Young Writers Society

This one is @Lumi inspired as he is the one who picked the prompt in the jam (we were all to pick a word and then write on the word of the person below us in line).

chakras - Number Twenty

i sit in serenity,
in a dispute with
the deep contemplations
that haunt and grease
the gears and inner-workings
of this troubled mind.

i sit criss-cross applesauce,
unable to take myself seriously.
a laugh slips through ivory teeth
and i wonder what i'm doing wrong.

i sit on the hardwood floor
where dust has gathered, oh
how long it has been since i
last dived headfirst into
these intrusive thoughts.

last time, i broke my cranium
on the concrete, but i guess
i haven't learned since then.
i want to make a breakthrough,
though these things take time,
i know.

i lay down on the naked mattress
(no sheets, no pillows, no nothing),
too tired to sit any longer
and stare vacantly at the ceiling
until i finally drift into a mesmeric sleep.

closure - Number Twenty-one

i.

If there is a God,
then he must be
a cruel one, at least
by nature.

they say that happiness is bliss
and it's true. i wish i could be
oblivious to the world again and believe
in Him. i want to go back to when
i looked up at the sky, i felt intimidated.
i tried to decipher his name in the clouds,
gazing upon them for hours on end.

ii.

the hands of a person
tell stories. the calluses
and chewed off fingernails
make you only wonder

you say you wanted to
give that family closure
with that phone call, but i
was the final decider of that.
i lied to mother that i blocked
those ten digits just
so she did not have to
worry like she always does.

you wanted me to open up
when all i wanted was closure?

iii.

all i want is an ending
to this twisted fairy tale.

Bonfire - Twenty-two


we sit around the bonfire,
criss-cross applesauce
and in a ritual. we take
to our nightmares with a
metal skewer, letting them
char in the brisk fire.
our faces shone by the
lurid flames, i took a swig
from the flask that rests
against a damp log.
a myriad of mosquitoes
freeload off your blood
while you're curled up
in your sleeping bag,
but you, drunk out of
your mind, won't notice
until the sunshine
gently taps you on the
shoulder when morning
comes again.
shackles enchain these
tired eyes, yet i do not sleep.
i lay awake, vulnerable
to the night sky and all its stars.
the sky taking the earth
in a bittersweet embrace
both avoiding direct eye contact.
before you went to bed
you told me how the sun
was the only star in our
solar system, and i don't think
i'll ever be able to get over that.

loose change - Twenty-three


with a spade, i dig
into the dew-covered
earth at nightfall.
the sun, plunging
into its temporary grave,
the sunshine slipping
off the peaks of mountains
in a cascade.

i press a hand
on the earth's chest,
intimacy at its finest.
i harrow into the soft soil,
feeling underneath the warren
of an aged fox, stuck in hibernation.

i have learned to buy plastic flowers,
for they do not decay. i replace the
mulch around the grave, thorns
attaching to white gloves, a sensation
of prickles run through my palms
as i slip them off these callused hands.
i pick away at the blisters,
obstinate and tenacious to
keep their place. over time,

i have learned not to spend
all of my loose change
on the departed.
i leave the cemetery
with empty pockets,
hoping that the hillock of soil
above your coffin
is rich.

This is my first sestina ever. It took quite a bit of time for me to write, but I feel good about writing a poem this long. I was kind of prompted by watching The Prince of Egypt last week but went further into researching anyway since I'm not too well acquainted with the Book of Exodus or any Christian stories, though I liked writing this anyway even though it was very painful to get through!

exodus - Number Twenty-four

a viper coils before him, his knuckles whiten
as he grips arms of the throne, though he is too foolish
to unfasten the ropes that tether an exodus of wrists.
brothers bound by blood, but adversaries by nature,
oh, what a turn of events, for the two never expected
to be gazing into the eyes of one another in such a manner.

a series of events unheralded by all, 'where are my manners?'
he asks, a facade to hide his unease, his face whitens.
three men amble into the room, not what he expected,
the pharoah smiles, maybe he had been too foolish--
no. Moses loosened, knowing this was to happen by nature
and spoke, 'unfetter these people and unbind their wrists'.

the serpent devours the ones before it, the wrists
of slaves feel free, if only for a moment. his manners
and behavior do not change, but that is by nature.
Moses leaves the sacred temple, the sun whitens
as he steps outside into the smouldering desert, feeling foolish.
'take off your sandals', God said, words Moses never expected.

for Moses did not ask for this life, it was unexpected.
a newborn dropped from the sky, expected to soar, tiny wrists
flailing in midair, but perhaps the Nile will soften his fall, only fools
plunge through the laden clouds without a place to land. in the manner
in which he nosedived into this life, the rivers would turn to blood, whitening
the faces of many, for this was not a normal occurance in nature.

Moses struck his staff into the unruly river, and nature
responded, crimson seeping into the turbid waters, no one expected
this. the fish perish under the pharoah's rule, his knuckles do not whiten
by a shade, perverse and baring the head of a bull. his wrists
cling to the chair, not bothering to lift a single hand. What manners
did his mother teach him? The same manners she taught Moses.

smear the blood of sheep on the tops of your doors, only the foolish
refused this notion. the pharoah, set in his ways and adamant in his nature
woke to a refrain of death, repeating as a whisper in his ear. in a quiet manner
he lifted the body of his firstborn son and choked, 'it's over.' and by nature,
they left, scavanging the belongings of others without a second thought. their wrists
free of shackles. Moses led them to the land of milk and honey, the skies white.

the pharoah, foolish in his ways, never expected
to be of this nature. left penniless and with naked wrists,
no jewelry to veil his poor manners. knuckles left paper-white.

I like it a lot.

You did a really good job incorporating the words into each stanza, it didn't feel like the structure hindered you at all, which is impressive since I know you had a little trouble wrestling with it. Really good job.

Thanks so much! <3

dog days - Number Twenty-five

the sunshine quietly
infiltrates my eyelids
as it climbs the mountains
to reach its place in the sky.
i lay in a hammock
tied to two apple trees;
my grandfather stole them
in the middle of the night,
maybe that why worms
so often decide to polute them.
'maybe next year', he says,
with a grimace and self-imbued
false hope. these ropes
are tied to the wrists of
these trees, leaving markings
of strain and injury behind.
the lush grass, freshly cut,
stripes left adorning the lawn.
these are dog days, waking up
at noon and walking downtown
to get ice cream that will inevitably
melt. ice cream that will
drip off the cone and onto
the dewdrop grass.
i want to go back to my
dog days.

slumber - Number Twenty-six



there, you stood alone,
brooding in the praire. back
to an old oak tree,
hoary with age. inside, an
owl slumbered, silent.

porcelain - Number Twenty-seven

on the balmy stove
i put a porcelain teapot
onto the only working burner.
the others, they waned
with time, and with vigorous use.
i took out a mug with no handle
from the cabinet, scavanging
for the most pristine cup.
i listened to the ambient sounds
of rain, beating heavy fists
on the kitchen window.

steam shot out its
slender spout, singing
a familiar hymn. i poured
the tea, tidal waves sloshing
in the bijou cup. the warmth
making its way down
a parched throat.

outside, i hung clothes
by their necks, never expecting
such a downpour. clothespins
holding them up in the
torrential rain. i sipped
from the corner of the cup
as i drew unto the canvas
that lay before me.
and all this,
inside these walls
as thin as playing cards;
i fold.

that was last week.
i just poured the tea
into the sink this morning.

Erie - Number Twenty-eight


i rode in the back of your truck
to Lake Erie, though you did not
treat me as if i was luggage.

the devil lived in your cheekbones,
in your smile as your loose hands
gripped the wheel, striking unease

inside me, though your laughter
told me that everything was okay.
naturally, you fled to the water

while i stood at the foreign shore,
though i got to know it during the
epoch of my life i spent sketching

in the sand. you liked going there
in mid-autumn, when no one else
was around. then, the lake belonged

only to you and i. in the reservoir,
you labored through the murky water
while i stood and gaped from afar.

First two lines gifted to me by @Castor, more personal poem since it's about my old dog, from a jam that went on/that's going on hosted by myself.

cheyenne - Number Twenty-nine

i buried her under the lousiana dirt,
shovel still in hand after hours
of harrowing into the barren earth.
i drove her down, passing red lights;
when the officer pulled me to the
side of the road, i told him i wanted it
to be over. i didn't want her bones
to live in my backyard. the scar
that plagues the corner of my lip
is enough of a recollection. to look
in the mirror and see where her teeth
gnawed into my memory.

i inhumed her under the sugar cane,
and while she rested there, still, she follows me.
as time passed, her hair became more matted
and the difference between her old bones
and the carpet was beginning to thin.

i let her go in louisiana,
though somehow, i still hear her,
padding along behind me.
sweaty palms gripped the wheel,
as i drove, overwrought with grief.
a sense of mortality struck
as i realized that these days
were ephemeral.

i filled the truck with car fresheners
but that did not rid of the scent as i
hoped it would. cheyenne, her name
still feels comfortable dwelling on
my lips; it still takes residence
even though i evicted it a week ago.

Villanelle!

Lazarus - Number Thirty

A monument sits above your head,
the only remnants besides the old
photo albums that we laid on your bed.

I stayed by your bedside and read
thumbing through the pages of the
photo albums that we laid on your bed.

In those pictures, your eyes were red;
mine too. I never thought this to be the day
a monument sits above your head.

The day you passed, I felt like lead;
I spent the whole afternoon gazing upon
photo albums that we laid on your bed.

If you were like Lazarus, would you be dead?
No matter your sobriquet, I am certain
a monument sits above your head.

Couldn't it have been someone else instead?
No, I don't wish that. I take on the burden of
the monument that sits above your head
Of the photo albums that we laid on your bed.

First line prompted by @Lumi from The Anatomy of Being by Shinji Moon--a wonderful poetry book!

bulletproof - Number Thirty-one

we make believe that even our tongues are bulletproof,
to maple kisses and to the remarks you whisper under
your sweet breath, though this is not true. disregard
for the utterances you shot back at me, i dodged them
knowing they were the truth. i could not bare to hold
the burden of even the concept of mortality, instead
filing our false hopes to the castle in the overcast sky.
the charades we play become candor to us over time,
a masquerade veiling the ideas that have been pushed
to the backs of our heads, an afterthought or footnote
that is never bothered to be perused in any way.
ignorance is bliss, i hear him say from the other room,
and i take no effort to deny or veto his bitter words.
how easy it would be, to believe those fables, those
parables, and be done with it at that. to resign and recant
any other ideas that emerge, to claim them to be heretical.
but oh, how it must feel to have those tales staked
into your earliest memories. brought up swayed,
taking every single word from your parents' mouths
as universal. i learned the opposite quite young,
still juvenile in my ways, not yet old enough to know
the repercussions of my actions. and still, it is
only the passing of a loved one or idol that
brings the reverie of mortality to the forefront
of my mind. left to muse the notion that someday
breathing will be a foreign concept, a contemplation.

Forgot to give credit to @Gringoamericano originally for the prompt of the first line that came from Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Antique - Number Thirty-two



I met a traveller from an antique land,
for he carried his whole home on his
broad shoulders. When I asked,
he claimed to be a nomad, a zephyr
of wind caught in the gentle breeze.
He carried heirlooms of numerous
generations, a merchant by soul.
We held a conversation for less
than five minutes. His ragged
clothes and scruffy beard
intruiged me, but I got on
the bus and left him
to his own devices.
That day, I felt
sonder of all
things.

I stare
out the
window

in a
vacant
gaze.