My newest adventure is underway. It has lead me to take up residency in a new blog,
Like the Feathers of an Arrow (affectionately known as LFA).

...don't open...don't throw away... is not disappearing completely (not yet),
but postings here will be limited.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

4 buried deep beneath the rubble

i write--
i'd like to say to find myself,
but that sounds so cliche.
truth is, i know where i am;
i know who i am--
i know far too well
who i am.  i just....

i know there's something more
a piece of me--of who i should be--
buried deep within me
longing to taste the fresh air.
i write
in the hopes of unearthing her.

i write to purge myself
of this irrational brain,
which is intent upon suffocating me.
i long to destroy the poison
seething through my veins.
maybe if i can get them all out--
exorcise these evils from my mind--
i might find her hiding beneath the rubble.

i write
i write
so i can breathe.

translation: hhuufffffff = an intake and expelling of breath.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

7 lost to the world

She stared entranced at the skid marks.  The world around her faded into a fog as though the waves of heat permeating from the damp asphalt was creating a wall around her and the chaos around her.  Lights flashed red and blue.  Their strobing rhythm only enhanced her trance.  All the sound surrounding her seemed muffled.  The man pacing back and forth like a mad man throwing and throwing his arms up in the air was screaming profanities at the officers that were trying to reel him in.  But his voice barely registered.  The child wailing and chocking on his tears just touched the edge of her mind though it sounded like it were miles away.  Along with the officers, there were other men in uniform running about.  They called to each other, yelling directions and asking for things.  So much noise and all she seemed to notice was the skid marks.  She couldn't understand why she was so incensed by them.  It nagged at her, like somewhere in the recesses of her mind the answer was there.

The sound of metal grinding, vibrating, crackling, and twisting slowly began to break through  her trance.  The loud obnoxious noise was almost deafening.  Finally she broke stare with the two thick black lines that appeared to have bled from the pavement and turned toward the sound.  She found herself moving.  The pull of the sound was intense.  As she approached the large blue metal object that was bent and twisted into something that no longer resembling the car it once was, she tried to peer into the vehicle.  The empty car seat in the pang brought on a pang of fear and terror, but obnoxious noise of the large metal wrench that was prying open the driver's door yelled for her attention.  She looked back and watched as the firemen finally peeled open the door.  Stepping forward, she looked inside at the driver.  Blood trickled from a gash across the driver's brow down into her eyes.  Instinctively, without thought for herself or those around her, she reached in to wipe the blood away.  The moment her fingers touch the warm damp surface, the world around her erupted to life--full blown and loud.  At that moment, the firemen gave a sigh of relief as the driver for the first time opened her eyes.  Suddenly the world came back into view and she found herself gazing past the fireman toward the two black parallel lines that marred the pavement from the driver's seat of her car.

it feels like an eternity since i last wrote a story (as opposed to a poem)...a month and one day to be precise, but 3 months and 9 days since last i wrote one for Three Word Wednesday [3WW=>damp, incensed, skid]. it feels kind of nice to be exercising those brain muscles once again.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

6 beneath the lies

I'm tired of living these lies,
but breaking free's too hard a task
and help is more than I can ask.

my illness weakens me with "whys"
and fears so strong.  yet still I long
to see beneath my sad disguise.

it's time to rip away my mask.
I'm tired of living these lies!

i feel in order to give a new form (new to me--not necessarily new) a real chance, it needs to be explored/attempted at least three times.  i can't say why exactly three, but i think it provides me with a better feel for how the form works and how well if fits me.  that's not to say that every new form i have explored i've tried at least three times, but i have not made any judgments on the form and its potential for joining my arsenal.  anyway...

...after being introduced to the octain yesterday at One Stop Poetry's Form Monday, i thought i'd give it another go.  i was a bit more awake for the writing of this one...that doesn't mean this one will be any better than the last, but one can hope...

the above octain is being shared via One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday.

side note #1:  the last three lines came to me last night (in the reverse order), but i felt their potential then for turning (ha...get it...turning...) into an octain.

side note #2:  i really think i need to stop writing about masks...

Monday, May 16, 2011

8 toying with octain

on top of this being my first ever's been a long and tiring day...i can hear my bed calling me as i please forgive me the octain i have attempted after reading One Stop Poetry's Form Monday introduction to this form. (note:  my first thought was to use the refrain line "when death comes knocking on your door," but my brain could not seem to handle it quite yet...)

Piercing Round

the bullet pierced his heart straight through
a snipers mark he did not see
did bring him down upon his knees

deceived by love he thought was true
did leave a hole within his soul
to love again he would not do

the words declared finality
her bullet pierced his heart straight through

Sunday, May 15, 2011

7 stranded

just because the tide has left us
high and dry on muddy sand
we are far from stranded
the water is only 50 meters out
we can push the boat that far
I can push the boat that far

"we're stranded," he says.

seriously, look there's another boat
right out there on the waters
and yet another with people aboard
it is easy enough to pull up the anchor
worse comes to worse
we could abandon our vessel
swim our way out to join the others
i am sure they would take us on

"we're stranded," he says.

stepping forward i shake my head at his persistence
his hand reaches out resting on my arm
he turns me to meet his intense mischievous gaze
his unspoken words ring loudly in his eyes
i glance back at the anchor then smiling
turn to get lost in the murky waters of his eyes

"we're stranded," i say.

Photo by Fee Easton
so many choices today over at One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [revisit with Fee Easton].  i finally settled on the one you see here to the left.  i toyed with the idea for awhile in my head, crafting and tasting lines as i floated about this morning.  as i went about my day, with these thoughts lingering in my mind, i thought how my refrain and the feel of a dilemma lent itself to a form i had recent read of over at Poetic i did my best to maintain my original feel, thoughts, craftings and tastes, while melding it with the poetic form, The Bop.