What is truth, and what is fiction? Though facts may abound, much is unknown. There is no lack of sources or resources, yet not all is black and white. Insights, opinions from self-labeled experts available at our fingertips, only muddy the waters. Clarity is open to interpretation. If only I might ken their meaning.
This poem is my response to Day 14 at napowrimo.net, where the prompt is to write a poem that delves into the meaning of one’s first or last name.
Expand your mind. Suspend disbelief and bring relief. Seize that fine line between yesterday and tomorrow. This moment, any moment, is yours to uncover. Whatever you find, wherever you find it, you’ll still be here when you get there; always be there, even when you return.
The deeper you go the more you’ll know. With no load to carry, the world is in your hands. Experience sonic expansion. More than memory, the mansion of your mind is a palace, no less than the world that surrounds you. More than you know, and more than that, awaits you.
This ekphrastic poem is my response to Day One at napowrimo.net, where the prompt is to write a poem inspired by the animated version of “Seductive Fantasy”, by The Sun Ra Arkestra.
sun and moon in an embrace
from horizon to horizon
proximity a measure of
darkness and light
the mere sight of one by the other
a shared light, free of shadow
I found this poem in my “Unfinished” folder, in four drafts dating from June 2020 through August 2020. I’m sure it was inspired by something I read on WordPress, but I just can’t place it. I think it makes a good counterpoint to yesterday’s poem.
Words, images burned
into my mind, unimaginable
events relived. Lives lost
remembered. A nation’s memory
on trial, broadcast to that nation.
Who could turn their backs
on facts that can not be denied?
A dethroned man who would be king,
insurgents inspired by his words,
incitement of treason reasoned
by one who should have lead,
but who, instead, must be found guilty of
the treason he so unreasonably fomented.
Yet, impeachment seems out of reach
in those halls that were fractured
long before that fracture laid upon it
by words and actions witnessed by a nation.
This poem may be scant on details, but I believe it presents a time and a place as prompted by Grace with Meeting the Bar: Setting at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
But we both know it was the children, sad as that is to say,
for the gift they have been. Your direction and mine,
different as night and day, had one exception,
their well-being and success. Discord
may have been evident, but not forefront,
as we gave to them what we could not give
to each other, a love that is true and unending.
There was no sacrifice on our part in fulfilling
the only desire we truly had and the reward it returned.
But that time has passed. It is now time
for us to follow our own directions.
Yours.
Mine.
This poem is in response to Reena’s Exploration Challenge #171, which is to use the provided image/dialogue, “take it forward from the perspective of the opposite gender, not yours.” I initially wrote this as a short prose poem, but I feel it works better with stanzas.
Regarding the prompt – without trying to sound sexist – I’m not sure if this works, as I once was told that I don’t do well in capturing “the female voice.” And I don’t mean the audio recording.
It Was Never You, Nor I
But we both know it was the children, sad as that is to say, for the gift they have been.
Your direction and mine, different as night and day, had one exception, their well-being
and success. Discord may have been evident, but not forefront, as we gave to them what
we could not give to each other, a love that is true and unending. There was no sacrifice
on our part in fulfilling the only desire we truly had and the reward it returned.
But that time has passed. It is now time for us to follow our own directions. Yours. Mine.
As it happens, I recorded two haiku on my phone when I was waking from anesthesia, yesterday. The one I posted yesterday was garbled and truncated, so I had to try to remember just what I had said. This morning, I found the first recording. Although not that much less garbled, it is more audible. That haiku (or senryū, to be more accurate) appears below, with the original recording. Note that I say “enterology” instead of enteroscopy, and there is a false start with the third line, in which I say “sore throat.” I’m feeling much better today, but the sore throat still lingers.
enteroscopy complete with intubation and recovery
As to why haiku came to mind as I was waking up? While waiting to be admitted for my procedure I was thinking about Freya’s most recent prompt for Pure Haiku, and I wrote down a haiku to submit later.
MTB: endings / beginnings, the prompt from Peter Frankis at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, asks us to write a poem while considering endings, with a suggestion to write a Golden Shovel poem. Per Introduction: The Golden Shovel, by Don Share at Poetry Foundation, “The last words of each line in a Golden Shovel poem are, in order, words from a line or lines taken often, but not invariably, from a Brooks poem.” This was first done by Terrance Hayes in homage to Gwendolyn Brooks, with his poem The Golden Shovel. This, my first Golden Shovel, was inspired by Infirm, by Gwendolyn Brooks, found here.
For the Many
One class, one caste to include everybody.
None are immune here.
This disease that plagues us today is
intent on adding to the infirm.
One class, one caste to include everybody.
None are immune here.
Your failure to recognize this is
sure to take a toll on the infirm.
You say you have survived, but oh,
some are not so quick to mend.
You may scoff at what I say, ridicule me,
but some will never mend.
It could have been you. It may be me.
This does not make you better, a lord.
I read the signs, the news today,
and understand I am one of many, that I
am exposed when you say
you have no need to fear, to
take caution, that you are not one of them.
Despite what you say,
you, too, are of the many. Others act to
protect their fellows, protect them
with no thought to say
they cannot be troubled, to
act as though they care not for them.
For they do, with no thought to lord
it over the many. Their desire to look
out for their fellow man, you and I,
is a sign that you are, that I am,
valued, and that is beautiful.
When the common and the beautiful
are seen as equal and viewed with
compassion, that is when my
true respect for others takes wing.
Our strength rises when that
understanding of equality is
wedded with a desire to spare the wounded.
There should be no “my,”
only “our.” When we see eye to eye,
when we come to realize that
the key to our survival is
best served when the many are bonded,
we will prevail. That, or
suffer the loss of my
sister or your mother, a deaf ear
turned to the grief that will not
serve sentiments funded
towards the consideration of others, or
even ourselves. Your regard for my
well-being should come unbidden. We walk
the same path. A beginning. An end. All
else may differ, but all else is a-wobble.
All is insanity, to think that I’m
insignificant to you, little enough
to trouble your mind, to
mask your pretension of superiority. Be
more than that. Be beautiful.
Let the world see that in you.
Join those who believe that others are
no less than beautiful.
Be one who thinks of others, too.
As a side note, this may be the longest poem I’ve written.
He knows his body knows,
communicates when it states
its intentions, dissension
its main talking point.
Lest he forget, he will soon
regret letting desire trump
prior warning signs. Aches
will wake joints that protest
at his best efforts to continue
as if nothing has changed,
but range of motion is not
what it used to be. See,
Ken is no spring chicken.
You can bet that when
he tends to forget, something
like a six-mile hike will
remind him of what he should
already know. Take it slow.
The prompt from Peter Frankis at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, MTB – Let your words ring out, asks us to write a poem that combines sense with sound. I’ve used alliteration, assonance and internal rhyme to achieve that.
I spent most of yesterday hiking 6 miles through a National Forest. The repeated inclines across ridges, as I followed bluffs above a river, took a toll on my body. After dinner, I made a list of maladies and aches, wondering if I could somehow use them in a poem. Reading the prompt this morning answered that. Maybe I’ll describe my day in a photo blog this afternoon.
The water of the Moreau River,
as motionless as the leaves of the giant sycamore
half-submerged with roots projecting skyward,
victim of spring’s high waters but determined
to send nourishment to branches willing
those leaves to life, and as still as the air
on this hot August day as my kayak sits
under a stone ledge, too high for me to reach
when volume and current are stolen by the recent
lack of rain, still feels cool to the touch in this shade
I have found, shared by the bank swallows darting
to their nests and back into the sunlight, no breeze
needed for their aerial antics as they skim the water
for a drink, then rocket up, only to turn abruptly
to feed in flights that would make any bat proud,
all of this reflected in that still water of the Moreau.
This poem is my response to Poetics: Flight of Fancy,
the prompt from Laura at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
What is truth, and what is fiction?
Expand your mind. Suspend
and the morning
