maybe a thing about particles and waves
or wave-particles and the way light works
and moves, the way soulmates’ eyes ignite
from moon dust, the way some ancient god
smiled and blinked, flicked an able wrist
to strew some billion stars across a
darkly barren sky, then asked his goddess
to suspend the amber moon …
its caress so softly lighted, it stirred
the hearts of night-blooming lovers
but surely …
surely the years run like the cheetah and
soon-or-late some hearts quake asunder,
just as surely as moon dust and starlight and
the way a true love fills in the fault lines
What are you’re thoughts on soulmates? Tells us in prose or poem. If you feel comfortable, leave your work or a link to it in the comments below. All shared work will be featured on this site next Tuesday.
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT, June 7, 2017 Remember “Let the wild rumpus start!” in Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are? Such a wonderful book and that exclamation has stayed with me – probably you as well – and I always wanted to do something with it. This poem is what came from that inspiration. So, my challenge to you this week, is to use “wild rumpus” in a poem.
Thanks to Paul Brookes, Gary Bowers, Sonja Bensken Mesher and Renee Espriu for coming out to play. Poem on…
He Was Pandemonium
He caused such a noise, such outcry, such a racket
from the time he crawled, had words & was walking
& with every sibling that arrived within our midst
there was discord between them and between us
from a knock on the door with unfortunate news
of the fact that a boy was perched upon the roof
to his sisters upset as they walked into a bedroom
to see the scurry of a frog causing a commotion
to the neighbor stating your son is in the alley
ought not to be experimenting with matches ought he
to the surprise knock of the police at the door
with a number of hood ornaments in his possession
to the night of upheaval he came home quite sodden
that as I thought in dismay of all the pandemonium
of the day he was born with strawberry blond hair
never I thought ‘the wild rumpus will now begin’ and it did
Last Wednesday’s writing prompt, May 31, 2017: Tell us in prose or poem and in terms of the seasons where you used to be in life and where you are now.
Thanks to those intrepid poets who came out to play. Enjoy the seasons everyone … Read on …
Static Cycles
Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter magic
Spring is best of all
Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter magic
Spring is best of all
Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter m
This is Christopher’s debut with us, so … introducing CHRISTOPHER TROY: Born in Chicago, Illinois in 1978 to a middle class family in an immigrant neighborhood on the city’s north side, Christopher Troy left for Paris in 1996 to study philosophy and political science at the Sorbonne. He spent the next nine years living there, where he was introduced to the arts and Paris’ infamous nightlife. He returned to America after his studies and began a successful decade-long career in politics, until deciding to walk away from it and become a writer. “I’d rather have people applaud me for my lies than be appalled by them,” he said to a friend on the day he left Washington, D.C. He is currently living in Greece and working on his first novel. Examples of his prose and poetry can be found at Christopher Troy Stories.
Four Haiku
Spring
anguish of sunlight
when the people you wait for
don’t turn up on time
Summer
the train stops nowhere
under clear blue morning skies
in total silence
Autumn
yesterdays’ bonfire
drifts into my dreams
– woodpigeon dawn
Winter
plane leaf & puddle
at the grey end of the year
puddle & plane leaf
coddled in wool blanket drifts
Sun sears baby eyes through bright windows,
hospital paths cleared tall walls
of snow either side. I howled
a gust down shop aisles, on street
to the dentists. Crowds frowned.
Summer bike rides in country lanes
Spring divorced winter.
Summer was another dialect. Coarser,
to play was to laik, sweets were spice.
Wide games in a silver wood, ventured
into cold huts. Fun with sausages and custard.
Hull hunkered in Christian winter, relieved by Summer gamelan and hope for a vocation
to last manual work and taking the pillock.
It didn’t. Winter of closing pits.
Bristol summered in performance
Classes on interview technique, teach
Teenagers how to think into a job.
beyond unemployment benefit office screens
Spout words over dripped lager louts,
Back in summered day buzz of words clapped,
then winter cancered into debt
and prodigal return. No fatted calf
only steroid fatted bald mam and chores
in garden until I met my future wife
for a bet in breaks between admin.
Summered teach adults write and history.
A winter that lasted twelve years headset
yoked ears bent to abuse from wronged
Customers and peddled official lines.
Summer came with an unwanted death,
A years enjoyment of travel and delight.
Summer comes in to autumn with cash gone.
Life a priority. Bills must be paid. Work
only part time, buzz when I help customers.
Is this the Winter of her discontent as with
Shakespeare the world around might seem one
that is indifferent to her sadness that age
has besieged her but no it is not so harsh
as the icy cold winds and snow harboring
a breath that will not seek to warm her skin
for it has become like the Season of Summer
where the warming rays of the sun stretches wide
to cover the new growth from Spring that offers
new bright green leaves that will be transformed
into variations of darker greens providing shade
to all of nature’s life beneath boughs of trees
who watch as life is born from tiny tadpoles
becoming frogs to the larvae of dragonflies to
a multitude of birds peering from the safety of eggs
to all beginning a journey of grand proportions
where Fall will see a quiet settling in to harvest
and rest amidst the beauty of all that has become
for stepping into the Winter of her life she now sees
her discontent not as a sadness but as one of observing
all that has come before, all that has become who she is
for it is another beginning and one of transformations
that will show her all the brilliance of her colors
enabling doors to naught hidden as opening to reveal
frozen, the code will not work, nor will the counting with interruptions, all things moved about. there is a discount, on top the discount, so a discussion ensued on buttons.
now there is an understanding. the season of it all fits, the picture is made the pieces are in place. left on the tray, photographed for all to see.
talked in numbers and rhythms. a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze. on return, no one spoke.
i have written of them before, now in sign and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity.
spring comes round, and we keep the little things, again.
No illusions, no illusions, no lies, no softened truths, no tears, no bargains, though sun shines and birds sing, Winter is here, I know.
Spring danced like wild flowers in the wind,
held dew and promise and wore the colors of her heart like jewels.
She hadn’t heard the word defeat and didn’t feel hate or anger.
Spring liked to play and romp and sing and
hung her question on a tree to ripen – Why?
Summer took herself seriously,
was wide-eyed with longing, sizzling in the sun.
She wore a red dress and the champagne happiness of husband and child.
She had reckless courage because Summer is young and youth is bold,
a silver bell that rings and rings and never stops.
Too much is not enough and still that tremulous – Why?
Autumn gently smiled, like Da Vinci’s lady, and danced old dances,
reminisced Begin the Beguine, stepping lightly on dry leaves.
Autumn was lined with gold and muted silks, remembered her manners,
nodded wisely, spoke sagaciously, and was a might too profound.
Haughty and just so very sure that she knew – Why?
Winter is a season content to see herself in time displaced,
knows though fleshy bonds and boundaries dissolve, Life –
like heart has its reasons that reason doesn’t know . . .
Sanguine and serene, it’s just a habit now, that old question – Why?
To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck that which is planted . . .
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Wednesday Writing Prompt
Tell us in prose or poem and in terms of the seasons where you used to be in life and where you are now. If you are comfortable to do so, leave your work in the comments section below. If the work is too long, leave a link to it. All work shared will be published here next Tuesday.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 