deluge

not sure why we're putting everything in spoilers, but i don't want to mess with the aesthetic so...just want to say I love these so far. 4 is such a mood, and I also love 3 and 5.

HI MESH! <3 *bites*

I finally had a chance to catch up! You're a third of the way done! Wooo!

I def agree with Rook about the brevity of your poetry making it feel even more key / important.

Poem 4 was really relatable, and I liked the juxtaposition of past-self looking at future-self, and then future-self looking back at past-self. Something fun about that, and also gets at the gap between dream / reality.

the definition of humanity is still living where the potential of destruction outweighs the odds:

Ah! I really dig this, and I think you could absolutely write 10 more poems spawning from that definition you've got. Very intriguing.

Poem 7 also felt very much like a Mesh poem! And also I am always here for weather complaints because *points at spring* @_@

Looking forward to continuing to read along ~

“we are food jews”
my aunt has a way of turning a phrase that cuts right to the heart of things
(she just doesn’t always watch where the edges lie)

@alliyah @niteowl <3333

#13
summer is the liminal memory
we want to remember but never quite had -
long warm dry nights
[bugless, because memory skips the unpleasantness]
in a desert deserted
[save crickets and stars]

#14
what do you do when you can’t find the poetic in the mundane anymore, and can only wish for things that you’re pretty sure only existed in dreams, not reality?

#15
marriage of eternal strife

winds of changing front
how an hour’s time can swing from sweltering to cool like desert summer

#16
summer in april is eighty degrees at noon and bugs like the midwest in the afternoon and desert-like cold when the sun goes down
[the air can’t decide if it’s damp or dry, and this year the creeks are still running]

yeah... 15 started and then died. another i'll probably come back to eventually.

#17
the problem with storm years is twofold:
more bugs and more fuel to burn
when september heat comes home to roost
in hip high grass months-dead brown,
bone dry despite the creeks still running

#18
it’s april and the fog is coming in; summer can’t be far

You can almost feel 16 & 17; perfect descriptions. Also loving the phrase "september heat comes home to roost" & "months-dead brown"!!

I need to get some monthly musings in yet....

April is.... mashed potato gravy

oh wait, I already wrote that poem. @_@

Way to have already surpassed the half way mark too Mesh!

sometimes i wish i was 15 again
to go back and not have made every decision
that has led me to now
but then i think the only thing i’d save
are the handful of friends i let slip through my fingers
and haven’t seen in nearly 15 years

the not-quite-summer dreams of spring
end in summer

collapse into summer hell
collapse into summer’s inferno
[the memory-dream outshines the reality]

spring’s dreams of summer are always better than reality




this... almost started to work, and then it didn't. another to come back to later?

winter in april is west wind that cuts through the seventy degree high we were threatened with requiring jackets to block wind and welcome sunlight

quiet chaos

i don’t want the loud and bright and glittering strife that everyone seems to strive for - give me the dust-filled sunlight hitting shelves in rays and cup rings left on tables from tea that went cold fifteen chapters ago and a cat that only wants you as a chair warmer but will purr in the pursuit -
give me the quiet chaos of the ordinary, so i can find my own extraordinary

#23 (alliyah said it was a poem!)
i hate thursdays

sometimes i wish i could make biblical allusions with the same ease i do the diluted pieces of history that have been passed down, translated wisdom that always lost something in the act of moving between generations

fugue state and musical fugues

i try not to think too hard on how english is such a bastard of a language that fugue can mean two disparate things between mind and music

#26
sometimes the only way to deal with being other is to remind everyone else that they are Other, too

#27
Monday came in with a storm, Friday goes out with a mirage of one glancing off sweltering asphalt.