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

Newspapers

Read

and

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

Large

Empty

Spaces

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

Empty,

Except for your own straight back.

And the almost-completed list of

Tasks and
Troubles

Printed on an achromatic white pad.

Useful sweater

Unpowdered face

The usual pair of starched socks.

Life is altogether quite vexing

Tiresome

Taxing

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.