Category: NaPoWriMo 2016 (page 1 of 1)

The sun sits low upon the rainy hill
while my senses sit idle in the bone
deaf to the pitter-patter of wild thrill
and youthful candor. A wizened, old crone

beckons the children to return indoors
from out the rain, from out the cloudy tears,
away from the muck of the marsh and moors
which govern over matriarchal fears,

back into the warm embrace of a home
where leaders lie to their own families
and lovers live wherever peace may roam
Uplifted high as a warm summer breeze.

It’s the end of an era, so they say
at the end of every failed decade
filled with blind policy and vile hearsay
like Sisyphus’ rant against the steep grade.

And wherever love has lost, war has gained
A toenail foothold held fast with godspeed
Against a raging flood impassive, stained
by the rosy desires of stamen and seed.

Poetry is a rifling through the drawers of an old dresser in search of some embarrassing photograph that you can now take advantage of with your matured intellect.

Poetry is a ring circus hosting clownish parlour tricks for the sake of a riotous laugh.

I have given it no quarter and it has offered me none in return.
You think you can lie to the page and expect mercy?
Never.
Ink draws blood black when its truth is set hard against you.

Nothing binds more bitter than the written word, so we must truly live in a capitalist society,
for curses have all but been replaced as the primary means of revenge.

And, so this poetry that births itself upon a webpage, in pixellated photons, drenched in the machinations of the info-philic modern age, is even so, worming itself towards a great harmony of thought.
For what else is there to life but to love and to lose?
And if writing can allow a nation to exist for centuries, then it can surely free me from pain.

help is on its way
she said
wait, who’s she?

help is on its way
which way?
how did I get here?

I remember
I recall
so little
about why
and how or when
even now it is hard
to pinpoint the meaning
of the voices and the gestures,
the blurry lights
and doppler sounds
spinning round and round
and round.
I’m sick.
Something is hurt inside me.
My pulse is throbbing
somewhere everywhere bleeding
going leaving where am I going
i dont wanto go idontwantt

White light. Clean. Neat.
It’s a hospital room. I’m alive.
I can feel, I can feel again.
What happened? Was I in an accident?
I was driving on highway 11
just before Sudbury, in that bad stretch
of the road, with the winding turns,
and calamitous, overhanging rockfaces,
when a dark blur burst from the ditch,
just as dusk was dimming the lights,
I saw beige, no, white? flash on the movement –
horns? antlers. A moose, crossing the road,
spin, tumble, yelling. I remember me yelling now
then darkness and now here.
And now, what next? I can’t see or feel my body
and so I burn a hole into the door to my infirmary
with my gaze, waiting for the doctor to deliver his
judgment. And, I wait, and I wonder,
what next?

Open mat, firm floor, breathless chests.
A radii of pinpoint irises focus on the sensei’s stern commands as they issue from out his mouth.

The dojo’s stony silence subsides as all this fret and activity comes and goes.
Its concrete sides respirate between the cracks in the paint.
Compared to the rapidly-pumping cavities of the jiujitsu-kas,
the dojo’s deep breaths take an eon to unfold,
as the air gradually compresses during the day,
and dissipates in the evening, slowly,
like a lagoon that fills with rainwater only to breach its levees and trickle downstream all eventide.

Atmospheric changes can move a room. Rain may melt a mountain and calcium will form a coral reef, given enough time.
Some changes may even move a person from one identity to the next –
a shifting of worlds, as beliefs are unwound and unmade only to be forged anew,
like shards of iron softened into cooler, harder constructs.

You can wake up in a hospital bed unmasked, stripped of all lies and fabrication, and bared before a cynical family, beaten back by diagnoses of derelict diseases, and uncouth scar tissue.
Or, you may slowly realise a pattern of behaviour so entrenched in your way of being that you can no longer conceptualise how to realise yourself in a different way, and so suffer beneath the chains of doubt and uncertainty.
What is known is that as all things change, so does life itself, and so must our selves.

At the end of class, the ambitious few disrobe their gis and inspect their changing bodies, eager for any sign of growth or development, but what they discover is that the topography of their mind has been altered first, as their desire to master a martial art reaches out into the world, and makes itself known like a sea change at high tide.

Sleep, sleep, go away,
Come back to drowse me when
it is not the middle of the day.
I cannot think in a straight line
because every time I close my eyes
they spend a little too much time going cross-eyed
until I am third eye blind and barely aware that I’m alive.
But, I also need you to stay when the night hums
like a congregation getting ready to pray.
The same low register refrain of grasshoppers grazing grates on the nervous system. The fear of hyperactivity among the insects, of the ultraviolence of locusts worms its way into my defenseless brain. Crippled under the weight of the cotton blankets, I entreat every fabled deity for the sweet succour of sleep. But, none reply.
Amd, my sleep-deprived brain is far too addled to absorb the excuses given for why even Zeus and Thor and Joseph Smith could not govern over the realm of sleep.
I only know what I dream and what I dream is too mystical to remember. Too meaningful to memorize. Too slippery tp conceptualize. Hazy meandering amid the disorganized mind, like sifting through lines amd counting the intersection.