unable,
uncertain,
unknown,
unwanted,
unloved,
unravelled,
unchained,
under cover of darkness,
under unending law,
unblemished, unbound, undefeated,
unaltered, unceasing,
undead
poetry
napowrimo
Day 13 ~ Beyond My Control
I regret
I stole your heart
As children steal a secret sweet
Or pluck an apple as they pass
It was not in my control
I regret
A look, a word
I saw you fall
I did nothing then to aid you
It was not in my control
I regret
I watched your sad attempts to woo
Accepted kisses
Never turned you quite away
It was not in my control
I regret
I let you think
That I might love you
In return for loving so
Now I regret
Freeing you from my control
(inspired by Le Liaisons Dangereuses)
Day 11 ~ Your Flowers
The flowers we dipped into the lake
Were the crowning of your wake.
We stood in silence for your sake.
As the flow bore them away,
To the places far more deep,
We made a tender, sweet bouquet
with thoughts of you that we can keep
Christmas in Warwick
From Westgate tower to castle walls
By gentle ways the gradient falls
And all the time you laugh and smile
Bringing pleasure to the mile.
Past little shops and alleyways
We wander on these rainy days
While in the church the choir sings
Of all the joys that Christmas brings.
Turning homeward though square
We stop in cosy cafes there
And by the fire of logs that flame
In winter warmth I’m glad you came
To spend this coldest month with me
And decorate our Christmas tree
With gifts that only you could bring
And secret notes the angels sing
Questions of honour
If a chap in a chivalric or mythic tale announces that his honour has been damaged in some way, you know there’s going to be a duel or other violence. His honour may have been damaged because he didn’t get the right cut of meat at the feast, or someone suggested his wife is not the prettiest woman in the history of the world. The speed of his horse may have been questioned, or some more obscure personal pride thing that no sensible person could have seen coming. And then, so that honour can be satisfied, pain must be inflicted, maybe even death. It’s a way of thinking about honour that has never made much sense to me.
For women, honour is usually framed in such stories as being all about not having sex, or only having sex with the man you are married to. The woman who has sex…
View original post 482 more words
O
words are not enough
i could draw a line of dots
expanding into O’s
each one larger, broader, wider than the last
until they spread and shifted shape
into one gigantic throbbing heart
to embrace us in its grasp
Day 30
Writing Fairy Tales
Paris Suburbs – Carnaval
great atmosphere
I step silently through the streets, colours beneath my feet, as i crouch to the floor. A drum beckons me close and i strap its frame to my body. There are voices on the air, excitement and rainbows interlaced in the fabrics of those around. The echoing of bells, there sound swells and ricochets off bricks. Shakers and surdo´s, glitter and gold. Timba´s and conga´s on the old and the young. A whistle blows sharp across the throng. The sounds of the sun, from the ground to the sky. An elephant draped in silk, crafted by man, rolls down the street, followed by children swift of foot. Dancers twirling and rejoice in every voice heard. A parade of life, sounds and colour, a community together for a moment. Food shared on long tables, talk and friendship. The heart of Brazil in the passion of France.
Laura Berry
Confessional
My heart slips,
falls.
Ice encrusted long ago,
disappointed.
Abandoned. Ignored.
Disgorged.
Shattered sound
ricochets.
Too late I understand.
I am the abandoner.
Aortic contractions
in northernmost veins.
Earth shudders
heaves
lets go,
as I have her.
Anmol hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, she asks us to explore confessional poetry. In Confessional, whose voice is heard in the first stanza? The confessor appears in the second and third stanza. This is how I felt when we took our trip to Alaska several years ago. I witnessed and heard the calving that is occurring more and more as we ignore the plight of our earth. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
The Dreaming Path 