I'd like to drop my place in the line-up. I have so much going on right now, I don't even know what I was thinking when I signed up for this. I'm sorry.
And the heart is hard to translate It has a language of its own It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, And prayers and proclamations
i've started star gazing in church parking lots to spot Ursa Minor and trace the shape with two fingers and blind precision. Occasionally I'll skip a beat and the Little Dipper becomes the Little Dipper with a birth defect.
For every star, I calculate how long ago they died and if they were there for when Marilyn Monroe died, the Manson murders occurred, or when I spilled all to someone over bad phone connection about how I was afraid of the future.
I miss you. Well, at least I used to.
When anxiety takes over and I can no longer see which stars make the tail of Ursa Minor, I think of you.
I think of the last time the rhythm of my heart made me sick, how I ruined a friendship and pondered the ways to pull your ship back onto my waves, eventually pondering the ways how to capsize your ship, then excessively apologizing.
i'm sorry I'm not. I'm happy Only nostalgic.
Last edited by Willard on Sun Apr 02, 2017 5:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
Question: Would I be able to use a poem that I wrote on March 31st my time, a couple of hours before April 1st for me for the contest, or does the 2 days before rule not count there? I'm considering it, but I don't know if I'm allowed or not--I wrote it for my Number Zero poem for NaPo, but it was around three hours from April 1st at the time.
Grieves the sun thumbing the plumbs of my belly an egg carton in its naked contours, molded pulp ridges, deliberately barren. And needs little done to scatter that fever of broken-shelled conscience.
Monster is part of forgiving myself for my ambivalence sitting here with hunger-fatigue for those mothers, those button-eyed children and cherub wonders. I cannot envy when I am empty.
Monster, not mother, when only I could think of wanting a world, despite the moons of pain the feel of craving a deep, deep yearning for mothercraft, for the rites of the mythical, the balance, the semblance of a challenge.
Monster, the exiled so hard to believe the world wants for us sisters and brothers and friends in our other, when one morning I grew up and remained a child.
1. abnormally low rainfall 2. a prolonged absence 3. thirst 4. california in the summertime
we wish for lack of certain things - bugs, sunshine, and the sense that cold is a construct we collectively hallucinate to justify why we live where you can fry an egg on the sidewalk at three and still burn your feet on cement at midnight.
***Under the Responsibility of S.P.E.W.*** (Sadistic Perplexion of Everyone's Wits)
Medieval Lit! Come here to find out who Chaucer plagiarized and translated - and why and how it worked in the late 1300s.
Rapping on my roof drips And drops little lifegiving grains Into the soil below. I love it Now, after learning all it Does for us, all it creates, Revives, and supports. Oh, if only I could be as Productive as the rain Steeping our world in life.
Gender:
Points: 414
Reviews: 271