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to skip stones on the ocean: NaPo 2016



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Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Fri Mar 25, 2016 2:33 am
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bluewaterlily says...



So this is my first NaPo challenge, and I am determined to actually finish this through. I am writing this memento weeks into the challenge. Without even realizing it, I created a theme, a common thread binding all my poems together. Which leads me to why I chose the title of this NaPo thread. Almost all, or at least most, of my poems are about trying to do the impossible, for example skipping stones on the ocean. While it is not impossible to do this, it is something that you would do in vain because the ocean is not a tranquil pond, so you won't get very far by doing it.
But you accept the challenge, step up to the plate, and try anyway. Even when you know or believe what you are doing is in vain, you do it anyway, even when you get the same results, or the results you don't want, or sometimes no results (at least not immediately).

That is the stage of life I am in right now, possibly pursuing a career and even relationship that may never give me what I want to attain. But that doesn't stop me from trying, recklessly, whole-heartedly, and maybe to a degree, in vain. And I think to do that, to still and defy logic to skip stones on the ocean, just might be both the dumbest and one of the bravest things you can ever do in life, so thank you if you're reading this or my poems. I hope you can get something out of it.
Last edited by bluewaterlily on Wed Apr 20, 2016 4:36 am, edited 3 times in total.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Fri Mar 25, 2016 6:32 pm
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bluewaterlily says...



x
Last edited by bluewaterlily on Tue Sep 18, 2018 3:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Fri Mar 25, 2016 6:35 pm
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bluewaterlily says...



To Skip Stones on the Ocean

Thursday March 25, 2016


this love is a hurricane
and baby, we’re in the eye of a storm
they told us to evacuate
but we ignored the warning
choosing to interpret the soft blue skies
as a sign of favor from Venus herself

we foolishly cast rocks at the ocean
as if it is the looking glass surface of a pond
but even on the ocean's calmest days,
it is a force beyond us that cannot be tamed
by mere mortals

we are a paper boat
artfully folded and delicate
but we were never meant to
leave the harbor of the sandy shores

but we were still swept away in the tide
as helpless as timeworn eroded seashells
and the lighthouse has receded too much
to call us back home

your heartbeat was the Siren's song
that called me away from safety
you taught me to a laugh at the gods
and I adopted your hubris as I scoffed at the
vanity of immortality

you held stones out to me
and convinced me to parley with the Fates
skipping stones on the ocean like as if life
the smooth surface of a looking glass
a mirror to reflect the well of deepest desires

but we never had the blessing of the gods
or the favor of Fate
and when I skipped stones on the ocean for the first time,
the ocean engulfed them
as if to remind me of our own mortality
but rather the mortality of love,
the only sign we received from the gods
Last edited by bluewaterlily on Sun Mar 27, 2016 7:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Sun Mar 27, 2016 7:04 am
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bluewaterlily says...



Sunday March 27, 2016

Broken Kaleidoscope


When I was four years old,
I received my first kaleidoscope.
It served as my first pair of lenses
To see the world as a shifting landscape
That painted the monochrome world
In garish rainbow hues
Only a child could appreciate.

In the span of twelve years, I learned
That the brightest things fade in an instant.
When I five and saw fireworks for the first time,
That darted across the sky in a firestorm of
Colors, brilliant pinpricks of light, manmade stars
That I imagined grasping,
But before I could reach toward them,
They vanished into nothing.

When I was six and learned about the season of autumn,
I learned to appreciate the vibrant crimson palate
Of nature that painted the leaves in a vivid hue
Meant to be admired in only a blink
But never for a fraction of infinity.

The leaves clung to the trees
Rustling gracefully the way my six-year-old mind
Envisioned angle wings fluttering,

But that illusion was shattered
The moment they touched the ground
And joined the quilt of brown decay.

Looking back, I learned autumn is only a season
Of fading glory,
A red carpet annually unrolled for the feet of
Death and Grief to tread.

When I was eleven and received my first bouquet of roses,
I learned how fleeting beautiful things are.
After two weeks, when my pink bundle of flowers
Wilted into skeletons,
The pastel pink of the petals that was overtaken by gray,
Until I couldn’t remember the delicate shade.

Every day, the life bled out of the petals,
as silent and gradual
As the gentle breaking of a long forgotten promise.

I was fifteen when I learned
My grandmother stood on the threshold of death
Accompanied with the remnants of my childhood innocence
As I watched her body wilt like a rose, the two-year process,
Slow and gradual,
as the breaking of a promise
as the breaking of an hourglass

as the breaking of a kaleidoscope.

I was sixteen, on the cusp of seventeen
When she died, and
As as I watched them lower
The coffin beneath the Earth,
I buried my innocence six feet deep.

But rather than the gray that haunted me
for twelve years, I saw everything, unfiltered.
The world became a muddled array of colors:
The clashing of brilliance and darkness,
like storm clouds with no silver lining.

Now and I'm ninteteen, and what Life has taught me is
the frailty of beauty and its irreversible damage.
And that beauty is the twin of death.
My eyes are nothing more than
broken kaleidoscopes that can't make sense '
of the paradox of an unshifting world.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Fri Apr 01, 2016 4:45 am
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bluewaterlily says...



Monday March 28, 2016

musuem

My mind is a twisting corridor of labyrinths and vaccant hallways,
Spiraling staircases no one has dared to explore
Because they are too crumbled to climbed

I've grown tired of the blanks stares I've recieved
OVer the years from these gray whiles
I am still waiting with baited breath
For that moment when the paintbrush touch
Of an artist revives my stagnant world
And bring the colors back.

My eyes long to see a smile laced with sunshine
To shed light on the darkest corners of my mind
I would decorate my walls with a framed smile
And it would become a relic
For generations to marvel at
An enigma to rival the Mona Lisa.

But years drip slowly, like beads of wax
From a candle still burning strong.
Amd ot seems these walls are a harbinger,
Designed to mirror the sky that warns
Of the approaching storm:
Gray and fatalistic.

I wait with anticipation
For the monsoon
To sweep me away,
To toss me between the waves
as a test of fate like a rolling dice

I will cling to the ocean
with my eyes trained on the horizon
and the lighthouse will beckon me,
slicing through the darkness,
like a smile laced with sunrays,
And I will know I am finally home.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Fri Apr 01, 2016 5:44 am
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bluewaterlily says...



April 1, 2016

To Shatter Stars

she was an oracle
as she opened her mouth
to sing, words poured out
rising to Olympus like incense
but falling flat on the stone ears of the gods

the pain and grief whittled her words into blades
she pitched her voice,
scattering each shard
to rumble the earth
to create a rift in heaven's curtain
to shatter the stars

Even Atlas bowed under the weight of her dirge
Knees buckling, back broken, a crumbling staircase
With no purpose anymore.
He bent in half under the force of her gravity.

That caused the world to fold in on itself
With the magnetic ability to pull every soul
Into the black hole of her anguish
Stars rained from the
sky
Even the gods were too late,
And they learned to never
Underestimate a mortal
With the voice of a siren
That carries the wrath of a goddess
With the power to cleave worlds
and shatter the stars .
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Tue Apr 05, 2016 2:41 am
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bluewaterlily says...



Legacy

April 4, 2016

Your legacy packed one hell of a punch
And my bones continue to reverberate
From the ripples
That ring in my skull
Like Liberty Bell
Before it splintered.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Wed Apr 06, 2016 3:18 am
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bluewaterlily says...



April 5, 2016

Handblown Glass Smiles
-

Your love filled the room
with the warmth of a sunrise.
Sitting in the dimly lit den,
we watched the twilight shadows
evade the room as we tried
to hold the darkness
at bay with hand blown glass smiles

Our meaningless stories,
Were paper wings to carry time
as we babbled to
bridge the chasms
of silence.

Words galloped from the
Wild planes of my mind
and out of my mouth
to distract us all from
the truth of your mortality.

That summer, I visited you every week,
and each visit I had less and less to stay.
Instead, I wrapped my arm around your
brittle shoulders, feeling the tremors,
but I swear, I’ll never know
if they came from your body
or my heart.

Every day became a sitzkrieg,
Wondering and waiting for the Gray Army
to invade, and we all worried when
they the Gray Army would take you
captive across a threshold
we couldn’t follow.

Each visit, I held your hand
like a fraying lifeline
that unraveled with each tremor,
its iciness seeping into my bones,
like the handshake of death.

The chasms of silence widened
with each visit, but you clumsily
bridged them with the indelible
promise of “I love you.”

Even though your voice was
a faint rasp, those words
are an eternal symphony
of crescendos.

The visits became shorter,
less frequent, and the oxygen tank
hissed a warning of the Gray Army’s advancement.

The last time I saw you, I was upstairs
and you were downstairs,
fighting a losing battle to cancer.

An ocean of meaningless words
filled the valleys of mind,
held at bay by the levees I
created as I tried to steel
myself with resignation.

But manmade barriers cannot
tame the raging sea, only contain
it on a passive day under etherized skies,
and at the climax of the war,
the levees broke.

All the unspoken I love you’s and I’m sorry’s
were messages I shoved into bottles,
fleets of ships that set sail too late,
only to capsize without
the guidance of your lighthouse eyes.

Years have swam by,
and I am Calypso
stranded on Oygygia
waiting for the final
battle with the Gray Army.

The siren song calls to me,
urging me to throw myself
to the mercy of the waves
like a sea glass.

Hecate whispers to me
as I stand at the receding
shoreline, tide lapping
at my feet to tease me.

As the water pulls me into
an embrace, the crescendos
of old “I love you” merge
with the Siren’s melody.

As I'm submerged,
I only hope to wash up
on the shores of the Lethe
where forgetfulness
is more than a blessing-
it is rebirth.
Last edited by bluewaterlily on Fri Apr 15, 2016 12:41 am, edited 5 times in total.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Wed Apr 06, 2016 3:25 am
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bluewaterlily says...



April 5, 2016

Paper Lattice
-
There are nights,
Whereas the world lies nestled,
Under the cover of sleep,
I lie on my back in in my
Shadow drenched room.

My eyes explore the cracks in my ceiling,
As if they are keyholes to unlock the doors
Of infinity, portals for me to escape into.

I try to think of you, but it’s hard,
As the knife of remembrance
Slices me into lace ribbon,
And the Grief prowls,
Sinking its claws into my skin
And gnawing on my bones
Through the night.

My heart is paper lattice,
A network of lacerations.
Every morning, I clumsily stitch
It back together, reusing the threads
Of old memories- better times.

But even those are threadbare,
And every night, I unravel a little more
And I wonder what is the purpose of
Trying to mend a rift that widens
More and more into a chasm.

Instead of stitching together,
I should be weaving,
Spinning threads into pathways
That can lead me away,
Anywhere out of this
Shadow-drenched room.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Wed Apr 06, 2016 3:46 am
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bluewaterlily says...



April 5, 2016

How to Jump a Mountain
-

Darling, loving you is is more
than jumping a hurdle;
you expect me to jump over
the pinnacles of mountains.
But honestly, if my faith
isn't strong enough to
move mountains,
how can I possibly jump them?
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Wed Apr 06, 2016 4:02 am
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bluewaterlily says...



April 5, 2016

If The Sky Was a Mirror
-
If the sky was a mirror,
it would reflect the underside
of Life that no one dares to turn over.

It's silver lining would penetrate the darkness,
bringing luminous new horizons to your bare skies,
and the stars would dance and twirl on your horizons,
whispering the secret beauties of Life for all
those who sit at the well of the universe
with ears patient enough to listen.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Fri Apr 08, 2016 5:26 am
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bluewaterlily says...



Echo
-
April 7, 2016

Some days I feel
my vocal cords wither,
tongue shriveling from disuse.

My soul atrophies
as the world grows,
morphing into a labyrinth
that I cannot navigate.e
Even with Adriane's golden thread
cannot guide me out of this maze.

Without meaning to, I've become a wraith,
Hellbound for Hades.
I've made my home in the shadows, where
the sunlight cannot scorch me.

Winter has crept into my soul,
a blizzard whirling in my veins.
I've grown immune to the loss
of the fickle love of mortals.
Instead, I've chosen the silence.

My voice has faded along with my ability
to speak or act on my own will.
The gods have condemned me to hear but never speak,
only Echo a ghost fancying itself alive.

I cannot hear my own heartbeat,
only shadowed resonances from a past life.

The gods have made me a broken mirror,
Cursed to see, but never be seen.
Cursed to feel, but never touch.
Cursed to hear, but never be heard.
Cursed to reflect, but never be reciprocated.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Sat Apr 09, 2016 4:35 am
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bluewaterlily says...



Persephone's Winter Dirge: Painted in Shadows
April 8, 2016

-
Last edited by bluewaterlily on Tue Sep 18, 2018 3:09 am, edited 4 times in total.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Sat Apr 09, 2016 3:10 pm
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bluewaterlily says...



Diverging

April 9, 2016

we collided like an earthquake
too chaotic for the world
but now we are
diverging tectonic plates
moving worlds
moving galaxies
moving universes
apart
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  





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108 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 3342
Reviews: 108
Tue Apr 12, 2016 5:06 am
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bluewaterlily says...



April 11, 2016

To Launch a Thousand Ships

I’m three years late.
This letter has been sitting
On the shelf of my heart
And gathering dust from excuses
Such as washing up on the shores of
Oygia with Odysseus with no escape.

After you died, I was an empty bottle,
Filling myself with secret messages
I scrawled on scrap paper
But now I am choking on my own words,
But they remain strapped to my throat,
a lump that has become too hard
to swallow down like a bitter pill.

Until you died, I never realized
How overcast my skies are.
Even as the memories yellow like
Pages in Time’s aging book,
I remember your smile
That painted the world in pastel hues.

On the day of your funeral,
The sky was a gentle blue,
Soft as a baby’s blanket,
With arms open ready to receive you.

I don’t remember much of your funeral,
But I remember the singer’s voice,
As silver and piercing as a scalpel
That cut away the stitches I stoically sewed
With the callous ease of a surgeon.

One thing I’ve never told anyone is how
My heart resembles a rag doll,
A damaged quilt work no seamstress can mend.
Three years later, the scars are still visible,
And some days they gush old blood,
Leaving me too faint to stand.

They patronize me with glass smiles
As they pat my shoulder and tell me
You’re in a better place,
And I nod as I steal a shard of glass
From their mirror mouth and carve it
Into the shape of my lips
As I deflect their transparent smile
But the sharp edges cut my mouth

The world continues to spin
And they continue their regular orbits
Spinning with it,
While I have been out of orbit
Pulled into the gravity of a
Black hole I cannot resist
No matter how much I want to

I only have two things left to say
I’m sorry I was too late.
I’m sorry I still am too late.

I hope you know how much I loved you,
And how much I do, even if
My honesty is tardy.
Every night, I open my Pandora’s box,
Fingers scraping the bottom
For my overdue words as I take a
Matchstick and
Ignite my sky into a fireworks display
That I hope you can see

Even as I come to the end
Of my reservoir of stowed
Away emotions,
They always seem
As inexhaustible as the sea,
Supplying water to a well
I have no choice but to tap into.

If I keep leaning over the edge,
I just might fall in, like Alice
Tumbling down the rabbit hole.

I’ve tried transferring my emotions,
Slipping parchment messages
Into glass bottles that I throw down the well
To be swept away by the tide to wash up on your shores,

So please don’t be alarmed
when you find a bottle
With a heart inside it,
A ship that launched one thousand ships
Trying to atone for the sin overdue love.
Last edited by bluewaterlily on Fri Apr 15, 2016 12:45 am, edited 1 time in total.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
  








Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe.
— John Milton (Poet)