0 Batch #6

Bursting with Pom Seeds
(image by rmp, that's me)

it has been over three months since i last put together a batch of pom seeds.  according to my twitter stream, the last batch left off 107 days ago.  i have found that while the occassional pom seed pops up more tweetoetry seems to be emerging from this social media.  every once in awhile a #ramblings (or what i now deem #random) finds its way into the mix.  i still haven't quite put my finger on what makes a ramblings different from a pom seed, but for now i'll keep them seperate.

for sanity sake, i intend to break these 106 past days into two batches.  so here goes...

---

Pom Seeds Batch #6

• I'm tired of living these lies / it's time to rip away my mask / to see beneath my sad disguise [potential octain in the making]  (unmasked itself in reverse order in an octain, beneath the lies)
• I wish I had the words to heal this hurt / to drive away the stinging pain you feel / the world is stained with many tear-filled shirts / so cry (unfolded itself into an Ottava Rima, tear stained healing)
• he laughs the bitter taste out past his lips / then turns the remnants over on his tongue / to savor them as if a robust wine (evolved into a sweet tasting poem, devil's laugh)
• she snuck in / under cover of night / shaking my world / like a spray can  (inspired by OSP this unraveled in a poem called Graffiti'd:  One Night Impression)
• I walk in a world not my own / but of my own making
• what will become of me / when I squeeze / the last bit of ink / out of my veins
• my heart quakes / earth-shattering tremors / only I can feel / course through me / I search for safety / the open embrace / of...

Ramblings (bold = new)

• silence can be just as profound as the perfectly spoken words (oddly enough the essense of this ramblings found its way into a recent attempt at writing a Ghazal, With Words)
• I just had a converstaion with myself ~ the men with straightjackets must be salivating at the mouth
• do I write the poem ~ or does the poem write me?
• i need a happy though ~ my lips long to feel the contours of a smile
• the taste of silence was never so sweet ~how many different ways can the above line be twisted?~ (i found two ways...which lead to three poems; Kiss Me Senseless, Sweet Kiss, and The Sweet Taste of Silence)
• why do I open myself up to a world that does not know me, yet knows me better than those who do
• my feet despise being confined ~ when the sun shines high in the sky
• can you see the lie behind my smile?  can you hear the pain hiding in my laugh?  (i'm not sure if this was meant to be a ramblings or a pom seed for i did not mark it appropriately and while i think i might have intended it to be a pom seed i have decided to place it amongst my ramblings)
• when they come to take me away ~ will the padded cell be firm enough ~ to protect my mind from bombarding thoughts
• when they come to take me away ~ will the straightjacket be strong enough ~ to protect me from my mind
• I taste a little bit of sunshine on your lips ~ a whole lot of tomorrows in your kiss
• fickle tears ~ they pour when sad ~ they pour when happy ~ they thunder when hurt ~ you'd think they'd pick an emotion and stick with it
• is it wrong that thinking about being happy makes me sad?
• I wish I had the words ~ to heal this wound ~ but they seem to elude ~ still I try ~ pouring out word after word ~ hoping I'll find the perfect mix (i feel like this could potentially stand on its own as a poem or act as a pom seed...)
• pathetic really ~ the way anxiety grips my heart ~ as I step outside myself ~ reaching out ~ to those on the inside of the circle ~ I skirt (could technically be classified as a tweetoetry, but...)
• ~ why do I live like this? one pill...many pills...I need to find an answer (thoughts of a poem lingered in my head upon writing this, With Every Word... In Every Action...)
• I don't have any thoughts lingering in my head ~ Is that what peace feels like? 
• ~ her giggles are like candy ~ 
• anxiety's peace ~ tastes like profanity ~ on virgin lips (thoughts of calling this a poem in its own right still linger)
• forgive my lack of social graces... (part of a recent ramblings post, social-less soul)

Leftovers

• Information overload
• I woke with rose colored glasses and the world was as only I could dream it to be
• my mom use to day; we're never lost; we're just misplaced
• i hate days like today; where i'm blindsided; punched in the chest; days when all i want to do is curl up into a little ball and disappear
• "you're growing."; am I? I don't think I'm growing; maybe just walking outside myself
• love is pain and sorrow; wrapped in disguise; it laughs at me; with its sweet intoxicating lies
• I see myself in black & white; brilliant colors surround me; poke at me; eager to caress me with their warmth; but they bounce off of me
• I will live forever like this; in shadows of who I long to be
• you put me on a shelf and stare at me/ hold me on a pedestal as though I were a queen (I hear this like a song with a biting sound.)  (this finally founds its voice in conjunction with the lines below to form a song called Shine.)
• but you don't listen to a word I say/ nor see the tears that stain my face (continuation of "you put me on a shelf...")  (this finally founds its voice in conjunction with the lines below to form a song called Shine.)  

Tweetoetry

#35, 36, 27
~paint me a picture~

touch me with your brush stroke
harsh and loud
smooth and soft
splash me with luscious color
dark and intense
bold and beautiful
transport me with your passion
stained canvas
outside of myself
into a wistful dream


#38 (tanka)
~three little words

words I long to hear
refuse to form on the tongue
a mere I love you
the words should come easily
when I spead about myself


#39 (senryu - ish)
~MO

he speaks forcefully
unaware he's showcasing
his stupidity


#40 (tanka)
~Reflection

he pontificates
pointing out others' failings
where is his mirror?
does he see their shortcomings
reflect on his leadership?


#41
~broken record

I'm a broken record
when will You adjust the needle
so I may finally belt out my true anthem


#42 (tanka)
~uncovering love

I want to love me
why is that so hard to do?
please just show me how
i so long to uncover
beauty buried deep within


#43 (#ospchat on how emotion impacts writing)
~Poison or Drug

two emotions fuel me ~ depression
that threatens to consume ~ longing
for anything but
writing's a letting of poison
or drug to forget


#44
~Masterpiece

I found him there
having poured all of himself
into his masterpiece
his skeleton fingers
still held the tool
used to steal his life


#45 (septolet)
~weeping stars

her eyes
open
to starlit skies

crystalized tears
weeping
their last rays
of light


#46 (septolet)
~Curiosity

curiosity
he said
he wished
to sate

and I
was his seven
course meal


#47
~The Question

silently I sit
watching the stream
pass me by
as does my life
words ebb and flow
endlessly cascading
while I ponder
to tweet or not to tweet


#48 (septolet)
~dandelion dreams

dreams
are like dandelion
wishes

where the wind
takes hold
so you
might soar


#49, 50
~beautiful love

occasionally
there's a moment
a split second
where I think
"I'm beautiful"
no
not think
rather I believe
in that fleeting moment
that split second
I know
how love feels


#51
~constant stream

shh
stop your obsessive tweeting
I'm sleeping

gee
now I'm wide awake
for heaven's sake


#52
~set me free

uncage me of love
give me wings so I might soar
just unlatch the gate
let me go so I might find
with you is where I belong


#53
~internal earthquake

standing in the doorway
waiting for my world to stop shaking
is how I live my life
a hell of my own making
intent on burying me alive


#54
~beneath the mask

removing my mask
is like breaking the surface
and finally breathing


#55 (inspired after watching an episode of The Glades)
~Purgatory and Hell

an orange jumpsuit
is my purgatory
for believing you loved me

for stealing my heart
your punishment is burning in hell
six feet under

9 Graffiti'd: One Night Impression

Photo by Chris Galford (cropped from original below)

she snuck in under cover of night shaking my world like a spray can her fingertips exerting just the right amount of pressure splashing brilliant colors across the wall I built then she disappeared her mark soaking into me leaving an imprint on my heart

---

Photo by Chris Galford

upon visiting One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [graffiti'd] today, i couldn't help but ask myself...


was it a sign that my latest train of thoughts while in hiding was about dreams.  (my first fixation was on laughs.)  anyway...i guess it was a sign 'cause the words just flew forth...granted they had nothing to do with dreams...although i'd like to think she gave him a little something to dream about...


so why the resent fixation on dreams...not sure i really know.  as i mentioned in my last post i'm looking to rediscover my creative-self...not that it is AWOL...or broken...or marred in anyway shape or form...just (as a my last poem before going into my self-imposed exile puts it) out of sync...in more ways than one.  so i'm working on finding a happy place...thus laughs and dreams...

4 it's a long way down

she is at the precipice of her life

standing on the edge of the world

seeing no other way 

than the shadowy depths

of the water she gazes into

a portal ready to carry her away

far from pain and torment

there was no one to save her

no hand to reach out 

pull her back from the edge

no one notices her standing here

even as the sun begins to rise

even as the world wakes up

no one notices her 

feet skirting the ledge

thoughts drowning in the water

closing her eyes

she tears her gaze from the water

turns to feel the brightness of the world

longing to feel it envelope her

wrap her in its warmth

her patience runs dry

defeated and deflated

her eyes open

and with them her heart rises

a halo of light 

cascading around a building

across the water

a beacon drawing her

sending up bubbles of hope

she never knew were in her

everything she was feeling disappears

into the rays of light

what the building holds for her

she knows not

but somehow she knows

it holds the answers

and so she must go

without a second thought

she takes a step forward and

                                             .

                                              .

                                              .

                                              .

                                              .

                                              .

---

Photo by Scott Wyden

was it wrong of me to end things like this?  i don't know...maybe...  especially with such a beautiful picture for inspiration...  but what can i say...


i always seem to find myself in unusual places when facing a photo prompt...  thanks to OSP One Shoot Sunday [interview with Scott Wyden] for their knack at finding such thought inspiring images and photographers.


okay, so i was just getting ready to decide on a title for the poem and the song "Ice Cream" by Sarah McLachlan that i barely noticed playing in the background goes and says..."it's a long way down."  it seemed so fitting...

5 Rite of Passage

The sun does favor you today.
By casting you in brilliant light,
your masculinity shines bright.

A warrior you well portray
with head held high. My heart does sigh
as thoughts of mine do go astray.

I blush to think of such a night.
The sun does favor you this day.

The wind does favor you today.
So young and brave our fledgling knight,
to stand before us all with might.

The catching breeze gives naught away;
it billows red to frame your head
and hides the rest to my dismay.

Yet still you are a tasty sight.
The wind does favor you this day.

---

Photo by Walter Parada

so i missed yesterday's One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Walter Parada]...missed might be a bit off.  i saw the image in the morning, let some ideas roll around in my head as i often do, settled on a concept and well never managed to find time to put it all together.  while a little disappointed (with myself for allowing myself to get waylaid), i thought to move on...that and figured i might be able to incorporate it into One Stop Poetry's Form Monday.  when i saw today's form was about the octain again, i didn't think i could fit my concept into eight lines...but low and behold today expanded the octain into a high octain (double octain)...and after some thought...this was a plausible possibility.  so alas, while it is the same concept, i did take it from a slightly different direction, leaving out some of my original thoughts (the snickering old biddies would definitely have been a treat)...but i think in the end it worked out okay...maybe...

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 Asides...so i did my best to maintain my original feel, thoughts, craftings and tastes, while melding it with the poetic form, The Bop.

4 disillusioned

the sands of time slip casually through your fingers
they have tested you well
still you hold on to a dream

my touch should soothe and comfort
but instead it burns you raw
outwardly and internally

the love and adoration you see in my eyes
is a mirage--a lie your mind spreads
echoing the sounds of your heart

the truth is i cannot be tamed
winds blow endlessly carrying me forth
leaving you behind

sandstorms shift dunes
carving new paths
burying you in my unforgiving sights

don't try to understand me
rather shield your heart from me
as you have shielded your face from my brutal wrath

---

Photo by Rosa Frei

so two things came to mind as i pondered what i might write, "sands of time" and "mirage."  just seeing the eyes led me quickly to not a dessert mirage, but one seen in the depths of the eyes.  as i started thinking about where i was going, my first instinct was to speak of disillusioned love between two people, but the more i thought about it, i think the idea of the dessert speaking to a traveler seemed just as plausible.  so i tried to leave it open enough that it might be taken either way.  anyway...


inspiration for this post came from One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Rosa Frei].  

8 Flashes of Memories

she hears the footsteps behind her
a memory flashes across closed eyelids
for the briefest of seconds she's transported
time slips away and her chest tightens
an eruption of thoughts and emotions
paralyze an already battered, beaten and aged body
eyes flicker open closing out the memories
wrinkled spotted hands clenched together
atop well abused unusable legs

she looks at the hall ahead of her
a desire to find an alternate root sets in
for too many times has she seen the faces
whose eyes reflect the same hollow sadness as her own
in person they are strong fierce individuals
but here along these halls their souls have been captured
a lens--like a microscope--sees deep within
shouting the stories they long wish to bury

she feels the presence of attendant behind her
a moment of relief sets in at the comfort of companionship
the chair begins to move down the hall
she averts her eyes from the photo laden doors
eyes become entranced on the beautiful day outside
a walk in the fresh air speaks to her soul
the flash of scenery beyond the window twists transporting her
back to that fateful day were she innocently except a ride
her village quickly flash before the car window
replaced by unfamiliar foliage
leading to a world she was far too young to experience
aged wrinkled eyes turn away from the windows--from the memories

she looks straight ahead of her
a fruitless attempt to escape
for every corner, new and old,
triggers images, thoughts, and memories
her tenuous mind longs to forget
her weak fragile body longs to erase
her tortured soul longs for recognition--
a simple acknowledgement and apology--
so when her time comes she may finally rest
in peace

---

"Dal Seon halmeoni"
Photo by Greg Laychak

it seems such a simple picture...it could be anyone whose time on this earth as been long and well spent...but it's not.  knowing just a fragment, a speck of dust really, of who this picture represents made me think what her hall of memories would hold for her...but truthfully i cannot even begin to fathom her life's ordeal.

the image was offered up by One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Greg Laychak].  Greg's "prominent work, 'Fading Voices' – a photo documentary project about victims/survivors of sexual slavery from WWII."

2 doulbe trouble

Photo by James Rainsford

No Way Out

deep within
the darkness envelopes me
escape haunts
each waking
breath i dare to take
let me sleep

---

so i'm not sure of the last line...the one above fits me...for i like sleep...it is a wonderful escape, yet i wonder if i should make it a bit more...i don't know 'fighting'...if that makes sense.  as i sit here continuing to type i'm still thinking about changing it..."set me free"...maybe i'm just not ready for that kind of hope...  i thought to make the above form fit into a shadorma, but i it turned itself around on me...  anyway...


i have to say, given the options for this Sunday's One Stop Poetry's One Shot Sunday, i was struck  by two images.  the one you see above, and the one--should you dare to continue to read--you'll see below.  (although technically you don't have to read the below to see the image.  but anyway...the image below inspired a thought that i wasn't sure how to put into a poem...though i've been a bit impressed with myself and some of the things i've managed to turn into a poem, i didn't not feel it.  I think my problems the dialogue i want to include...i'm toyed with dialogue in poems before, but i'm not extremely comfortable with it.  i thought to try the who Flash Fiction 55, but that was laughable.  anyway...

---

Photo by James Rainsford

Turnstile
His foot had barely touched the fifth step when he was halted by a voice behind him.  "Both escalators go up."  The puzzlement in the angelic voice brought a smile to his lips.  "Where are the down escalators?"  A subtle laugh escaped him.  The oddity of the question forced him to turn and look upon the innocent creature who would ask such a thing.

She was breathtaking.  If it were possible, his heart would have skipped a beat at the sight of her.  He shook the thought from his head and gestured with his head behind her.  "Down is over there.  But you don't really want to go down do you?"

Her head began to shake almost immediately.  "No.  I was just curious.  I mean how does anyone ever get back down from..."  Her voice trailed off as she pointed upward. 

The thought had never really occurred to him.  He looked up toward his destination and pondered her question.  Finally he turned back to her and said, "Why would anyone want to come back down here?" 

She shrugged, but said nothing else.  He turned and began to continue his climb.  It took about two steps before he was halted once again.  "Why are you using the stairs?  It seems a little pointless at this point."

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he turned back toward her.  "I tried."  He thought to his thwarted attempts and the fear of what they meant worked relentlessly to take hold of his soul.  "Four times in fact."  He gestured to the escalator on his left.  "Twice there and," he paused to gesture at the right escalators, "twice there."  She continued to look at him, her question plain across her face.  "Each time, I get have way up and the escalators stop and reverse." 

Her stare bore into him.  The fear began to bubble up again; he knew she was thinking the same thing as him.  When she finally spoke, he was surprised by her question.  "You had enough tokens to get on four times?"

"I don't have any tokens."  If he had thought her odd before, now he was sure of it.  He shook his head.  "I jumped the turnstile." 

Her brows furrowed in puzzlement.  Again he was caught by her angelic beauty.  "Did you check your pockets?"  She asked matter-of-factly. 

He shook his head at her question and mindlessly began to put his hand in his pockets ready to withdraw the empty interior fabric.  "Why would I check my po...."  His voice trailed off as he pulled a token from his pocket.  So stunned was he that he hardly noticed his decent down the stairs until he stood beside her.  Finally tearing his gaze away from the token he looked up at her sparkling hazel eyes.  "How did you know?"

She shrugged and held up her hand.  "'Cause I found this in my pocket."  He marveled at the twin token that sat in her delicate hand.  She gestured toward the escalator.  "Shall we?"  So dumbfounded he just nodded.  Mindlessly he watched her place the token in the coin slot and step through the turnstile.  He followed suit.  His gaze was caught for some time on the floor they had just left behind.  His breath caught for a moment as they approached the midway point.  As that illusive streach of escalator finally passed, he let go the air that filled his useless lungs.  Her laugh floated down to him.  He gazed up at her as the brightness above grew stronger.  She shook her head at him.  "I can't believe you tried jumping a turnstile to get into heaven."

3 deflated

his brow furrowed when he saw my dress
he scratched his head
when he caught sight of my bubblegum pink shoes
finally he looked at me
with his question plainly visible in his facial expression
I shrugged my shoulders
at loss for how to explain
but he read the expression as well as the ones
he made a living off of
strange
how sometimes he seemed to know me
better than I knew myself
I don't wear dresses
I don't care much at all for bright colors
but today
I woke feeling blue
and thought these things might lift me up
his expression
went from puzzled
to pondering
to inspiration
he drew a yellow balloon
from his pocket and began to blow
with each breath
he seemed more and more drained
as he tied the final knot
then wrapped it with a matching string
I marveled at how the balloon rose from his hand
now I was the one who stood puzzled
as he offered me his mysterious gift
his expression willed me to take the yellow floating bubble
but the moment the yellow string touched my hand
the ballon began to fall
the treasure he had given me
seemed quite intent on matching my mood
not until it finally touched ground did I realize
I
no longer did
after a moment of shock I looked at him
his big goofy grin looked up at me
and I found myself smiling
he held out his hand
I took it
oh what a sight we must be
for away we walked
me with my deflated balloon
and he with my colorful floating self

---

Photo by Lauren Randolph

her friend is a mime...i don't exactly say that in so many words...i had intended on mentioning it...but somehow it never came up...maybe i'll work it in...maybe i'll let it stand as a mystery.


inspiration for today's poem came from One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Lauren Randolph].

3 Capturing the Soul

her eyes drew in the scene from behind the camera
the sound of the shutter blocked out the noise around her
and she became entranced by what lay before her

the poise, the fluidness, the delicacy
of the beauty on the other side of the lens
entranced her, mystified her, rapt her

so engrossed by the sound of the camera
and the beauty it fraught to capture
she barely noticed the vibrant eyes' luster vanishing

once it caught her attention that was all she saw
with every click of the shutter
her eyes could see more clearly the absence of shine

when the photographer paused for but a moment
and the rhythmic sound of the shutter ceased
she noticed the beauty's striking resemblance to her own

drawing her hand away from her face
she gazed upon her translucent skin
just as the sound of the shutter recommenced

she watch as with every click of the shutter
the translucency faded into a opaqueness
until she found herself quite whole

once again she looked at the mirror image of the beauty
the eyes a blank soulless stare of blackness
she vaguely heard the shutter stop, the session end

as she was left, just her, gone was the vacant-eyed beauty
the photographer flipped a switch on the camera
submerging her into complete and utter darkness

she felt a strange glow behind her and spun
a movie sized window stood before her
the giant eerie smile of the photographer looked at her

"ah, my delicate precious flower,
you will be the perfect addition to my collection."
then came a click and she was engulfed by the darkness.

---

(photo by India Hobson)

i really think some of my most inspired ideas come while driving.  as is always the case, i was not sure how i might transform the photo challenge from One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with India Hobson].  and i won't go into detail, but be happy my first thoughts (which included a CSI photographer) were dismissed.  after the thought of soul stealing popped, i couldn't help but think back to the interview where the photographer had said she once thought "the 'soul' could be seen in a photograph."  how could this idea not be a perfect way to go after that?!?

4 far from ordinary

there's a secret
beneath this guise
hidden well
by this ugly rough exterior
a facade meant to deceive
intent on blending in
hoping to disappear
amongst the ordinary
very few
see it for what it is
only a handful
look beyond the surface
crack it wide open
baring the beauty
that lies deep within
the ugly rough armor

---

"Time Wave Zero"
(photo by Roger Allen Baut)

the image to the left was provided as inspiration by One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [flashback to interview with Roger Allen Baut].  i'm not good with abstract.  my mind has this incessant need to make sense of things.  to that end, i found myself on an unusual train of thought.  glass... waves... sparkling... blue... white... crystal... minerals... bookends... (what bookends don't make sense to you...imagine being inside my brain...)  anyway...bookends made of agate quartz have an layered feel of blue hues and white.  their pattern is a bit different from the presented image, but nonetheless this is were my train of thought lead me.  and from there i found myself.  (yeah, that's it.  myself.  that's what this poem ended up being about.)  so i ended far from where i began and quite disconnected should anyone try to make the connection to the image without my odd sequence of thought.  


i also managed a pom seed out of the deal.  (again it is quite disjointed from the actual image, but reflects the bookens and myself.)  this pom seed did not mature enough to be included in the poem above, but i think it has potential.  "you put me on a shelf and stare at me/ hold me on a pedestal as though I were a queen"  (in my head, i hear this as a song with a biting sound.  i'd sing it for you, but i don't want to scare you off...well anymore than my odd ramblings might.)


side note:  i feel like recently i've used the word guise (or disguise) way too often...

5 perfectly still

he sits perfectly still
stone-faced
watching and waiting
he laughs inside
as they marvel at him
so real
like a delicate flower
so perfect
it must be fake
their fingers itch
to reach out and touch
their need for confirmation
evident in their beady eyes
instead they just stare
at his stone cold face
then walk away
he finds they rarely
look close enough
for if they did
they'd surely see
the truth they seek
in the black coals of his eyes
he sits perfectly still
stone-faced
like the statue beneath him
watching and waiting
to bestow his gift
of luck
on someone
who truly
sees him

Photo by James Rainsford

---

as i marveled at this image from One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with James Rainsford], i could help but notice how perfect the bird's color was for camouflaging with the stone statue he is about ready to depart.  and so the poem above took flight (sorry, i couldn't help myself).  

2 threes

Obsessed
she has been
since first
she discovered the lie
broke her teeth on it
and cried

you wouldn't know it
to look at her
she conceals it well
her unruly main
hides the three earrings
her painted face
covers her third eye
which she makes a fortune
telling off of

Obsessed
she has been
since first
she uncovered the lie
wrote an epitaph to it
and laughed

some say she's gifted
blessed in threes
only she knows the truth
scoffs at it
dares it to strike
the only future
she knows for certain
she'll meet head first
three times before anyone else

---

Photo by Fee Easton

i blanked...i looked at the image and one might think, i'd be taken by the ghostly white painted face, the unruly mop of hair, the nonchalant yet daring tilt of her head, or the cigarettes that protruded from her lips, but no, i found myself quite taken by the number three.  she faded into the background almost disappearing as the number jumped forth and took over.  the first poem to come forth had absolutely nothing to do with her.  yet she haunted me, and after a while the short poem i wrote became hers as did the obsession.  i'm not sure about the poem those two things birthed, but i'll let you make of it what you will.

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her epitaph...

the owl lied
it takes far more
than just three

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inspiration for the poems above comes from One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Fee Easton].

9 waiting eternally

he hovers patiently--sword at the ready
off stage--waiting for his cue

it never comes

the lines are all wrong--no laughter echoes
in the aisles
the costumes are strange--bright brilliant colors lacking
on the racks--and his cue

it never comes

the backdrop doesn't fit--seascapes should coat
the curtains
the scenery changes--night in and night out
on stage--and his cue

in never comes

he hovers patiently--whispering his lines
in his head--waiting for his cue

tonight's the night

deep in his bones he can tell--though
the faces are different
the costumes seem a tad unfamiliar
the backdrop feels a bit off
but the lines
they definitely are a perfect fit

tonight's the night

he hovers patiently--his sword at the ready
off stage--waiting for his cue

tonight's the night

he takes two steps--his sword at the ready
impatience finally having set in--his feet fall out
beneath him--crashing into memories
pools of red--curtains fall like blood dripping
from him--he whispers his lines
into the air--they fade like his last breath
waiting for his cue

it never comes

he hovers patiently--sword at the ready
off stage--waiting for his cue

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"The Show Must Go On"
(Photo by Jacob Lucas)

i felt compelled upon viewing this week's One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Jacob Lucas] to zoom in on the trees on the backdrop.  while zoomed in, i thought to take look around.  i made my way across the top and down the right side--that's when he jumped out at me--for but a split second he stood there sword in hand--he faded quickly back into the wall, but remnants of him lingered in the corrosion staining the wall.  so i chose to write his endless wait...

4 precious friends

my fingers trace along their spines
caressingly drawing in their essence
a soothing calm washes over me
melting away the world
that surrounds and suffocates me
i find solace
in their creased bindings
in their sun faded edges
in the texture of their pages
in the worlds they open up to me

i step away with fear and sadness
for this beautiful place of sanctuary
is dissolving before my eyes
being replaced with a cold
intangible digital world of convenience
soon these shelves will be encased
in glass boxes with a sign
"look, but don't touch"
libraries will become museums
meant solely house these precious artifacts
never will they feel the touch
of warm hands
of soothing fingers
of salty tears
of sweet laughter

as much as i long to hold on to them
draw them to me and pretend
they will always be
how can i?
when i sit here
my smart phone at the ready
with its dictionary
with its rhyming app
with its twitter app
with its rss feeder

i'm far from guilt free
my fingers typing silently away
composing and sharing digitally
my ereader sitting at my right elbow
long gone are the days
of cave drawings
of hieroglyphics written on stone tablets
of ink stained scrolls
of words typed on the ancient typewriter in my parent's basement

i look at my friends just sitting there
waiting patiently for me to find the time
that eludes me in this hectic fast paced digital society
and a soothing calm washes over me
for i will not abandon them
not completely
because they hold me in the palm of their hands
invoking deep down within me
a passion for the written word
an appetite for life
a desire to slow down and escape
a longing for what could be

Photo by JackAZ

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inspiration for this piece came from One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with JackAZ Photography].  i found myself thinking about this old typewriter and its history, and somehow i went from thinking about what it was replaced with to what is starting to replace its product.  i have a fondness for books.  just being surrounded by shelves of books can sooth my tempestuous soul.  so after an unusual train of thought that started with an old typewriter, i found the above words take form.  (i didn't abandon the typewriter completely, he made a cameo appearance.) 

7 battle worn fiddle

I can't help but wonder,
what tune does he play?

Is it something soft and sweet
with a melancholy feel?
No one else will play it for him.
His actions do not invoke empathy
when his world finally crashes down.
So does he play his own sympathy tune?

Is it something more even tempo
with a splash of excitement thrown in?
Everyone else thinks him an ominous tune.
His actions are quite normal to him
though there is the occasional lightsaber bout.
So does he play his own theme song?

Or does he play the devil's tune
with its harsh better-than-you-are fiddle beat?
Anything else seems quite out of place.
His actions are meant to entice and lure
the souls of all to the forces of dark.
So does he play his own siren's melody?

Please do tell me,
what tune do you think he plays?

photo by JackAZ

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my first thought upon seeing Darth Vader with a fiddle in hand was "the devil went down to Georgia...he was looking for a soul to steal...."  the song continues to play in my head.  but i mean look at him.  doesn't he look ready to do battle with his bow?

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inspiration for this poem comes from a One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with JackAZ Photography].

4 two sides

upon first glance i saw a bird...upon further inspection i found a rock...but whose to say both are not correct.  i stared at the picture some more and wondered what the view from the other side might be...the bird/rock definitely has the advantage...or does it?

Rock Bird

perched on a threshold
unable to choose a side
now petrified stone


upon further reflection into what view the other side might hold, i found myself thinking how things can be seen from more than one angle or perspective...have one meaning to someone and another meaning for another...thus after writing a haiku, it was not hard for my mind to make the jump to a sedoka.

Ancestral Home

caressing the stone
where once her ancestors stood
brings a sweet smile to her lips

remnants of a past
long gone, but not forgotten
curl his lips in sour disgust

photo by Sean McCormick

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somewhere in my head another thought still lingers, but for now i'll take my leave of this image.  maybe later i'll return to pick my way through the rubble and discover what might still be lingering...

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inspiration for this poem comes from a new source (for me, that is).  One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Sean McCormick].

4 Rape (of Innocence): Memories Unraveled

Images of that night flash before me
a memory twisted through time
seen through a tinted window
stained in the pastel colors of my innocence
stepping through the broken threshold
of the small wooden structure
transports me into a world of dreams
stone walls of a castle envelope me
with arms outstretch i twirl in circles
marveling at the finery that surrounds
the hearth lit crimson by the burning embers
i fall back on the ornate four post bed
winded from the excitement that threatens to explode
drawing in a breath, my eyes close on the perfect world
tears squeeze past closed lids
as the earth begins to quake beneath me,
above me, and all around me
in those few short moments
time passes like an eternity
stars whiz by in the heavens
as the fires of hell reach up trying to consume me
i'm catapulted back to the here and now
once again surrounded by the wooden structure
the tinted window has been replaced
stained with harsh colors of my lost innocence
time has unraveled the hidden memories
as images of that night collide before me

photo by Sean McCormick

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this poem took me on a journey i was not expecting...i tried to take a detour, but it steered me right back to the unexpected destination.  (entitled with respects to an earlier work, Rape (of Innocence).) 

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inspiration for this poem comes from a new source (for me, that is).  One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday [interview with Sean McCormick].

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