With No Chances

Station

Walking in bitter cold,
darkness falls in sweeping cascades -
the platform is wet, fragments
of puddles struggle to carry
aloft the weight of my
shadow.

Automaton voices beep in flat
tones of urgency-wanted as digital
numbers dance to time's strict beat;
trains exhale in chill gushes, regurgitating
the ghost of convenience.

So my introductory poem post from today coincides magically (in a way) with what you have written here. How co-incidental.

"fragments
of puddles struggle to carry
aloft the weight of my
shadow. "
Excellent. Really excellent. The word choice of "fragments" is perfect and the idea of shadows having weight is great.

"the ghost of convenience."
Again, suits the mood well.

Word choice is everything, and you've nailed it with this one. Now if you don't mind, I'll go catch up on your past work for this month.

Thank you very much. I'm not very good at poetry - this is the most poetry I've ever written at once, or ever in fact. I was feeling a little down about it actually haha, way to perk me right up!

Little lizards scurry and crawl,
inky figures that flit between the cracks
of the everyday.

A barechested old man filled with
the brawn of yesterday, muscles
sloping like misshapen clay melting
in the sun, struggles
behind the hungry weight of the lawnmower.

Black-tipped mountains float adrift in the sky,
the lacklustre debris of last weeks storm
and I wonder what will happen when they come
crashing down.

a million invisible conversations
surf the soundless waves;
the individual is lost in the multitude
of silence, gazes averted, the slimmest
of spaces between elbows and knees
skilfully avoided and I'm left
wondering when we became so adept at being
alone.

i found him in the valley of the dead,
this once-summer boy, all greys and blues
but with a stiff upper lip. his eyes
were still blue, baby blue, the kind that
sings and that doesn't seem right
in this sacred silence. his gaze is open
upon the sky and this too, is wrong -
windows should have shutters;
pity the restless, that squirm
under the eternal light of the stars.

You're so freakin' hawt. Never change.

XDDD thanks, I rather like that one too.

Jiggity wrote:Toy planes buzz against the backdrop
of wintry clouds, the mottled fur
of the sky. And I shiver in the chill,
looking up so high above, at these
would-be bombers of old raining down
self-recriminations, questioning their
sacrifice for those not born with the grace
to fly.

Take out 'of old' and this is gorgeous. :3

D:

That's my favourite! Why take out 'of old'? I saw a plane the other day, just as I described, and it looked and sounded just like something from WWII...I wanted to get that feeling across. I suppose 'of old' is too obvious...Thanks for commenting though!

Watch this space: still have to come up with something for today D:

Latest one:

...conversations
surf the soundless waves

Great play on words.

...adept at being
alone.

Powerful and pointed.

My only criticism is I wonder if you even need the first line. "We've lost the essential spark -" If you start from the second line, the poem is still as pointed and has lost nothing.

I have no other criticism. Short and (bitter)sweet.

Thanks! I agree with you about the first line. I'll take it out. Man, I'm two or three poems behind now. Must do some today!

Cheers, all.

The last line in that last one (last?) is just too good. It makes me happy in it's depressingness.

<3 Clo

I'm supposed to lose
myself, I'm sure of that, I guess
I just don't know into what;
you, perhaps? Are you enough
to contain me, should I pour
myself into your waiting
embrace?

How much is too much?
Shush, don't cry out. Lose
yourself, as I have, am, indeed
lost. This is a cruel, hungry
darkness that consumes. It hurts.

There were softer options, I know now,
a whole bookshelf of worlds awaiting
my fingers to stroke their worn yellow
pages into life. But the choice was made,
the essence lost and the question begs
to be asked - is it too late to get it back?

I, too, confess that I have been lurking around this thread saying very little, but delighting to read in your NaPo poetry. It's time to put that into words

The tone of this latest one is quiet, hushed, tender. It begs to be read in silence, sweetly snuggled away in a corner of a library, in the warmth of a fire.

I especially liked:

a whole bookshelf of worlds awaiting
my fingers to stroke their worn yellow
pages into life.

Ahhhh...a bookshelf of worlds. And, I don't think I mentioned (since everyone else did it so well for me) that the one that has the words 'once-summer boy' in it was captivating. You write sweetly, and simply - a cute, bite-sized poem each time


I also loved:

muscles
sloping like misshapen clay melting
in the sun, struggles
behind the hungry weight of the lawnmower.

Black-tipped mountains float adrift in the sky,
the lacklustre debris of last weeks storm

There are simple - but by no means simplistic - images here, captivating for someone who has had a crazy day, full of the insanities of daily life, to come to, curl up by the fire with, and devour quickly. Have you read any of Ted Koosler's poetry? I think you would enjoy it - it is brief and simple, and oh-so-innocent. Like yours.

fragments
of puddles struggle to carry
aloft the weight of my
shadow.

This is yet another pretty image. And, I also loved that poem beginning with something about the toy plane.

Keep writing, and I hope to still see you around these parts by the end of NaPo!

The streets of this city have
many faces, nocked and scarred
and withered with age. The people
are many, a milling stream of confused
babble and hopeless direction;
there is no current, but we are told
to beware the vicious undertow.

The stars blink down at us, a
thousandfold dimples in the face
of the sky, tiny
indentations brimming with our
collected dreams and brightest hopes
suspended

But there are days, I swear
when they are but an arms length
away and all they wait for
is a hand bold enough to reach for
them. If only we could stand still
long enough against the eddies
that swirl in grim streets.