Day 1 for several writing challenges was yesterday and yes! :I wrote this yesterday. Enjoyed the heck out of the process and it may not all fit here on in instagram post… I’ll experiment and if not, I will post on my dusty poetry blog. What I can get here, is here - thanks entirely to (these are all housed on Instagram, FYI)
#1wordpromptchallenge #1word = begin + #septemberfalls19 + caves and sheds + #worthyshares #worthysharesSept2019 = aesthetic
Is this fictional or confessional? Your guess is as good as…. :-) enjoy and thank you for reading. Would love to know what aspect of this mashup work best, in your estimation. And here... we go.
UNTOLD: a Poem's Unfolding
I’m afraid to begin, nervous to write it because
to write it means I will have to return to the darkness the
bitter reality I work so hard to stay away
from the mixture of mud and blood torn from the bottom of my right foot
to put it on paper, to move my pencil back and forth and up and down
requires I solidify the “it” I’m not ready to name
Understand with me, it is more comfortable to dig a shallow
hole in wet ground, take the shovel from the dusty, spiderweb
covered backyard shed, a catacomb of rusty unused words, a messy cave
in the middle, no one ever gets to that midpoint anyway
her aesthetic doesn’t shimmer here
It is safe
to say those things that ought to just go unsaid
suddenly I am strong, standing at the
podium offering thanks, my heart pounding in semi-disbelief
because I don’t win anything I belong in this hovel, this
hollowed out place only for me, my shape lives
in the in-between that people don’t ever seem
to get to, their calendars punctuated with
exclamation points, not the fleshy commas, hidden.
The not having the answers to the nosy questions
such as “what do you mean by messy anyway?” and
everything stops waiting for you say “messy is calling”
the glint of the star the sheriff wears,
he is the one who notes the list of marchers
in the parade, the handprints left behind
the flag bearers by the windows, the smudges
of pencils, erased not quite forgotten frustration at
not getting it right. Getting lost in in
the ghostly pounding of fists against injustice
sneering down his nose, remembering observations
“she was an angel, such a dear… she always” add the
next glowing moment for recollection. On replay. Repeat.
Forgetting the hollow pit in my stomach from the
pounding on the window, his begging me not to
call, not to ruin her life, to sacrifice myself instead,
shroud pulled, silence while outside mysterious
shadows except for the poignant iphone glow
no one will read this mess, no one wants to know
she sat on the stairs he made for my
production and she now slept there, spent.
exhausted calling her friend compassion, familiar
knocked on my hearts hearing. I heard the lament
taking shape, a litany a prayer a catechism
she didn’t know how.. the list, lengthy and
right then, in that dark pre-dawn when I
listened in disbelief to the snores beside me
and on the other side of the window and
wall, she slurred words, aimed at
getting back out, over the fence which
I was metaphorically sitting on
feet dangling, heart, skewered, pain
on hold. As long as it stayed there,
numbness glistening would win and
the smiles might could continue.
she leapt back over the gate sometime
before daybreak. And repeated. Three times
I know of but no one wants
to hear that mess. No one wakes up saying
“tell me again, the messiness of standing
beside the deputy, his gun belt leather creaking
as he says “You know how men” obviously I
must not, seeing this evidence, sir
“are, when they are” damaged, left behind,
highly practiced consumers of high drama
tragedies devoid of gentle, lasting love
“offered sex.” Aggressive sex, officer?
where 911 is called and pacts are made
and eye glasses are broken and lies are
believed and restoration lies dormant?
Thankfully the middle will go unnoticed.
People want the introductory hook and the
punchline. Those are the undroppables.
Those are what the best stuff is made
- beginning (forgotten middle) end.
aesthetics not (buried in sheds or caves)
victorious conqueror, hailing the gently
falling beams of light, everlasting romantic
not mud or blood but blind forgiveness.
Yes infinite sojourn into that truth
untold
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