10-02-2012, 09:07 AM
Rousing Muse
Like me, she oversleeps,
keeps to herself too long
saronged in thread-worn sheets,
pleats deeply flesh-etched in pale skin.
Sins: A slothful glutton for resting,
nesting beneath crochet-waffled patterns,
matters of life’s deaths beyond
songs in dreams and the insistent bird cheeps
(“Pleap! Pleap!) outside the blinded window.
Widow of naiveté, too long dead
(Said, to the mustachioed man of one night’s
blight-collage, through lips glued
too long, “…you…are…the…rapist…”).
Safest to “Dear Diary” in rose-colored ink,
sink what’s unfathomable in food and drink, drown
sounds of the neglected infant,
skinflints of affection in succession,
recessions of trust and fairness.
Heiress, Exemplar, of Confidence Slain.
Cranes origamied, fingers crossed,
lost pennies to fountains,
mountains of journals,
kernels, all, that led not to luck nor opus,
focus shanked by the rank and file’s
bile. At times: I smiled, muse complied,
plied rogue ideas from time to time,
dime store productions, messes mostly,
ghostly, unschooled, immature pap,
sapped of promise. A shame, my inability,
immobility when it was time to drive dreams home,
Gloam-time detours from original intents,
bent to the next worse thing.
Zing-a-ding-ding. When will of me I sing?
Bring it, Muse. Get. UP. Your wounds are mine,
brine soaked, scab-laden.
Maidens no more are we. Time marches,
parches parts and parcels but not all.
Fall. In. Time to rumble, pique our psyche.
###
Writing again, motivated by my participation in OctPoWriMo and some new aches and pains that remind me I'm about half way through my game. Whatever it takes, eh?
Learned this form from Leanne years ago. Love it, though I know I do it no justice. Feels like rapping for nerds. It's one form where it's a joy to get lost in the process, even if the end result is not anywhere near as tight and powerful as I fantasize it could be.
Have at it, and many thanks.
Like me, she oversleeps,
keeps to herself too long
saronged in thread-worn sheets,
pleats deeply flesh-etched in pale skin.
Sins: A slothful glutton for resting,
nesting beneath crochet-waffled patterns,
matters of life’s deaths beyond
songs in dreams and the insistent bird cheeps
(“Pleap! Pleap!) outside the blinded window.
Widow of naiveté, too long dead
(Said, to the mustachioed man of one night’s
blight-collage, through lips glued
too long, “…you…are…the…rapist…”).
Safest to “Dear Diary” in rose-colored ink,
sink what’s unfathomable in food and drink, drown
sounds of the neglected infant,
skinflints of affection in succession,
recessions of trust and fairness.
Heiress, Exemplar, of Confidence Slain.
Cranes origamied, fingers crossed,
lost pennies to fountains,
mountains of journals,
kernels, all, that led not to luck nor opus,
focus shanked by the rank and file’s
bile. At times: I smiled, muse complied,
plied rogue ideas from time to time,
dime store productions, messes mostly,
ghostly, unschooled, immature pap,
sapped of promise. A shame, my inability,
immobility when it was time to drive dreams home,
Gloam-time detours from original intents,
bent to the next worse thing.
Zing-a-ding-ding. When will of me I sing?
Bring it, Muse. Get. UP. Your wounds are mine,
brine soaked, scab-laden.
Maidens no more are we. Time marches,
parches parts and parcels but not all.
Fall. In. Time to rumble, pique our psyche.
###
Writing again, motivated by my participation in OctPoWriMo and some new aches and pains that remind me I'm about half way through my game. Whatever it takes, eh?
Learned this form from Leanne years ago. Love it, though I know I do it no justice. Feels like rapping for nerds. It's one form where it's a joy to get lost in the process, even if the end result is not anywhere near as tight and powerful as I fantasize it could be.
Have at it, and many thanks.