting up.
Chemical apple taste from a popsicle
undergirded hard edges in a silhouette of
furniture
highlighted by the silver shade of dust.
There was the persistent thrum of drilling
into stone, of scattering grey chips a
storm
as heavy footsteps ambled back and forth,
as currant hit the tongue like a sledgehammer
breaking hints of any other fruit, the screech was
loud
when they dragged the tables out for parties.
All along the window view there were
brick red roofs, ripening into mauve by
sundown
black wires faded, fairy lights became fen-fire. -
Poem VII | Daily Challenge VI
Saturday Morning Cartoon
There on the screen an upright bear
has cleaned his hat and packed his bag,
slipped on his boots to leave the lair.
A bluish shade on every crag
adorns his world of plans and care;
he prints a paw on every tag.
Along the path the weight may wear
the sack like steel upon his back,
an iron maiden, bludg'ning care.
The bear with shoulders shrugged does dare
to pull apart his perfect boon
to toss aside a torch, a pear -
The forest dark approaches soon.
Off come the hat and things that lag
his pace. Goodbye the golden noon
He bounds on fours, sans weight or drag! -
Poem VIII | Daily Challenge VII - Editing
Original:
She collected plastic dolls, glossy books
on a white modern shelf atop her
several floors of condominium,
other hobbies:
photography.
she squinted at things she couldn't
understand, then tweeted about them
and published it
in her magazine.
She made - sentences! - constructed
poems ? sticky, green and pallid about
Female, the state-sanctioned sort,
propagandist
of herself.
Edited version:
Propagandist
Sticky yellow fingers
roamed from shelf to shelf
from the window, the sun
rifled through her collection
of plastic dolls and glossy books,
several layers of condominium,
other past-times:
photography.
Sulphur streaming in
to spectate as she
squinted at things she couldn't understand
then tweeted about them
then published the text
in her magazine -
as she made - sentences! - constructed
poems ? the sallow rays of sunshine
peered over her silk-clothed shoulder
to watch her hammer things together.
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