via Daily Prompt: Observe Short Unsolicited Advice on Writing Poetry write long poems on short days short poems on long days you don’t need a drummer but you do need rhythm avoid melodrama your head cannot explode all the time, there is uncharted territory between ecstasy and despair look after your images they should splash […]
via Short Unsolicited Advice on Writing Poetry — Stopdraggingthepanda
Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me –  so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…
step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope
my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.
(Passion Exposed was penned in December of 2016 after attending my first poetry open mic.  Having been a closet writer for most of my life, I still find it uncomfortable at times to share my words.)
No value
have these words –
splotches on white –
no meaning
structure worthless –
two-dimensional
until eyes curious
willing to linger
invite order
add focus,
insert experience
inject emotion
paint the page
with resonance
bring a poem to life.
(A thank you to all my dear readers, whose support gives me so much encouragement and brings my words to life.)
Storm clouds convene
over startled lake waters
a strengthening wind conspires
bursting forth with roars
of rain and thunder, shattering
tranquil, lazy summer dreaming.
(Image: www.flickr.com)
(This is a repost of one of my personal favourites. Check out a live performance of this poem.)
I have examined your wallpaper,
discussed the scholarly attributes
of shades of yellow, traced the edges
of your unravelling with my mind,
argued the merits of Gothic horror;
marvelled at the brilliance of wording,
the courage to define the nature of
feminine madness, the boldness to
highlight inequalities long before the
establishment of a Person’s Act.
Forgive me, but I need to set aside
this keyboard for a moment, for I tire
easily, am suffering from an exhaustion
that is systemic and calls for elimination
of all stimulus in favour of rest, you see
I share your sentence of confinement,
isolated to a room with windows, my
mind wandering to ancestral gardens,
contemplating shadows and movement
cognizant of underlying forces, creeping.
My husband has just left, dear man, having
checked on me, taking on my burden,
concerned that I am not sleeping at night
thinks that by reading and rereading…
View original post 195 more words
If only life were a resort –
catered to meals, bed maids
who shuffle out of sight so as
to not disturb the illusion
that life is magical, comfort
a finger snap away; I’d refrain
from interaction, recognizing
celebrity amidst the guests –
imagine the surprise if one
should notice me: this fragile
ego pressured by the praise
would gush volumes, convince
me of genuine interest, ignore
glazed eyes, fail to appreciate
the bombs of emotion spewing
from my war-tattered mouth –
insights always come too late
to save me: my words, like drugs,
an excessive expense; my soul,
undervalued, strewn across
computer screens; I am Paris Hilton
regretting the exposure, trying to
keep afloat in a sea of superstitious
idiosyncrasies – an artist’s bane –
an acrobat, needing to balance
performance with observation,
resorting to bouts of self-
deprivation – no vacation here.
(Image: www.extravaganzi.com)
Pampered, socially supported
education would have been preferable
but I don’t belong to the elite,
and this malaise disrupts
any hope for success.
Learn best in the trenches,
dragged-out combat over hobnobbing
– can relate to the broken,
other-abled, survivors who thrive
despite challenges.
Know a man, who without
speech or behavioural norms,
moves others – inspires
(trapped as he is) love
and forgiveness.
Have loved others, projected
goodness into selfishness, been
betrayed, watched friendships grow
where mine was cut off –
bore the burden of blame,
still I will share myself –
adverse to saying no –
in restlessness, seeking others,
when I should be nurturing self –
Who’s really at fault here?
A mother, once faced with immeasurable
tribulations, never giving up –
is not to be found, cut down
by illness, misfortune having culled
her optimism, her enthusiasm –
What is there to do now?
I kick aside the ashes of former
identities, contemplate the meaning
of failure, the loss of ambition
this locked out alienation:
Is it hurt, I feel…
abandonment…guilt…shame?
Absence of former friends
echoes in the empty cliffs of
rejection…questioning
all that has been –
do they feel it too, or
is it merely personal mire?
What choice is there
but to embrace this solo journey?
miscalculated distances,
energy deficit, and yet,
I continue…until straight
and narrow meets clover leafs
and learning dawns –
paths cross over, crisscross;
life is about movement
and choices, and change
and endless possibilities –
there is no going back.
(Image: alone-alone-alone.blogspot.com)
Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me – Â so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…
step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope
my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.
(Image:Â www.aspersstratford.co.uk)
Find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the birth of writers,
misplace my own purpose, fallen
gather ideas, maintain my shame;
I am a fictional character, having
miscarried my own story, declined
into dirt – dangerous; energy limited,
no stores to drive me, never really
known a home where peace dwells,
where brilliance is nurtured, worn
down with beatings, ascribed to
independence too young, immature
chose boisterousness over gentleness,
became a second/third-hand wife,
parent, place last behind responsibility.
beat myself up now over my stupidity,
lack of credibility, an obligatory failure –
any wisdom preserved redundant.
Stop already! Â This is but a one-sided
tale coloured by shame – change the
lens, multiple stories await birthing
find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the growth of writers,
recognize the shared experience.
One Woman's Quest 