Friday, June 24, 2011

Pastiche Project - Prism Poems

Oh my... It's been a LONG time since posting! But I've been busy. This is the project I've been working on for the past couple weeks - another pastiche of sorts, generated by brainstorming and writing sessions from my Writers of AntiquiTea meetings with Lisa.

We're calling this project Prism Poems - 3 unique poems showing different facets of people. So, take a look at the title of each poem and enjoy the artwork that was chosen to go along with each piece. Then, read each poem! And as always, feedback is GREATLY appreciated!!!  THANKS! :)

Oatmeal Soul

The slide-sound of the window shutting
Neatly stacked in a green recycling bin

No dishes in the sink
No laundry on the brink
Of toppling over and overwhelming the bed space.
…bed space, only to be used for sleeping.

Your eyes fix onto the uniform lines
Of the vacuum cleaner skids on the carpet.
Regular rectangles like the
On your calendar

Raindrops only plunk and
Never dance
Ruining all chances of another shot at mowing the plot
Of flawlessly cultivated blades of emerald.

Straight-backed chairs line the polished dining room table
Of your impressive
(but modest!)
Dining room floor
Except for your own straight back.
And the almost-completed list of
Tasks and
Printed on an achromatic white pad.

Useful sweater
Unpowdered face
The usual pair of starched socks.

Life is altogether quite vexing
Risks, not worth the taking
For you and your
Oatmeal soul.

Kaleidoscope Soul

She requested half-light on a summer day
And then packed her bags for Mars.
Took a fire-fly flight up past the moon
And rested ‘mongst the stars.

She wrestled with the red-blood dust
And grew roots into the sand.
Then ripped them up, one-by-one
And sped back to her homeland.

She scaled the seaside mountains
And danced on fireside coals,
Wove wreaths of foxglove through her hair
And napped with neighboring trolls.

And when the blue brine called her names
She bested him in breath
And hitched a whirl in kaleidoscope waves,
Lassoed the one called Death.

And so she made her kingdom
Built of dust and bone and sea.
She spun a robe, lined it with souls
And called it “I Am Free”.

Patchwork Soul

I am not the sound of laughter
Except inside that moment when the floodgates of
Life demand tones of mirth or tones of tears
In those moments when gum gets stuck in the hair...
Then I smile
And let the hilarity swell.

I am not the touch of gentleness
But during those times when spirits need soothing and
Even demons grow shy of their shadows
And when nearness and words can cushion a fall...
Then I catch
And carry the damaged to port.

I am not the smell of adventure
Save in the instances when risk proves wise and I
Steam in twisting jungles of compromise
When cliff diving leads to Tahitian-round pearls...
Then I leap
And challenge the onrush of rain.

I am not the taste of passion
Without hours spent kicking down plaster and rifting
Spaces in the masks worn by new lovers
Even Romeos build ramparts ‘round the heart...
Then I flame
And spark with infallible heat.

I am not the sight of home country
Unless you’re a vagrant turned pilgrim looking for
The glow of waltz-paced evenings under stars
Where words flow like wine while the bard music plays...
Then I gleam
And smooth out my patchwork of scars.

1 comment:

  1. you are amazing. this is amazing. Seriously. I love it so. so. so. much. You are beautiful and talented (and I like how all of your poems allude to and/or mention dance).