Week 39 PPC ▼ ...Haunting Age, Time Running Out
The first thoughts:
I should face the hall mirror,
accept my lot -- wasted. (Whenever
passion produces feelings
like desired, young love)
I desire to reveal, hidden
in this failing structure, words flowing
from bloody tongue. Indelible words
scribed on Sanskrit instead of glowing,
pixelated hostages illuminating ignorantly, but
that inky river runs dry.
Dim light glows on the edge of fading vanity,
won't lie (anymore) to caverned eyes
scanning and perceiving disinterest,
the unwanted, disheveled, unrepairable,
long face.
Running it back:
There's this feeling
I should face the reflection,
accept what was wasted. (Whenever
I have passionate feelings akin
to taking a young lover) I yearn reveal
in structured, flowing words love
for something...but purged
to an ocean of dreamlike memory.
Dim glow douses dull eyes
above the vanity, won't hide a monster
bloodied by sins against consortium.
In a cavern scanned, perceiving
the unrepairable, long jaw.
Revisit one more time:
Dated. Living with flames of my past,
in gut stove, hotter burning.
Most intense, molecules mollify.
In thinning air, disconnect, evaporate,
surround a house soon cinder, (when
it should ignite from their kerosene
and torches). I'm not a floating lantern.
Words echo memories as little fireflies
linger to absorb my essence,
before the grave, shallow space.
The last image appeared in a dust mirror
to haunt daily after I last awoke. Guess,
I'll rise, clutch the sharpened graphite.
Brave the jut chin.
4.10.23
what if this is all I ever achieve because of time wasted, because time is running out? I didn't leave it all out on the field. Didn't make it past my door, because there are protesters outside I can't face, hate I don't understand. I need love to try...and a time machine.
Round 39 Prompt - “time running out”
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Week 40 PPC ▼
Shadows In Thinning Space
Need a higher SPF for this bullsh*t
Low giants chased each other across the sky,
brief shadow a bright intersection.
At intervals, glow full a face inside its glass cage.
Earlier, bouncing men in drab, strange trucks,
embarked a journey into my cul-de-sac.
Gritty, be-goggled intent,
with angry, oiled metal gear,
sparks a discordant organ, bleeding again.
The yellow hats’ ripcords ignite impulses
out of my control. An aggressive symphony
a-hum, a-stir, thins spaces between me,
neighbors and that insistent interstate, nearing.
If I close the window, I’ll still hear leafy goodbyes —
crescendos of severed limbs echo discontent,
a muted, buzzing chorus of pertain visions,
villains vainly insist in this neighborhood.
The loudest, bass instrument grinds in its pit,
heard inside these blinded confines —
no chord progression to inevitable finish.
Blind to man’s brutal persistence permeating
a coffee-scented space,
this incipient void hides in ever atom
of universal, cosmic existence.
Pale hours deluge a raucous vacuum,
container, hopeless. I'll not leave in one piece,
if ever I breathe again green life.
I need shadows just as much as the light.
Let’s not kill what is necessary for convenience.
4.10.23
29 lines, free verse
Round 40 Prompt - shadow(s)
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I know everything and nothing about physics. It's because I'm becoming one with emptiness and a dehumanizing world I rebel against hard. Keep a cool demeanor, when they come into my neighborhood to tear it down.
Week 41 PPC ▼
Wild Kitty, Poet Documentarian
(Tigerjade in Three Parts)
Love is strange.
It's kind of
a masked Tigris --
mew little kitty, purr feline.
In meadow alone I've followed, sought a heart sublime.
It roared. Not a fur pet; animals need no master.
My gentle words, a given hand, soothe like jasper.
Jade eyes spy
how blue eyes.
Words are bond,
seek the fond
of leathery monsters hiding amid fauna.
Feasting felines crave the weak, need flesh-blood trauma.
Once warm and velvet, I crouch to eye the carcass.
Freely she slathers, samples my sweat saltiness.
We could hunt.
You just grunt.
Blood-red face
in this space,
indifferent, stealth she saunters as scaremonger.
Soul death, I'm delivered resilient, stronger.
Ready sacrifice, passion true discovery,
I master quiet afterlife, find recovery.
It won't stop;
mask won't drop.
4.25.23 Tigerjade Form
Thoughts: stunted form, difficult to smooth flow with tight, punchy rhymed open to the long, drawn out lines betwixt. Great for a children's poem: cow said moo, in it's poo...? Experimenting with some forms make you a better writer, some get your head stuck in a mental tube. Brain paste now fully squeezed out.
This poem was forced into unsatisfactory outcome in eight lines, then 16. At 24, decided not to double back, but end it. Outcome blunt, obtuse, cryptic, etc.
Requirements: 8 lines/Syllables: 3-3-12-12-12-12-3-3
Rhyme Scheme: aabbccdd
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Week 42 PPC ▼
The Dying Season
Skin devouring journey to afterlife,
melds porous color from flesh leeched
amid ample, dew-damped, green skewers.
Wisps of current spin, thrust
the fallen corpses that cartwheel, curl,
tuck, twirl, tailspin; mock me as they
ball, bounce, trampoline and vault hedges.
Sere skeletons wither alone
like the forgotten words hurled at a fence,
remand in an obsolete, shadowed corner next to me.
Unless unlucky as a decaying spine,
some pass through pricked and padded experience.
Brown, veiny husks crack, crumple, sag and slide
down the old woman's white trellis.
Radiating her absorbent, vinyl warmth,
resilient, I blindly now cling to her arms
in final, tranquil hours this dying season.
4.24.23
Prompt word: Tranquil
It's good to die after declared dead and still know you cling to something that makes you alive...watch death, feel death, and feel what immortality could mean.
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