What Lingers…

My soul licks your words and swallows. The heart of your ink cloaks my tongue, bleeds into my bones, spreads through me, and I feel osmosis be-coming teleportation’s kissing cousin.

Your storm spells trails through my eyeballs and makes home of my skull. I see my teeth dance in mirrors made of your moon-shards howling stories about how darkness is raw energy just waiting to be turned into stars.

Your poetry lingers… and grows.

 

bits on writing and living

This week, I spent quite a bit of time talking with individuals who wish to turn their journey into a book. When someone asked me, “What’s the best way to start writing?”, I considered parachuting out of the closest window. But I was lacking on the parachute department… and my swollen feet and I were standing on the 9th floor, and all the windows were sealed… so, my brain, Muse, and I surrendered our truth: “Write, read, write some more.”

Nope, I shan’t defile your eyeballs with descriptions of some of the looks my answer sprouted. But I will say that I started hoping for the parachute again—just so I could whip the lookers with a braided length of 550 cord until their brain-housing group understood that writing something (other people want to read) involves work, commitment, belief, and an uncanny love for words that it’s almost impossible to explain to people who don’t already love words. And yes, in order to write one must also read… a lot.

I’m not suggesting that a writer must read 131+ books a year, like certain psychos I know. I’m just saying that delighting in words birthed by other writers can be a real education (in writing and living and more).

 

– linked to Poets United Midweek Motif: Darkness Is…, to Blogging around with Rommy, and to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (where Kerry asks us “to share a quote from a contemporary poet’s work and write a poem as a tribute to his/her style, voice, themes, wisdom.”)

These are the quotes that inspired the prose poem (I hope the poets don’t sue me… since I’m broke… unless they want ellipses… or parentheses):

I carved a hole in my chest
[…]

I saw the cavity was filled with seeds
tiny as distant stars –
and multiple universes
~ Kerry O’Connor

You always come
with summer
[…]
on the frayed brown velvet
wilderness
of your eyes.
~ Hedgewitch

there is no point in crawling
into pre-dug graves
when there are signs on our skins
telling us we can survive.
~ Rommy Driks

 

… (.) /…
*cough*

 

An Unleashing

I was writing a note to remind future me why this blog would show a wee hole between Dec 2018 and Jan 2019, when I noticed that said note—titles and quotes from writings I posted on my other blog (now gone) during the mentioned period—read a lot like a poem. Of course, I just could not resist the urge to share the moment with you, so here’s the frankensteined piece:

 

In darkness, I’ve found the brightest of all thrills.

I don’t fear
weight or time,
not while knowing
whatever may come
will bring more
of you and me.

Sun light is my favorite
food for flesh,
but my soul feasts best
on the dark of the moon.

I know nothing about clog dancing, Jon Snow.

I
spell words
(inked from living)
out of my (un)emptying
hollows.

Reclaiming
the ways that made me
makes me more.

I kissed Imagination on the mouth,
freed my beast into storied meadows, trusted
my heart to brew fresh life out of deadly sap.

Journaling
in wild ink, my soul shall be
deeply cleansed.

Want to feel me, luv,
truly fill my deep and wild?
tale me and poem.

Stuck
between chest and skull,
unspoken words rot.

 

blacked out (and stitched) from the last two stanzas
of Mary Oliver’s “At Black River”

 

a bit more
– the last stanza and the blackout made it into the piece because of Susie’s prompt, “Why do you write poetry?”, which refuses to leave my skull.
– I’m deleting my Blogger blog. I’ve kept it as backup, since it was my 1st blog ever. But it’s time to let go. If this blog runs into trouble again, I will kick that bridge when I get to it.
– linked to Poets United.