In The Echo #dversepostspub #dverseposts #writing #poetry
You were a one person locus swarm. Everything about me was razed in seconds. Those carefully constructed pillars I balanced my self esteem atop became rubble, and I watched you perch atop it, smile wide and teeth white, telling me it was better this way. It wouldn’t do to get above my station. Daily Post Prompt: Swarm
We have two contributors for the second round of Poetry Anthology here at Writing and Works: Britaina Goffy, and Yoly Miller. I’ve had not bow out of this prompt due to NaNoWriMo consuming my soul but hopefully I’ll be back up and in the swing of things by next week. 4 [by Britaina Goffy] If we’re still alive, breathing air If we’re still sane somewhere deep the sun will rise higher, bright to cleanse the air free of scum dark days, dark years ahead long time to hold, hold your breath the sun still rises and we still breathe Maybe Tomorrow (When the Sun Rises) [by Yoly Miller] I have no time for this There are children to be minded Religions to be lauded and ideologies to be followed To the letters on my phone To the faceless voice that shouts for me to run I have no time for heeding let alone feeling anything but the fear inside my head No time to vacillate between ignoring you or taking your warnings to heart I …
You found me tacked to a wall, half a shadow pretending to smile, still tearing chunks off myself for someone else’s benefit. Everything I was, I wanted shivering, wasted, pushed back for other’s things. You were the first to ask for nothing. You did not need a shoulder, a listener, or scaffolding for your spine. You were solid and generous. I learnt that I could unpin myself, trust you to catch the pieces as they fell, be a little more selfish and focus on the storm clouds I realised I’d been lost in. You showed me love unconditional. A quick write for the daily post prompt: Generous It sort of follows on from my poem Pieces Of You.
When it came to me, you were the expert. You knew how to play me perfectly, even dint and every imperfection, you knew how to press them to attention, remind me of their existence, herd me towards the idea that they held me back, made me something less than myself, and that only you could see past them. I suppose I was not blameless, I forgot to ask questions, forgot to challenge the put downs, forgot that I had legs and arms, feelings and thoughts, that the door was never locked and I was free to walk away at any time. You only ever thought you were the expert. I should have proved you wrong sooner. Daily Prompt: Expert
Our sort, brew confusion in copper topped jars, somewhere out of sight, squirrelling away every hurt and sorrow. It’s not easy to open, but it explodes well. Goes off like a landmine under unsuspecting feet, leaves craters and carnage, with us standing centre, unmoved. So I’m combining two prompts in this poem, the first is Monday’s dVerse Poets’ Pub Quadrille challenge and the second if the daily post’s ‘confusion‘ prompt. The Quadrille is a great form to use if you want to focus on making an impact with each word you use. There are only forty-four words to use so use them wisely. Click the logo above to check out the prompt and all the other lovely people taking part.
Looking Back When in the chronicle of wasted time you find my name among past lovers and think about those open arms and the empty hearts, do you best to blame every ill we wrought on me and me alone. I will take all those words and keep them closer than I ever could you. I’ve been absent for a few days so I’m playing catch up with the NaPoWriMo Prompts. Day Twenty-Five challenged us to write a poem that started with a line from another poem so I’ve taken the first line of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 106 ‘When in the chronicle of wasted time’.
The first thing we taught each other, was how to close doors in the other one’s face. How to stack the bricks just so, mortar the cracks, keep the lines level. We built walls out of words. Pressed the letters into each other until the house buzzed with noise and it felt as though the walls were full of bees. We learn the strings to pull. The chords that yanked out the anger, snapped the calmness. At night, when the neighbours slept we would hammer out brittle songs on instruments we’d forgotten how to tune. One night I broke you. Left your pieces on the living room floor and watched you stare at the splinters I’d made of your hands, your face, your heart. When you reached for me, I couldn’t remember where I’d put the key to my door. Once, I wore your clothes, tried to make them fit my skin better than my own. When I started writing this piece, I fully intended it to be a work of fiction, but I think …
I am not a wanderer. These feet find too much home in sandstone slopes and moss edged red bricks tucked up in dandelion lawns and weather worn fence posts. These souls loose their itch too close to the boundary mark. Shutter up too soon after leaving. Always find a way of looking back and remembering everything I want. I have. I just have to turn around. My first poem since January. The prompt was to write a poem about the adventure of travel but I’m not ashamed to say that I’m an utter home bird. I do like visiting new places but I hate being away from home for long. I’m one of those people who’s attachment to their own bed beats almost every other attachment I have. I like knowing that I’m at home.
April brings storms that rattle and shudder against windows with winds that howl and whip past the trees. Pressed close enough cheeks can feel fingertips of something, someone not quite there. Pattering and scampering outside along the whirls in the glass traced on the lazy afternoons. In this room, in this house, all gods are welcome. With hands around latches there is no need of prayers to call them here. In the morning the carpets will be spongy, damp beneath feet, and the curtains slick to the touch. Tonight however, calls for bare faces turned upwards open to the skies.