Posts Tagged ‘april is poetry month’

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Poetry month day 17 – mind the gap

April 17, 2016

I let it slip out
The heat, the fire
The unquenchable thirst for creation
Atoms smashing themselves over and over again
Trying to recreate a bang big enough to make my heart remember itself.
Cold fingers dig through ash
Hoping for embers
And enough breath to ignite this tinder.
A flame that doesn’t need to be chased, only caught
Encouraged
Fanned and focused upon.
All the days I didn’t write
All the moments I lost to living them
instead of giving them the respect they deserved.
I hid below ground and waited for the sun to come back.
But it never occurred to me, to open the door
And go find it.

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I fell off a bit

April 15, 2016

But I’ll be back. The words sleep, and dream of utterances and brevity, of wit that is sharp enough to cut ribbons for your hair, but not so much to shred the sensibilities you hold dear.

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Poetry month day 12 – Anywhere is a starting point

April 12, 2016

I didn’t mean to be a knee-jerk jackass, all spitfire and gritted teeth screaming you were wrong. I didn’t mean to play that song so familiar and pretend I didn’t know the tune.

Remember all those times I called you on your shit and you hated it? But had to admit that I was right? I basked in that glow of knowing it was true, that my words found their way to the heart of you and created a seed of doubt. That would grow until you’d know better, what you were on about.
Well, turns out, when that shoe is on the other foot, though it might be bare, it’s just as hard to admit there might be something to it.

I’m suddenly scared, reminded of the night my father died. We said goodbye and then we came home and immediately started to pack away his things.
His suits into garbage bags, a black plastic barrier against the notion that clothes were just more things he didn’t need anymore. His books that no one wanted, the trinkets no one knew the origins of, the years of unopened bills, all cast off. Because there was no place for them in our lives any more without him to give meaning to them.

I find myself casting off the idea of you. Packing books I never thought I’d give away into boxes to go, filling garbage bags full of odds and ends that I always thought I would use sometime. Things I considered grounding, though perhaps cementing me is more accurate. Tying me to a notion that I can stay still, build a life, build a home, build a shared reality inside a heart that was so eager to let you in.

Watching the dismantling of my own existence in real time has left me reeling, dizzy with concern that my action is merely a reaction. A way to placate the sense of grief with the illusion of purpose.
Have I given over to an emotional response? A sort of gaunlet thrown down in the spirit of, if there’s no home with you, there’s no home anywhere? I worry that it’s true.
Or perhaps what’s required is a reminder that I’m more than the walls, both around my stuff and around my heart. That I can find my way using anywhere as a starting point and still end up feeling at home.

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Poetry month day 10 – Letting go

April 10, 2016

It’s fucking hard.
But necessary.

Give me a sec, I’ll get there.

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Poetry month day 9 – right this second

April 9, 2016

Right this second,
I’m wondering how it would feel to let it all go.
Give away or trade the lighting and online post the piano
Sell the kurosawa, give away my grandpa’s desk,
Pare down the books, keeping just the ones I like the best.
Find a place for all the records, with someone who might care
To have in their collection, both hard to find and not so rare
Give away the kitchen table, older than me, to be fair
And I know that Gala likes them, but yes, even the ikea chairs.
A four poster double bed, well over one hundred years old
It’s traveled from wisconsin to the west, at least that’s what I’ve been told.
A rocking chair both green and squeaky with matching rocking footstool
Art perfect for walls, but when one has no walls, seems a fool
To keep such things and hope that I will find my place sometime
And drag them from here to there and back again seems a crime
For stuff wants to be owned by someone, that someone might not be me
I’m feeling more and more like transient meant to be.

But then I think how nice it is, to sit down and play
To have a house that’s filled with music, all night and through the day
To have books as friends familiar, their strong spines bent with use
A bed to curl up in with no need for an excuse
Beyond a simple desire that when I’m tired of the roam
It’s just so fucking nice to have a place I can call home.

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Poetry month day eight – Breakfast

April 8, 2016

The curve of the handle feels familiar under my hand as I push the door open. It goes both ways but it’s been years since I pulled, my need to be different not as desperate as it used to be.
I glance at the far side though I know you won’t be there. You’re always on the parking lot side, not to keep an eye on your car or because it’s brighter, but to easily climb the stairs once the bar at the top of them opens.
I drop my bag onto the red not quite leather not quite plastic bench seat across from you and then lean down to kiss you.
“Oh hello!” You always have this quality of being surprised to see me, though you knew I was coming. “How’re things kiddo?” I give a smile and a bright ‘earl grey tea’ to the lady on my left, coming back to top up your coffee. She smiles and looks from my face to yours. “This the young one?” You nod, acknowledging her as you stir sugar and milk into your coffee. “This is the weird one.” I smirk at you and then smile at her. “And it’s all his fault. He raised me like this. And I think he did very well.”
You nod. “I think we did. There were a couple of moments I wasn’t sure how it was going to turn out but we seem to have done alright.”
“You did better than alright, papa. I’m pretty awesome.”
“She’s been calling me papa ever since she came back from France. I like it. So what would you like for your first day as thirty breakfast?”
“Ha! It’s forty and you know it! You just don’t want to accept you’re old enough to have a daughter who is forty.”
“Where did the time go?”
“Same place it always does, whether you’re paying attention or not.”
I hear the familiar creak of the door upstairs and look back to you, you’re already gathering yourself, getting ready to go.
“Can’t you stay a little longer? My breakfast isn’t even here yet.” I’m trying not to whine but I can hear the slightest note creep in. You smile indulgently and take my hand.
“Oh honey, you know I can’t stay. But you also know I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know. I love you, papa.”
“I love you too, honey. Happy birthday.”

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Poetry month day 7 – its my fucking birthday

April 7, 2016

A birth
a day
a beginning holds sway
a bourgeoning beckoning balancing way
To express gratitude,
Joy,
For merely existing
As though it was something simple
And not some kind of gifting.

A birthday
A start,
A sum of the parts
An assessment of the journey thus far of a heart
That has shifted and grown
Wide open, been blown
And learned how to carry itself when alone.
To continue to be
A student of dance,
To see just how fun
It can be
To romance
Learn the song of the wind
Take a chance and leap free
And hope
That somehow
we’ll always land sanely
On tough but still soft and happy bare feet
Understanding
It’s where we connect
That makes us complete.

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poetry month day five plus six is not eleven

April 6, 2016

When looking to be in a zone
And desiring to rhyme in a poem
A limerick can
Be easier than
Using a format unknown

The pace determines the flow
You can always work out where to go
Whether silly or rude
Clever or crude
The style dictates the tempo

And stories can be easily told
Nothing needs to be oversold
Quite merry, the canter
Sometimes goofy, the banter
And the tone can often be bold

A reflection of life? Well, perhaps.
Thoughts processed as they elapsed
We seek social inclusion
We draw our conclusions
And when finished, drift off for a nap

The grand sleep, the great exit, the same
We exist in a narrow time frame
Ideally we find
Friends to play with in kind
Have a life of adventures and games.

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Poetry month day four – cheat day?

April 5, 2016

The wee hours still count
As yesterday. And haikus?
Poetry distilled.

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Poetry month day three

April 3, 2016

Tenebrous the attack unexpected from the side
Response a flash of anger, intention to deride
When faced with pain, sarcasm flows, like lava made of snide
Upon reflection, heat fades quick, I find I must abide

Perspective is a bitch, I’ve found, at the best of times
It’s difficult to recognize familiar paradigms
When caught up in the crossfire of divided hearts and minds
A battle where casualties are sense, reason and rhymes

Chapters close and stories end, of this there’s no dispute
Ideas born of dreams surreal have hard times taking root
One wouldn’t take a chance if the payoff didn’t suit
And if love is unrequited, then future hopes are moot

Goodnight, goodbye, and one last kiss
When pain is past, I’ll reminisce
A depth to rival an abyss
Not every day, to find love like this.

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Poetry month day two – Some poems don’t require a title or sense

April 2, 2016

Tonight, I feel a bit like I’m stuck

A holding pattern of sorts.

Which immediately makes me think of plaid.
Or argyle.
A textile of mathmatical proportions.
A fabric woven to give the appearance of motion,
Where there is none.
A lie of progression, standing still
Smarmy with irony
Because it’s on a sock.
Which obviously moves
Though hidden in a shoe.

Does it know where it’s going?
Because I don’t.

So I’ll stop here.

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National Poetry Month day one. This is not a joke!

April 1, 2016

A poem a day. For an entire month. That’s thirty poems. I got this. Seriously.

I might need reminding. Everyday. Anyone wanna poetry dom/me me?  If I forget to do a poem, I have to do fifty squats or something. Though I should probably be doing squats anyway. (beach booty!)
Learning a new habit is not hard. I do it all the time. Maintaining the habit. Ugh.

I have to admit though the writing every day thing is a tough one for me. Sometimes I don’t have it. The words are there, but they’re sleeping or staying out of the way because you know you’re supposed to be studying for a hydraulics test or eating food. (Remember that time you ate food like a grownup and didn’t just cook an entire pan of french fries and then just stood in the kitchen eating them off the pan with a righteously wrong amount of mayonnaise?)  This whole make the muse your bitch, she won’t show up unless you show her you want her there…dude, I feel uncomfortable telling my dog what to do. And she knows it. There’s another making someone your bitch joke in there, but it’s early and whatever.

So poem. One a day. I’ve always thought of April as encompassing my birthday, april fools day and spring, more or less. (more my birthday, less anything else) But being a grown up (kinda) means sharing. And so if I’m going to share my birthday month with something, I think poetry is a lovely endeavour. I have no idea who came up with it, (if I open a window to search that, I’m going to end up down a wikihole of random and useful/less information…) but why not? The world needs more poetry. It’s a beautiful medium. It doesn’t have to have any particular form, content, tempo, though we all have favourites for sure.

Sometimes all I hear is chatter
An influx of stuff that doesn’t matter
My perspective becomes shallow and lost.

I feel like we’ve long since lost the plot
Thinking joy can somehow be bought
Not seeing it’s too high of a cost.

But then I’m reminded my life is my own
And damn lucky I am, with no right to bemoan
For many don’t have such a luxury

And I have the choice to view life as I like
To get right back up when I fall off that bike
Or be caught within miserable drudgery

So I take time to notice how the birds sing
That there can be beauty in every damn thing
And that bad times never last long

Winter can feel long, dark and damn cold
But spring comes again, with colours so bold
And the frogs will be singing their song

Happy April, yo. (It’s my birthday soooooon.)

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