Growth

In response to the question What do I need to water in my life? What do I need to let wither?

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Whither should I wander
if I water what I need?
To promenade by ponds or
walk by rivers wreathed in reeds?

Or venture further yonder
where my longing might concede
that searching any longer
could result in my misdeed?

Would I be an absconder
if I turn from where I lead?
Would absence make me fonder
for the objects of my greed?

Or would I seek to squander
what may shelter, clothe, or feed
any caller or responder
to this uncompleted deed?

Perhaps the “where” should wither,
and the “how” return to seed,
and the water sprinkle hither,
here, to grow and nurture me.

Rally?

Stimulus:
a failed response.

Tenuous,
this renaissance
of promises and vagaries
from lodges swearing vacancies
where doors are shut:
they lock, and keep
their sullied sights
from eyes who weep
on wringing hands and bowing heads
who plead for truth,
but lies instead
are heaped upon the swelling grief
that sleeps with rage and spent belief.

We dream of dawn:
we’re rested, woke,
but rise in darkness tired, broke,
and scream into their heated halls
to bridge our gap and wreck the walls
but–

Like their mocking “vacant” sign,
so in their hearts, and in their minds
there is no room for our rebirth–

…Until we rise to seize our worth.

.

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(Something something, politics…)

Obligatory Intro

Got all these blank pages,
now where my dank sages?
My inspo, my musin’,
my intro, conclusion?
My Lower Self’s grounded,
my Higher’s confounded
by space in the middle–
a koan’s wise riddle,
a lapse in fruition,
the traps of cognition.
My fat expectations
and thin revelations
might drop me or
stop before
my destination–

But where am I going?
I’ve no way of knowing.
So I’ll do my damnedest
to keep this ink flowing.

Oh Buoy

Finally, #30 for the month, dedicated (in sonnet form, of course) to my partner, who helps keeps me afloat:

You are no rock on which to build my home,
no firmament to stay my sailor’s feet;
My sea-legs aren’t steadied by your loam;
You are no isle of resolute retreat.
But rather, you’re a buoy on the ocean:
My beacon set between the sea and shore;
You roll with every storm and tidal motion;
You mark the surf where I may safely moor.
You center me in risky navigation
that I may find the harbor of your heart;
And so I sail in love and admiration
of all you bring, my buoyant counterpart.

If no man is an island in the sea,
then I shall float in pleasant company.

Reflected/Dejected

Going back to NaPoWriMo’s Day 21 Prompt for my 26th and writing “a poem that uses lines that have a repetitive set-up,” as in “There Was a Man of Double Deed.”

I see myself within the glass:
a weary figure framed in brass;
the brass outshines my pallid face–
a face as thin as limpid lace;
a doily worn beyond its years
with stains of time and toil and tears–
those tears, so wild and lawless, came
from seasons dry, like monsoon rain;
the rain upon an old tin roof
that’s neither strong, nor weatherproof–
a roof of lies and sunken beams,
of wineskins bursting at the seams;
a bitter vintage, spoiled and sour
where every minute seems an hour;
the hours go by and seasons pass
within this wretched looking glass.


…Sometimes they get dark, y’all. Don’t ask me where it comes from.

The Palace Siege

NaPo poem #25, sonnet 26 of my Irish Epic:

26. The Palace Siege

The company of sidhe and mortal ward
set out at once to meet the Connacht fey:
with spear and shield, with axe and sling and sword,
they travelled into vale and over brae.
Their chariots were sixty strong at least,
and faery glamour caught the evening’s hues
when autumn’s moon ascended in the east
and Connacht’s faery palace came to view.
The company of warriors reached the walls
before the Prince could mount a fair defense,
and from below he heard the Dagda’s call
as arrows flew and torches kindled hence.

Though Connacht’s prince was sure to lose the night,
his pride ensured his foes would get their fight.