Love Graffiti Style

Love,
Compressed or constantly
F
L
O
W
I                 HOW DO YOU KNOW?
N
G
All Around
&
Alive
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Love,
Compressed or
constantly
F l
ow
in               how can one tell?
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Stop on over to D'Verse, where for this weeks Meeting the Bar, Anna is exploring Graffiti and how it relates to the world of poetry.  Definitely a D'Verse you don't want to miss.

Times Turn into Times Turned Over in Future Times

Can you remember back to a time when you were only mere days removed from getting high praise for walking on two legs?

Can you recall, those early moments in the kitchen, when you’d stare up high at those marble countertops and dream of seeing what exists beyond its aerie reach?

Have you forgotten, how disappointed you were, when you found out it wasn’t all you’re imagination painted it to be?

Whatever happened to all the comparisons?

     “Oh, how talented you’re child is, he’ll be the next Hemmingway or Hawthorne for sure”

“Oh, what amazing athleticism you’re kid possesses.  When I look at him I see the next Jackie Robinson, Walter Payton.  He reminds me a lot of Ty Cobb, as if they themselves were around to have watched him play”

“ You’re little boy has such an imagination.  He’s so entertaining. I see a younger version of Bruce Lee, maybe Errol Flynn”

When was the last time your scribbly-scrawled blots of crayon were hung up on the fridge?  When was the last time you’re great aunt called you her little Picasso or Van Gogh, not even considering what their backstory’s were?  When was the last time your grandfather pulled a quarter from your ear, and you thought you were witnessing something bigger than the world itself?

Life gets in the way.  Doesn’t it?

And you close the door behind you.  Scuffing the snow off from your dirty boot soles, greeting those inside, warmly, yet complaining about the travails you endured to simply make it to their house.  And then, you see the little one, and you say, glowing from ear to ear, “How’s my little Marilyn today?” and she shyly shrugs her shoulders…. that’s when you pull a dollar from her hair, as if it had been hiding out in those blonde curls all the day.

Over at D'verse, for Meeting the Bar this past Thursday. Victoria offered up the discussion about exploring childhood and it's memories.  I've been really sick this week, just feeling a bit better upon waking up a few hours ago, so I'm hoping the meds are working.  In any case, I missed joining the party, yet thought I'd still take part in the prompt.  I actually had a piece that I had started a long time back that fit this theme rather well.  

The idea of how children's perspectives change and how their expectations alter upon finding some answers interests me.  I wrote the second question/stanza a while back and filled in the rest of this piece from there for this discussion.  If you haven't already, I urge you all to stop on by D'Verse, read Victoria's article and check out the poems shared, as you can do for the other linked discussions as well.  

Timing

Din is driven by a mentality cluttered by the noise of second’s expiration.  The cuckoo’s voice erupts at new sixties peak; perhaps, for some nadir, perhaps for some, nadir

Numerals escalate and descend, slashed and severed, if but for a moments glance. Thrashing to commencement, in an elapsed respite never to arrive anew.  This is true, very true.

Portent looming undoubtedly draws and expires. Crescendos rise and mergers meld. Confluence is inevitable, only its perception can be swayed; only perception can be swayed.

Purpose wavers not, yet design can be reconditioned. Whether wontedly framed or crafted to a future glimpsed, it’s function remains, ignorant to change, ignorant to change.

Faster, turning in revolution. Circle, persisting in syncopation. Morning ever reaches night, as is continuity’s design, lest, of course, if batteries should fail, lest if the battery should die.

Never altering pacing’s creed, each minutia’s never to repeat. Sounding still or pealing high, some build toward elation, others are solely bled to cry, others solely bred to cry.

Some stare in anticipation when predictability is ever known. Some ignite their todays by the voices of a tomorrow never told. Ever waiting for a second hand, a second hand to hold.

Head on over to D'Verse for this latest installment of Meeting The Bar, where Victoria is revisiting imagist poetry, yet offering a zinger of a twist.  She does a great job explaining the theme more fully and offers some wonderful examples in her article, which I strongly encourage all to read.  So, head on over, read the article, link up your poem and then sit back and enjoy the work of the other poets of D'Verse.

Internal Scream

Thursday, Anna posted another excellent article and challenge with her latest offering for the postmodern series that she's been working on for Meeting the Bar at D'Verse.  I urge you all to read the article, check out the myriad of writing challenges she directs you to, and definitely take a read through the linked poetry that others have shared.

I've been rather lethargic the past couple days, so unfortunately I didn't get a poem linked up in time, but came up with this piece here, and thought I'd post it anyhow.

Eternity is neither a straight line nor a circle.  It can and cannot be comprised of data alone. We must find the impulse

To what is planned internally, contrite or overt, sentient or parabolic in its off-putting collage of demonic possession. I

plan  scream,SCREAM to dream, planning, play, planner

May  Scream, sCream  may not manage to, or opt for, or

Dare scReam, ScrEam consider, think, fade, fail, dwelling

Isn't  screAm, ScreaM   attrition, collate, collide, meshing

Not   SCReam, scrEAM as a rule, never leave as is, allot

The  ScReAm, sCrEaM pigmented in variety, hue's light        

Lily  ScREam. sCreAM flower, shades of depth, dense, fog

Low scREAM, SCReAM leaves; lifts, lunges, plunges, push

Lens SKreem, SKRRRM claws/paws, scratch, scratching        

It’s inside, the ulcers bleeding out, curdling, it is only without

It’s the only thing left in tryst, asunder, lust. It is only, only and nothing more than only, when what is caught inside the facades implored reflect the carbon lifted under chambers dark—composed of voids and mistresses, tearing apart the seams of a shapeless existence, skirting the equanimity of tragic distance.  Parables are nice. Songs are too.  Yet, when in a state, illogical connections, are the sanest only to the one otherwise considered as being millenniums away. Relegated.

“we build walls, impenetrable walls. We do so, in order to prevent invasion.  To keep things out.  Yet, too often, these same walls, successfully keep things far, far worse inside”

A Guided Stroll

listen to ‘A Guided Stroll’ on Audioboo

You watch and determine day from night

You linger past the moonlight’s afterglow, well into the promenade looming behind a crested pounce of wave

Evenings are but intermediaries to you

And your centurion’s cage is, at most times, evenly divided into quadrangular partitions of sky

You watch A hour half past six or a

Five months from now—wherein, affixed the

Light stays as strikingly as ever remembered

Or if noncommittal, than your alternations harp accordingly—

To where a number of factors alit the present face, to which, of course, your eye catches each fractured toil and fragmented stint,

You are born

You are beneath

You are besides

And you’ve always been between

Yet it is here where you allow your form to follow form and not in that “some other time of year,” where flesh glistens by moonlight, dances it’s hypnotic tides across the serenity of it’s mystic shores

It isn’t always always fair, just, deserved, proper, adequate, moral, ethical or right. Yet you evaluate all things as if they are all cut from identical tapestries

It may not even be considered plausible to the well-magnified test of eye. You not only understand this, but appreciate it as well.    

You always seem to deliver us the current’s time of day

You notice and then proceed to oversee the fourteen lights and you remember that twelve of these originate a lake; one from a river and the other is a long and winding stream.  

You hear a swift sound.  It scurries quickly across the rocks

You hear the rasping quicken but do not inquire upon its source. 

You are not curious, for you are fully aware. 

You know it is but a sound.  You know rats abound this place, as they nest their families near the grates of drains.  You fear them not and understand them completely.

You declare that they’ve been unjustly defined. Your posture alleviates apprehension.  Your loving tone quells the fears that may have otherwise stirred within.  You indicate that while they are truly a rambunctious lot, it is only that they are consumed by restlessness and are but solely happy to be, invigorated by a life that does not ignite until only after darkness has fully blanketed the light of day.

You bend over slightly.

As you do, your robe sways softly in the salty air.

You reach down and return aligned.

You are smiling as you hold the smallest of them.

It fits within the palm of your hand.  It is malnourished.  You provide it the sustenance it needs.

You take hold of me.  Your grip is firm and strong.  It is comforting to hold.  You lead us down the break-wall, taking us to its very point. You see my reluctance and whisper to my soul, “follow me and you will not fall, for I love you as I love each and all.” 

You disappear, yet I still feel your hand in mine. As the surf tickles heel to toe, you’ve filled me with all I’ll ever need to know.

Later today, stop on over to D’Verse where the exploration into point of view continues with this week’s Meeting The Bar.