NaPoWriMo #35: A hay(na)ku
Actually, several linked into one poem.
*
Rain
Turns a
Gray world silver
Gray
Turns to
Silver with rain
Lord
Keep my
Eyes always open
To
Beauty that
Follows from pain
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there should be a manual on how to exist. something to make one feel they're not continuously being slipped. instructions about all the emotions and their repercussions. the methods of processing grief and knowledge about celebrating peace. denial should not be skipped and oh god someone please talk about the thin line between love and hatred. the uncertainties of teenage and overwhelming responsibilities thrown on young shoulders after entering your twenties. it gets better in your thirties. what about the woman who's juggling motherhood with a degree or her husband who finds no delight in working for a corporate team? so much left still unknown about the entirety of human beings.
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All the world looks to you, a picture of gentle grace and wisdom,
to save at least three lives today—your words profound, your touch, a balm.
The alarm blithely rings. Exhausted, you rise. Fear chokes your heart.
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as isaac, on the walk home
please, won’t you look at me, father?
i can’t erase the memory
of the surrender in your eyes
if i keep staring at your back.
you held my hand as we climbed the mountain.
i felt your pulse through my palm,
your grip tight against the sweat.
God has called us, you said with urgency,
yet you took your time as we ascended.
i can’t remember what i feared more:
the blade,
the flame,
or the aftermath.
who would have made the bigger sacrifice
if there was no ram in the thicket— you? me?
or mother?
is there no test of faith more agonizing
than to forgive?
but even in my final breath, i would have.
i love you even though
i may never understand it,
if only you would tell me. i don’t ask for much—
father! please.
soothe my shivering.
i’m afraid
the next time
i see a knife
i might think
it’s
love.
— Jade A.
escapril day 3: eye contact
@adventurerswritingguild day 3: hand / god / knife
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I recognize him immediately. It’s impossible not to. He’s frozen at
twenty-seven, young and drug-skinny, greasy strands of bleached
hair sticking out from beneath his beanie. I’m just gonna let him be,
not say anything, but we wind up next to each other at the wetlands
exhibit. We’re both mesmerized by the taxidermied critters, these
animals memorialized far past their natural lives. “I always liked
raccoons,” he says. “Envied their masks.”
—Jessie Lynn McMains, from "Kurt Cobain at the Kenosha Public Museum" (Tupelo Press 30/30, Day 5)
Each day's poems can be found here. My fundraising page for the month is here.
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Hypnos and Morpheus Have Lost My Address
Tired tastes like a cold tea,
with no sugars when you really,
really needed one with two or three.
Tired feels like a cumulonimbus cloud;
you know, technically, it's basically weightless,
but the rain is coming and you aren't sure
whether to smile or scream.
Tired looks like all the clutter on my nightstand;
the books I've promised myself I'll read,
the games I really want to play - Tired
is the cannon fodder for the running joke.
How is it possible to be so full of everything
and know hollow the way hollow knows a bird's wings?
Tired is my brain crackling away,
a fire whose embers never quiet,
at 4am. Instead of sleep,
each half of my consciousness
plays shadow puppet charades on the wall
in the half light of the phone screen and the
unquietening flames,
whilst Stephen Fry speaks lullabies
to try to soothe my inner child.
He does not always talk of magic now,
myth is more often the story of choice -
at least for the moment.
Or are they really one in the same?
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NaPoWriMo #33: A poem about coming out of a long hibernation
Written as a lune, which is apparently an American-style haiku. I'm not sure you're supposed to use a title, but I had an idea that requires one, so here goes.
Sleeping Beauty
A prince wakes her, but
her true love
perished years ago
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escapril day 28: surgery
[ tear open my heart and you'll find a space of hollowed out memories. piles upon piles of abandonment and misery. nodes filled with disdain and burdens build what in me is main. traumas flows through my veins and regret follows strongly in its wake. there is an excess amount of pain and coronary suppressed with rage. anxiety makes up each of the individual fibre. love is what gushes out of the fractured organ. the beats cease to be seen and that's when the doctors know i've given up completely. ]
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