Six Word Saturday

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Poem: Indigo

I do not remember when I wrote this poem.  It was at least fifteen years ago.  I guess I was going for an image type poem.  Anyway, here it is!

Indigo

Feel-

the only

way

is

through

the fields.

The knives

of corn leaves

reach to draw blood

from

indigo skies-

the color of

your

mind-

sinking into

my

consciousness.

Husk of a voice-

scratches the air-

the tornado is

against my

ears-I can

hear the

windsong-

I am

ready

for

violence.

You smile against

your soul-

try to escape

into

the masks

of matter.

See the sky disappear-

because my eyes close.

Poem: Insomnia After the Conversation

I wrote this poem about thirteen years ago for a graduate poetry class I was taking at Rutgers in Camden.  The poetry professor made the commment that the poem, particularly the last line, was reminiscent of Sappho Sappho: A New Translation. 

Insomnia After the Conversation

This is whole,

right here, right now.

Kill me then.  I can't breathe

with the night bearing down

and down, giving birth to nothing

but minutes.

I know.  Pain now, wisdom later.

f that.  I've only got one here,

one now.  The grand lie:

I breathe, eat, sleep.  I can survive.

Enough.

Make all the whiteness disapper; I can't take this

void.

Your voice. You convinced me no one is real.

Good job.  now I believe in death, in loss, in change.

I hate you, or what I've made of you, full of messages.

Damn.  Where's the source?  Where's the all?

My pillow is flat.  The blankets twisted.

The moon is too bright.  I can't sleep.

Poem: You, me, the moon after the fight

This poem I wrote about ten years ago.  I was trying to play with sound a little bit. 

You, me, the moon after the fight

The moon swooned
like a drunken sailor
dipping his hand into the sea.

What's imported
as the water laps
into dreams?

Getting lost
one way or another,

The sailor flips his palm
like a giant fish;
pale fingers glint wet
like gills.

The boats disappear
into the sea,
into the dark sky and night.
They drown in the orange moon's descent.

We follow.

If you like my poetry, you can see some more poems on my photography blog:
haiku
Poem: Requiet
Poem: The Hidden
Poem: Winter Watch
Haiku for Winter

Poem: Cage

This poem I wrote for a college class at Rider University.  I was twenty (this was shortly after my sister took me to Disney World as a 21st birthday gift during Spring Break, which has nothing to do with the poem.  Just a random memory from that time).  The class was "The Poem" where we read poetry and wrote poetry.  I loved it!  The professor, Dr. Maynard was a really nice woman who had a real passion for literature and was a great poet in her own right.  She was just one of those professors who had a positive energy, a pleasant demeanor, and a sharp mind.  She memorized many famous poems.  Dr. Maynard even told the class about her son reciting Blake's "Tyger Tyger burning bright", from Songs of Innocence and of Experience, freaking out his elementary teacher. 

Anyway, I digress!  In the class, one type of poem we had to write was a Villanelle.  The following is my villanelle for that class:

Cage

In quiet song, I saw a bird in flight,
Falling dreamily down into its nest;
Safe from freedom, wild dreams, the crows of night.

Mother dreams, I breathe in the wingless night,
My flightless feathers reach for the moon's crest;
In quiet song, I touched a bird in flight.

All the windows are locked, no death tonight.
Mother murmurs, dreaming, "I know what's best."
Safe from freedom, wild dreams, the crows of night.

Twilight dreams make me Icarus in flight,
Yet always beyond the sea's highest crest.
In quiet song, I am a bird in flight.

Mother, do you feel the launching of night,
Wings curled around you, caught in your dream's nest,
Safe from freedom, wild dreams, the crows of night?

I hand in my feathers, forsaking flight,
Giving up beauty, love, and all the rest.
In quiet song, I caged a bird in flight,
Safe from freedom, wild dreams, the crows of night.

Six Word Saturday

I love poetry and will share!

The Hunger

The following poem I wrote about fifteen years ago when I was in my early twenties.  Almost my entire life, I have struggled with my weight.  My frustrations with this process came out as this poem:

The Hunger

You can tell by the back of my legs that I eat dinner.
I should starve like a good girl.
Yes. Delicious sound. Starve.
That easy to be loved.
Starvation.

To wake up,
Stand on spindly legs (not one ounce of fat),
stretch out my lean body.  Bones like letters
spell out beauty, spell out yes.

Dreams like little green vegetables devoured slow,
like me thinning,
fall from my slender legs into somewhere.

Hear these sounds of hunger:
Faint music, drums.
My clothes just loose enough. Yes.
Beautiful, a dream, a bird, yes.