Ok, so. A bit behind, but here's what I've got so far.
Second-hand box
[4/4/2017]
My paint-box was made to store bullets,
Camo-green, sturdy, and smelling of gunpowder ghosts.
It gleams with an art studentβs copper phoenix sigil
And remembers the shapes of brass shells.
Its contents have laid low duck and deer and
Gallon jugs, painted rings;
Shed blood and broke bone and
Tattered cardboard boxes, shattered shining glass.
Iβm taking it hunting through fairytale forests.
Iβm setting my sights down the length of a brush,
And hoping to take down a piece of my soul.
Friends on a screen
[4/4/2017]
I can be caught up in faceless affection;
feel a surge of love at a glimpse
of just that shade and color you use
to mask your face, as if it were
your eyes catching the light,
the corners of your smile curving up at me.
I donβt know if my parents have ever learned
what this is, this touch of tenderness and wonder,
a hand on my heart from a hundred
or a thousand miles away.
White fur and red robe changed to daffodil yellow
shares a love of worlds in books,
sends me favorite music, reminds me I am more
than what I can make or do.
A blur of tan and forest green in a flowering archway
co-authored five years of adventure story.
Wide black cross on cyan shared his poetry,
complimented mine, and prayed for
my frightened teenage heart.
What are we?
[4/5/2017]
We were talking of friendship tonight,
I donβt know why;
Of kinds of love, trust, who feels right,
Or who might lie.
---
You guessed I might not call you close at all.
Iβve always known youβd catch me if I fall.
These days we may meet seldomβin my mind
Itβs a rare chance we exist. Youβre my kind.
You are kin of my kin, muse of my muse.
It warms me to know that youβre living near.
When we first tangled our dreams and storiesβ
Supermen, travelers, alien gloriesβ
The fireworks felt worth living for,
My dear.
Bright moments
[4/5/2017]
Thereβs something like a song in the color of the light,
And light in the tenor of a song.
Somehow when the shadows play
With dawn-pale white or evening gold,
Or sparks bloom from a few plucked strings,
Pool with the ripple of a line of keys,
The world canβt be entirely wrong.
This bodyβs not a womb.
[4/6/2017]
Some say this body was made for children.
I say theyβd speak a lie.
Are my mind and heart not body, too?
---
My friends move on with life,
Post miles of photos to Facebook,
Make records of first words,
Introduce small hands to first pets,
Share picture books with little ears and eyes,
Hang lights and hide gifts and share stories of wonder
To shape those first few Christmases
Which will never come again.
Iβm happy for their families,
Do not begrudge their choice,
But do not envy.
---
Iβve never longed to see this belly swell
To hold a life, sex and eye-color unknown;
Never wanted to feel first kicks,
Hear tiny heartbeats;
Push out a body in blood and pain,
Wake late nights for their cries,
Change their diapers;
Carry the frightening weight of their world,
Be their first trust, first teacher, heart of their home.
When my sisters or ex-boyfriend asked for names
I chose for the love of words and language,
And not for hopeful anticipation.
---
In childhood games with dolls,
Mine werenβt my children.
They always sprang full grown,
(Or half-grown) from my mindβ
Old enough to be playmates,
Not my offspringβ
To dance with me, sing with me,
Go to balls and teas with me;
Or join in adventures, ride horses,
Dodge evil witchesβ spells to reach their quest.
---
I am not built to child-bear.
Do not ask when I will change my mind,
Contradict my nature;
Do not ask if my spouse
Will change it for me.
But Iβll love your children with you,
Bring gifts, read stories.
Call me sister, playmate, aunt, or friend,
Not mother;
God never planned for me to take that name.
Thereβs no such this as aβ¦
[4/8/2017]
Iβm a moth circling passion,
A match waiting for a sparkβ
All the clichΓ©s are true
When I see itβs you
Shining in the dark.
Iβm drawn in by a heart on fire,
An earnest face,
A truthful voiceβ
A hope of a new world cominβ in,
Anger at what shouldnβt be.
God tell me whoβs this
Young string-plucking prophet?
Iβve heard sermons say less
Than a three-minute address
Made half of chorus,
Half seeing the broken.
Late night
[4/9/2017]
In my shadows, thereβs no need for talking.
Just cooking prep smells and painted colors,
Library books and half-finished stories,
New discoveries of old music.
---
Iβm alone in a full house.
My hour is when they are sleeping.
My secrets their dreams are keeping.
In the worldβs wall Iβm the mouse.
---
Until I hear a creak of footsteps walking,
Broken rhythm, quietβs cullers,
Reminder these arenβt my own territories.
These are very cool, Lily! A couple of them touch very close to my own emotions and thoughts. π
ThanksοΌ Hobbit! π
I'm glad some of `em are speaking your language.
I am so far behind.
Tick, tick...
[4/15/2017]
Iβve been letting the minutes glide past,
Glide past,
Not waiting to see if theyβll lastβ
My mindβs been a-roaming
I haven't been homing
On seconds that I donβt see
Trickling pastβ
On jewel-bright grains of lost time.
If I would but listen and breathe,
I might find a reason or rhyme.
My moments might not swiftly leave.
While I'm up...
This one may require some explanation. Not going to rec the book that inspired it on here, because there is some mature content, but the part that brought about the poem... Main character's father was basically the kingdom's evil grand vizier. He was incredibly messed up, and doing harm on a national level, but his one weakness was that he legitimately loved his daughter. And his daughter wound up having to be the one to defeat him because of that, and felt very guilty afterward because, well - he did love her.
Cansrel
[4/15/2017]
A monster may know love, yet monster be;
So learned the fire-haired daughter from her lord.
One builds a cage and still gloats he is free.
A heart may both embrace and be abhorred.
If all was music, all was laughing trust,
What fear would grasp for friendship, fight with minds?
If all was rage, control, and powerβs lust,
Would it have cut her less, to break his binds?
Perhaps none but a fool could hope heβd change,
But fools may hold hope fast for fatherβs sake;
Although that fatherβs heart is passing strange
Through years of trials, begging him to wake.
A fool for love broke free from hope at last.
And monsterβs student struck, and monster passed.
Saturday Night
[4/15/2017]
I am not safe, and I donβt know if Iβm good.
Iβm toying with paints on the edge of a story of blood
And long dark waiting, hoping to be found
By new life rising beneath the stony ground.
This night is different, although I wear
Old clothes and flick a paintbrush and I hear
Familiar songs and noises; tomorrowβs dawn
Is a song Iβve never heard, a victory won.
And I am not safe, on the cusp of an old new world
Before the seal is broken, light unfurled.
These are all so good, Lily!! π
Thanks, Hobbit. ^_^
...It's not Technically morning yet. But. There was a sunrise photo I had queued up for social media for Easter and I started feeling sunrisey feelings and poetry happened?
O Morning Come!
[4/16/2017]
And so
The sky awakes with a cry, with a shout,
With a splash of bright and liquid gold;
Gold heady and warm,
Gold as Autumn dying and Spring flowers rising
And gold as the streets they sayβre in Paradise.
And so
The night is over like Winter is over
Like thereβs fire in my heart and no frost in my veins
And when the morning sings
My wings
Are stretching and beating and aching to fly.
I remember a time when the clouds felt like hope.
I remember I looked for a coming friend,
A new beginning with no fear of an end.
Strange hope (v2)
[4/17/2017]
Thereβs no poetry in pain
In the moment when it hits you,
No fancy words for broken trust
Unless the ache is past.
Someone deserving better
Than glib phrases for their issues,
Than a tin-eared carnival auctioneer
Selling quick hope in a flask,
Will not stop to hear a sonnet
Or some well-meant refrain.
You canβt sell a skull a limerick.
Thereβs no poetry in pain.
But when words fail, what then?
Wise men say βlook for the helpers.β
Even amidst the ugliness,
Blood in a broken grinβ
Your heartbreak is an echo
Of a peaceful army, healers,
Rescuers, fire-breakers;
Makers of safe harbour
When water's closing in.
Hold fast onto your despair:
Though it burns your hand, itβs a lifeline.
Remind yourself this is the time
For actions, silent words.
When words fail and no poetryβs
Enough to numb the aching,
Thatβs a signal flare, a promise
To those who still remainβ
Our hearts were knit for a reason,
To see whatβs lost, and to regain.
...I touched up the wording a couple of times on that last one and I think I have the words about where I want them but it still doesn't scan right when I read it aloud, should I be changing up the line structure and punctuation to accommodate?
I don't know; I think it's great. But then again...this kind of poetry I haven't had much experience with. So I'm not one to make suggestions.
...The haphazard semi0-rhyming kind? π I have exactly one poem in this batch so far following a traditional format. :p I just - want the rhythm to make sense to me if I read it allowed instead of just following the words i guess?
I'm glad you're enjoying my weirdness. ^_^
Sorry that was... being hypercritical of myself in response to a compliment, kind rude on my part. <.< You're a cool human and I'm glad you like my stuff thank you. ^_^
Costumes
[4/22/2017]
I`m piecing together broken bitsοΌ
Liar`s jewels and manmade clayοΌ
Cut ribbon from Christmas past
And autumn leaves out of season.
After this morning I`ll wrap them around
An old ash-colored bridesmaid`s dress
And try to become more than myself.
After this morning I`ll wear a dream.
New for Old
[4/23/2017]
The sounds will change,
I know. Iβll
Stop taking it for granted,
The rhythms of this house around me,
16 years within these walls
(wash machines and local birds and
Squirrels on tin shed roof,
Storms in maple leaves)
And 27 with parentsβ voices,
22 with sistersβ.
Iβve dreamed of flight in waking hours,
As once I dreamed in sleepingβ
No easy freedom,
Always running away
From some invisible fear
Or towards some hope or loved one,
And wingless, rising by pure will-power.
I could fly among new birds
And learn their songs,
Find the shape and rhythm
Of deepened traffic and daily buses
And shining towers of steel and glass,
Wood-floored apartments
And corner cafes.
There will be new sounds.
The sounds will change.
Ghost voices
[4/23/2017]
Your words are empty.
You can`t own me.
You`re all shattered glass
And huddled fearοΌ
Tears spent and darkness passed.
Your voice may stay, but your strength won`t last.
My light is drawing near.
My lady`s stars are in the skyοΌ
White and golden banners fly;
And you`re no Power or predatorοΌ
No demon
To me.
Your fangs are goneοΌ
I will be free.
Your rage weighs less
Than a deadwood tree.
