Uncut Thread
Like salt in chocolate so you seem to me
an evening with a perfect cup of tea
These things we seek since childhood to taste
pursuing happiness on feet that flee
from all the darkness deep upon the world
that lays upon the mind so staggeringly
I once believed that love was like a furnace
could burn me up too fast for me to see
Or maybe love was deeper than the ocean
but choked and fraught with flotsam and debris
But there you were with moonlight in your hair
a promise of the person I could be
I'll try to be the person that you see
this evening with a single cup of tea
Notes: I tried to write a ghazal but I messed up on some of the rules so here we are.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Monday, April 24, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 17: Now Only One Week Behind!
Insomniac's Lullabye
listen
rain is falling outside
your window
whispering
a song you half remember
the radio plays in the next room
soft-focus NPR voices but
pretend you cannot understand them
a language you half forget
listen
you are falling asleep
the way you fall in love
reluctantly
frogs are calling in the grass
rising and falling
with every breath
listen
the rain has stopped
or maybe
you've fallen
asleep
listen
rain is falling outside
your window
whispering
a song you half remember
the radio plays in the next room
soft-focus NPR voices but
pretend you cannot understand them
a language you half forget
listen
you are falling asleep
the way you fall in love
reluctantly
frogs are calling in the grass
rising and falling
with every breath
listen
the rain has stopped
or maybe
you've fallen
asleep
NaPoWriMo Day 16: Five by Five
On the Dock
sea
and sky
seagulls flock
waiting for day's
end
#2
he
never
locks the car
small towns are safe
right?
They Fear Nothing
deer
wander
eat roses
nothing is safe
damn
Small Town
I
knew you
when you were
this tall. How's your
mom?
In the Parking Lot Behind the Bank
birds
wheeling
evening sky
the color of
tea
Notes: These are all "lanternes", a fun syllabic poem that goes 1-2-3-4-1. They're all about my hometown.
sea
and sky
seagulls flock
waiting for day's
end
#2
he
never
locks the car
small towns are safe
right?
They Fear Nothing
deer
wander
eat roses
nothing is safe
damn
Small Town
I
knew you
when you were
this tall. How's your
mom?
In the Parking Lot Behind the Bank
birds
wheeling
evening sky
the color of
tea
Notes: These are all "lanternes", a fun syllabic poem that goes 1-2-3-4-1. They're all about my hometown.
NaPoWriMo Day 15: Small Things
Minor Arcana
A curse on you
and your family
may apathy follow
on your heels may
busses pass your stop
may single shingles fall
from your roof
like tears from a single man
in a movie theatre
pretending he is strong
Notes: it feels unfinished but bruh I am almost 10 days behind so HERE WE ARE
A curse on you
and your family
may apathy follow
on your heels may
busses pass your stop
may single shingles fall
from your roof
like tears from a single man
in a movie theatre
pretending he is strong
Notes: it feels unfinished but bruh I am almost 10 days behind so HERE WE ARE
Thursday, April 20, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 14: Vaguely Insulting and Not Very Good
Clerihews for the Unlucky Few
Lin-Manuel Miranda
got dark circles like a panda
only owns a single sweater
best achievement was rhyming Burr, sir
Tara Madrone
Got a new case for her phone
Purple is the color she likes
Spends all day working with tykes
James Teebes Kelso
Likes to fly solo
Never will he pass up a pun
Does that really make him fun?
Larry Dennison
Well, he's pretty fun
Very good at cooking
But rather less good-looking
Rick Dennison
Taught me how to make a pun
His record collection is off the hook
But has he ever read a book?
Robert Downey Jr
You'll find that he's no amateur
If asked a question at Sundance or Cannes
He just says "I am Iron Man"
Chris Evans
Is a gift from the heavens
If you're funny he'll grab a left boob
In some ways, he's just a loveable noob
Notes: So I learned a new type of poem called a clerihew and I'm addicted. The first line is a name, the second line rhymes with that name, and then the last two lines are a couplet. They're usually about famous people and should make fun of the person a bit. Try it! It's very fun.
Lin-Manuel Miranda
got dark circles like a panda
only owns a single sweater
best achievement was rhyming Burr, sir
Tara Madrone
Got a new case for her phone
Purple is the color she likes
Spends all day working with tykes
James Teebes Kelso
Likes to fly solo
Never will he pass up a pun
Does that really make him fun?
Larry Dennison
Well, he's pretty fun
Very good at cooking
But rather less good-looking
Rick Dennison
Taught me how to make a pun
His record collection is off the hook
But has he ever read a book?
Robert Downey Jr
You'll find that he's no amateur
If asked a question at Sundance or Cannes
He just says "I am Iron Man"
Chris Evans
Is a gift from the heavens
If you're funny he'll grab a left boob
In some ways, he's just a loveable noob
Notes: So I learned a new type of poem called a clerihew and I'm addicted. The first line is a name, the second line rhymes with that name, and then the last two lines are a couplet. They're usually about famous people and should make fun of the person a bit. Try it! It's very fun.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 13: English Voodoo
This Is How To Fall In Love
Beetle-black, a misnomer, did you
ever really look at that exoskeleton?
sometimes we wear our bones on the outside
iridescent as an oil slick
nothing sticks to a rolling stone
I'm told
Where are the points that connect us
when blood is a nursery rhyme
all the things we remember
have gone up in greenstick fractures of flame
In Bottletown, even our tears flicker like jewels.
Broken windows are an eye to the soul
or was it the glass-lined streets that reflected
scintillating, like a universe of stars in my gut?
ignorance was never a luxury I could afford
This is the secret of how to die:
live, until someone shoots first
retell your story until it works
like summer grass growing higher than my head
follow the bug compass and there I am
waiting
sometimes we get the words wrong
keys stuck in a lock, jammed
I'm sorry
There are a thousand things in this room
and I'm and merely
one of them
Notes: the truth is I will never stop writing about Vurt. It's a problem I don't know how to solve. Count the references!
Beetle-black, a misnomer, did you
ever really look at that exoskeleton?
sometimes we wear our bones on the outside
iridescent as an oil slick
nothing sticks to a rolling stone
I'm told
Where are the points that connect us
when blood is a nursery rhyme
all the things we remember
have gone up in greenstick fractures of flame
In Bottletown, even our tears flicker like jewels.
Broken windows are an eye to the soul
or was it the glass-lined streets that reflected
scintillating, like a universe of stars in my gut?
ignorance was never a luxury I could afford
This is the secret of how to die:
live, until someone shoots first
retell your story until it works
like summer grass growing higher than my head
follow the bug compass and there I am
waiting
sometimes we get the words wrong
keys stuck in a lock, jammed
I'm sorry
There are a thousand things in this room
and I'm and merely
one of them
Notes: the truth is I will never stop writing about Vurt. It's a problem I don't know how to solve. Count the references!
NaPoWriMo Day 12: A Dramatic Utterance At A Moment In Time
Kennings
Last night I was walking home, it was late
streetlights yellow islands
one headphone out, listening for a siren's song
raiders on that wine-dark sea, the growl of a motorcycle
woke me up, thinking
on my left the hard reality of a car
on my right the growl of a motorcycle
slowing
flickering islands far from view, but I am fast
my feet can follow the whale roads
faster than they know, but
no
it is only the local grocer
wanting to know why I haven't visited
I was sick, I say, he nods, sympathetic
leaves me to my thoughts
tripping between lights and wondering if next time
I'll stay so luck
Notes: my 11th grade English teacher always said a poem was "a dramatic utterance at a moment in time" so this one's for you Chris.
Last night I was walking home, it was late
streetlights yellow islands
one headphone out, listening for a siren's song
raiders on that wine-dark sea, the growl of a motorcycle
woke me up, thinking
on my left the hard reality of a car
on my right the growl of a motorcycle
slowing
flickering islands far from view, but I am fast
my feet can follow the whale roads
faster than they know, but
no
it is only the local grocer
wanting to know why I haven't visited
I was sick, I say, he nods, sympathetic
leaves me to my thoughts
tripping between lights and wondering if next time
I'll stay so luck
Notes: my 11th grade English teacher always said a poem was "a dramatic utterance at a moment in time" so this one's for you Chris.
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 11: Locus Amoenus
Locus Amoenus
Somewhere, there is a garden,
of what I suppose is the regular sort.
It hides between stumbling walls,
a conflation of control
and chaos, each fall of blossom a barely contained exclamation
Somewhere, there is a path,
winding from a door that opens with a kick,
timbers warped from the seasonal shift of warm to cool, dry to damp,
there and back again.
Leave your shoes, your fears,
regrets, memories, leave them by the door
once again stuck fast.
The grass is cool and soft.
The sun is slanted and golden,
filtered through a ceiling of reaching leaves
Somewhere there is a lover, waiting
arms outstretched like branches toward the sky
fingertips of petal and willow
honeysuckle lips
like a late summer moon.
Notes: Locus Amoenus refers to a beautiful place, usually cultivated, a fenced in bit of the wild. As Chaucer writes:
Somewhere, there is a garden,
of what I suppose is the regular sort.
It hides between stumbling walls,
a conflation of control
and chaos, each fall of blossom a barely contained exclamation
Somewhere, there is a path,
winding from a door that opens with a kick,
timbers warped from the seasonal shift of warm to cool, dry to damp,
there and back again.
Leave your shoes, your fears,
regrets, memories, leave them by the door
once again stuck fast.
The grass is cool and soft.
The sun is slanted and golden,
filtered through a ceiling of reaching leaves
Somewhere there is a lover, waiting
arms outstretched like branches toward the sky
fingertips of petal and willow
honeysuckle lips
like a late summer moon.
Notes: Locus Amoenus refers to a beautiful place, usually cultivated, a fenced in bit of the wild. As Chaucer writes:
And when, in the summer, he wanted to pay
his wife he debt, he and May would
go there, no one except those two;
and things that were not done in bed,
he successfully performed in the garden.
Thursday, April 13, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 10: Mythological
Pursuit Of
In dreams I am Daphne, roots reaching toward solid ground
skin bark-hardened under the glare of that Apollo sun
trading blood for sap as my soft reality
shifts to heavy heartwood
Cover with green earth, this heart
its home in mountain passes
Let blossoms sprout from my eyes
until all I see
is yellow pollen sky
Stretch my starving arms like antennas
tuned to your affection
These bones are the foundation
of a promise
Fly
I would, if I were someone else
but a tree must be what it is
that frustrating reality
of nature
In dreams I am Daphne, roots reaching toward solid ground
skin bark-hardened under the glare of that Apollo sun
trading blood for sap as my soft reality
shifts to heavy heartwood
Cover with green earth, this heart
its home in mountain passes
Let blossoms sprout from my eyes
until all I see
is yellow pollen sky
Stretch my starving arms like antennas
tuned to your affection
These bones are the foundation
of a promise
Fly
I would, if I were someone else
but a tree must be what it is
that frustrating reality
of nature
Notes: I've always adored the bit in Metamorphoses where Daphne becomes a tree, that moment when he can still feel her beating heart under the hardening bark, and so I just spun off from there.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 9: Rhyme Scheming
With Bare Feet We Walk to the River
I once heard a whisper in the willows,
when the moon was bright and clean
Delicate sussurus, words like dominoes
snip-tapping down to the river so dry
When the moon glowed like the silver screen
A leaf-rustle murmur, a gentle sigh
The sky so dark but the stars aglow
Willows told me the secrets they'd seen,
when the moon herself taught the river to flow.
Notes: I should have written this back on the 9th so here is a poem with nine lines called a Nocturna. The form comes with a rhyming scheme and it also must be about the night or night-related things. I want to write more of these, this was really fun.
I once heard a whisper in the willows,
when the moon was bright and clean
Delicate sussurus, words like dominoes
snip-tapping down to the river so dry
When the moon glowed like the silver screen
A leaf-rustle murmur, a gentle sigh
The sky so dark but the stars aglow
Willows told me the secrets they'd seen,
when the moon herself taught the river to flow.
Notes: I should have written this back on the 9th so here is a poem with nine lines called a Nocturna. The form comes with a rhyming scheme and it also must be about the night or night-related things. I want to write more of these, this was really fun.
NaPoWriMo Day 8: And It's All Just History Repeating
In Circles and Circles
I wonder about history
Did they
dream with the same pounding hearts as I
Did they
imagine the world made better, made clean
and bright
and circles and circles
Comes back to the same routine
What are we but
messy collections of water and worry
A cucumber with anxiety
and circles and circles
Mind tracing the same pettersns
the same routines, like
believing in impossible stories of what we could be
and making them true.
Notes: The prompt was to use some sort of repetition. I feel like this needs...more...but I'm not sure what that is yet. I'll come back to it. Perfection is not the point of napowrimo.
I wonder about history
Did they
dream with the same pounding hearts as I
Did they
imagine the world made better, made clean
and bright
and circles and circles
Comes back to the same routine
What are we but
messy collections of water and worry
A cucumber with anxiety
and circles and circles
Mind tracing the same pettersns
the same routines, like
believing in impossible stories of what we could be
and making them true.
Notes: The prompt was to use some sort of repetition. I feel like this needs...more...but I'm not sure what that is yet. I'll come back to it. Perfection is not the point of napowrimo.
NaPoWriMo Day 7: I Have No Excuses
The Sky of Tomorrow
A late-night star may watch us as we wait
among the winter flowers frozen still
that constellation mapped out, desolate
upon your face, as written by a quill
If ever I'm to find another place
among the whistling grasses shifting so
all memories of our time you might deface
The time we shared was precious that is true
but time is only dear in backward view
Notes: I got nothin'. I'm like a week behind and writing nonsense in iambic pentameter.
A late-night star may watch us as we wait
among the winter flowers frozen still
that constellation mapped out, desolate
upon your face, as written by a quill
If ever I'm to find another place
among the whistling grasses shifting so
all memories of our time you might deface
The time we shared was precious that is true
but time is only dear in backward view
Notes: I got nothin'. I'm like a week behind and writing nonsense in iambic pentameter.
Friday, April 7, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 6: Very Nearly Caught Up
From Three Angles
1.
april drizzles down
white blossoms on a gray sky
like snow in the spring
2.
two by two by two
by one, a lonely poet sitting
under cherry trees
3.
on cans of soda
shoes, on socks on bread and cakes
cherry blossom branding
1.
april drizzles down
white blossoms on a gray sky
like snow in the spring
2.
two by two by two
by one, a lonely poet sitting
under cherry trees
3.
on cans of soda
shoes, on socks on bread and cakes
cherry blossom branding
Notes: The prompt was to write about something from different angles so here are some seasonal haiku.
NaPoWriMo Day 5: Scenes From a Breakup
a life built on memories is not much of a life
Words are cheap
cotton candy platitudes
sweet on the tongue, gone in moments
sick to the stomach
What I could not yet call love
was like the sun
a shivering hangover
a sunburn
rush of pain
then peeling, then raw
then
gone
my roots are not made
for sand
and when your mouth said
you could have loved me
I
slipped
my heart is a clock that doesn't move
but even I
am wrong twice a day
Notes: This is kind of cheating because I started this poem like, a year and a half ago but I was too close to the problem to really write about it.
Words are cheap
cotton candy platitudes
sweet on the tongue, gone in moments
sick to the stomach
What I could not yet call love
was like the sun
a shivering hangover
a sunburn
rush of pain
then peeling, then raw
then
gone
my roots are not made
for sand
and when your mouth said
you could have loved me
I
slipped
my heart is a clock that doesn't move
but even I
am wrong twice a day
Notes: This is kind of cheating because I started this poem like, a year and a half ago but I was too close to the problem to really write about it.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 4: Sonnets and Dragons
Critical Iambs
a painting under moonlight showed the way
past monsters, clues, and doorways, we were doomed
to wander far beyond the light of day
Chameleon forms beyond what wisdom knew
stalked down the halls and, ignorant, we crept
across a bridge, and ever further through
this land of traps. When one among us stood
upon the stones of black and white he fell
into such fear that all seemed lost for good
the darkness of that godforsaken spell
Then one by one our heroes lost the way
I guess next time we'll just have to replay.
Notes: I'm tired and a bit sick so I decided to write a sonnet because I can usually force myself to write shitty form poetry so matter how little energy I have. Also yes it's about a DnD campaign. RIP Kev
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 3: Self-Indulgent and a Bit Journaly- A Memoir
Floating
I think about what it means to be adopted
dictionaries tell me nothing
a choice, an embrace
name overwritten
a leaf sewn to the family tree
How it must have felt for my grandmother
first grandchild once removed
she collected shot glasses, stir sticks
tiny jewel-like hummingbirds floating
on fishing line
There are things we take for granted
an echo in the curve of a nose, a talent for darts
telling us we belong
When I first saw the pictures
my own chin, my eyes, the crook of a smile
looking back at me
I broke into pieces I didn't know I'd been
holding together
I think about what it means to be adopted
dictionaries tell me nothing
a choice, an embrace
name overwritten
a leaf sewn to the family tree
How it must have felt for my grandmother
first grandchild once removed
she collected shot glasses, stir sticks
tiny jewel-like hummingbirds floating
on fishing line
There are things we take for granted
an echo in the curve of a nose, a talent for darts
telling us we belong
When I first saw the pictures
my own chin, my eyes, the crook of a smile
looking back at me
I broke into pieces I didn't know I'd been
holding together
Notes: The original prompt for this was was to write an elegy that included tiny details about a person. I was thinking about my grandmother and her shot glass collection that always fascinated me and somehow it turned into whatever this is.
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
NaPoWriMo Day 2: The Outline of the Thing
Just Out of View
It is sitting outside my door
waiting, an unwelcome house guest
visiting unexpectedly
tapping a tattoo on the wood
Let me in, let me in
This time
it will be better
It is sitting behind a screen
unseen, barely
a constellation of relation
fingers tip tapping down words
stop--next time
it will be better
It is living inside my gut
grasping hard onto lungs heart hands
a corseting of trepidation
Saying no, next time is never
Heart taptaptap against ribs
Rigid bones trying to crack
under pressure
Next time
it will be better
It must
It is sitting outside my door
waiting, an unwelcome house guest
visiting unexpectedly
tapping a tattoo on the wood
Let me in, let me in
This time
it will be better
It is sitting behind a screen
unseen, barely
a constellation of relation
fingers tip tapping down words
stop--next time
it will be better
It is living inside my gut
grasping hard onto lungs heart hands
a corseting of trepidation
Saying no, next time is never
Heart taptaptap against ribs
Rigid bones trying to crack
under pressure
Next time
it will be better
It must
Notes: The prompt for this was "describe one of your fears without naming it". Any guess? I went a little off script but I'm still describing something that plagues me on a daily basis.
NaPoWriMo Day 1: Short Lines and Bad Rhymes
Wheel
I was thinking about
time, skipped forward like
I was thinking about
time, skipped forward like
a step you knew was there
until it wasn't
throw your face toward the shape
of a smile
hopeful gestures at genuine emotion
sometimes this is what
we get
a moment, a step
a tree in bloom, flowers falling
before my face
held in place
a snapshot smile
maybe this is grace
Notes: The prompt today was the emulate the writing of the poet Kay Ryan, those short lines and inner rhymes and all that good stuff. I love a short line but I'm bad at rhyming so here we are. I did my best! I'm already four days behind so honestly I'm just trying to bang some stuff out to get caught up.
until it wasn't
throw your face toward the shape
of a smile
hopeful gestures at genuine emotion
sometimes this is what
we get
a moment, a step
a tree in bloom, flowers falling
before my face
held in place
a snapshot smile
maybe this is grace
Notes: The prompt today was the emulate the writing of the poet Kay Ryan, those short lines and inner rhymes and all that good stuff. I love a short line but I'm bad at rhyming so here we are. I did my best! I'm already four days behind so honestly I'm just trying to bang some stuff out to get caught up.
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