Wordle #164

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She is the accoutrement of a cage

clasped irrespective of occasion.

I carry her pale, tremulous fist

aggrieved by the imperatives of war

in my sacrum as if I were a basin.

She is sacred, rareified water,

the salt that signifies entanglement.

 

She clusters at the end of my pen

the perfect cheat, the myomane

with a heart the shape of a strawberry.

Her wide grin swivels and floats away.

I sew her runaway feathers into my back.

To know freedom is to love

with the lightest touch possible.

the first half is from an older poem and I continued it

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Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Wilderness

Within her eyes whole constellations ignite

And within her I am returned to ash,

To the same austere alter no wiser.

She will not accept my sacrifices

And I have made many, great and small.

She is wild, a wilderness unto herself.

I spend my days entrenched in her enigma

But she doesn’t find me unparalleled.

I am only a man and there are so many.

She is deep and labyrinthine.

I cannot reach her

though I have traveled long and without luxury.

I cannot create another in her image

There is no substitute.

How very slow this death

And how very patient a man

When he finds himself beguiled.

A lifetime is hardly too much to give

In the pursuit of one’s muse.

for

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2018/07/poets-united-midweek-motif-wilderness.html

Bonus Wordle “Alphabet Soup”

Alphabet Soup

You come as a deadfall
snuffing me suddenly
with a scurried squeak.
Ultimatums notwithstanding
I am still crushingly sensitive.
I deserve precisely this,
only this and nothing more.

The jaundiced moon
appears in flashes,
cloud-diver, oyster shell, mother.
I offer her my obeisance
and she in turn removes
the thrall of complexity.

Shawls of mud slide
from my shoulders.
I am naked, a xerarch.
My verse crumbles
rough and weedy against my lips.
Who will read these poems after I’ve died?
Who will remember you?

A branch rests bloody at your side,
or perhaps it is a rib-the cast
of our errors-preordained by heaven.
Your soul is a pumice stone,
your hands two weathered fences.
I want everything to do with you.

I watch the saliva dry on your tongue,
the wistful, upturned sea
held aloft in your irises.
Quill-driver, lachesist, kookaburra
the gristle crunches between your teeth
hard like the heel of an old boot.
The queer arabesque of your smile
strung up to cover our grief.

My fingers crack and itch,
I draw zigzags in the snow
until numb and bereft.
My pulse tremulous and dysphagic-
there are no apologies left to give-
we are consecrated, we are bliss
and yet the world keeps tearing off
little bits of my hair and flesh.
Yield and be done with it.
Yield and watch me transpire.

I didn’t dare do it in alphabetical order though I think I got all 26 words. I struggled with writing a good deal today, I am very distracted/disassociated.

Tale Weaver # 55 Making Sense of Nonsense – Agrotive

Nonsense

A thousand pipettes fire
from the minarets
of my deconstructed soul.

I have the itch again,
that need which being bottomless
is without resolution.

My hands stick to the keys,
to the letters crowding in retrospect.
I hate everything I read.

Paper towns, miles of fog,
an agrotive of eyeless houses
shuddering in the distance.

Today my words topple like soldiers
in a mass grave each one a father, a son,
an unrecognizable mask of death.

These are not the words I was born with,
they come not from my muse
but as a consequence of her neglect.

Writing Prompt #139 “The Magician”

The Magician

Mark Stavish

Overflowing with wreaths of smoke

I am a heated pot, gurgling, impatient.

The words I love, the gift that I

do not own but borrow though the timing

does not often suit me.

Some things must be done

and no amount of even ifs will steady

the hand once the need strips

those skulking sheets their innocence.

I am uncommon, a candle

burning in its own juices,

once untenanted, I burn,

spectral and appetent.

The things I know shame me.

My great and ghastly divots,

my scars wet as the day

they were cast. I am pitiful,

miserable, I bereave myself,

offal cast as pearls, heart

a stalk of weather-hardened barely.

Grave

I spill my blood across the hands

Of your ever-present, effervescent sentry.

We have a love that reinvents itself

A love like death without comparable end.

You are a fountain, a well of incendiary ink

Wherever our fractions meet, there is fire.

Each night I brace for sleep,

For the cold armless shadows drinking

Secretly of my quiet breath.

For the moment I am alone.

My eyes skim warped surfaces,

My lips gesture incoherently at a satellite

That has sweetly forgotten itself.

How could you forget her

When she has been afforded

No such luxury?

Would you forget the stars if shrouded?

How these veils embezzle and confound!

Beauty must be wept to be understood.

For each revelation another claws

From the breech of what was thought

To be a grave, a grave never lies

A grave never seeks for what

It does not know it is content to ponder.

Poetry Prompt 27 – Whimsical

A blood orange sun parses mischievous clouds

From the quaint to the curious, we rally

In rows of two with plaited fists and quizzical smiles.

Landscapes slide underneath our Mary Janes

Some real, some imagined but each

With a particular nuance and scent.

A waggish smile compliments your skewered brow

And in being young I am inclined to believe.

A swollen apple lopes across an unkempt yard.

Chameleon, liar, mendicant I weave stories

From luxuries both sought and endured.

I traverse stories wrapped in skeins of flesh.

The child in me is no longer whimsical

But once she was and in my memories

I sometimes return to her makeshift dreams,

To her hopes uncluttered by impossibles.

My normality burns, the cocked smile

Churning moonlight into honey.

I face my delirium and she faces me.

I take you in doses, sugar, analgesic.

Wherever you walk the ground opens

And drinks of my sorrow, planting flowers

Where there was only dirt and manure.

There is always you, always love,

Always the impulse to riffle

Through my belongings and pass them on,

Discrete treasures dipped in metaphors and blood.

OctPoWriMo

Wordle #129

129

In a blink, the stars within

His hands vanish,

Swept into a lather of ink

And secrets that will not

Relinquish themselves.

In a basket of flesh and shrapnel

A magpie builds her nest,

Clever eyes enunciated

By the moon’s ripe entreaty.

His heart catches in the crunch

Of her deciduous hunger.

He sees no chance but grips

Her instinctively and with a force

Sufficient to finish them both.

*

I am back in school and while the commute is shorter (transferred schools) and the schedule more consistent it is still an adjustment. Wednesdays and Thursdays are my longest days and I have to get up very early in the mornings. I am exhausted. I am also not very adaptive so it will take me a while to get this organized.

Wordle #146 “Muses”

146

The others are indelicate

With simmering bucolic eyes.

That exacerbate potential.

They tiptoe along the rivers’

Slovenly edge

Missing step after step

But never the beat

Of their former synergy.

The others are cruel

Balancing teacups

Between thumb and forefinger.

Their open hearts unzipping

Alternate frames.

Lips greasy with adipose,

They’ve got a craving

For marrow, for senses

Gloriously deranged.

The others are instinct

Uncompromising poems

Thrust posthumously

Into the public’s tremulous gaze.

Scandalous, they eat endeavor

Like squares of softening chocolate.

Their rebellions, sawed in half

With the soles of discarded boots,

Stomp forward, all or nothing

Obliging no one, not even the keeper.

Wordle #158

158

I chew the cancer beading

In your branches,

The beastly sycophant,

The unbecoming cheat.

I channel release

In proximity to fire,

An unrepentant muse

Leaves, scattering regret

As a giant spills lightening

From the flare of a nostril.

I contemplate poverty

The grisly depths,

The unspeakable choices

The compromises imposed

By her compromised identities.

The weight of impotence

In this stillborn catastrophe.

I choke the keys

With ungainly fingers

Tiny panthers pawing

Blossoming, alien flesh

Ferocious in exile,

I lick the browning blood,

The fragile existentials

Of a thousand useless clowns.

I do not write but burn

A host of infinite poisons

And potentials that in sum

Amount to nothing at all