It’s a day for painting myself purple periwinkle
-prosed, poised proud with a pen
-chant for plums (eaten, so delicious, so sweet.)
It’s a day to be
-fuddle myself full-mooned and frosting sprinkled,
muddled and puddle-wonder-filled.
Come my way –
we’ll ink ourselves silly, willy-nilly open-veined
and broken open indigo sky.
We’ll fuel ourselves
on parchment and page, cinnamon sage tea
-shirts soaked in salt, sorrow. Stung.
We’ll fool them all.
They think we’re working, but we’re really
twerking in word bump moves. Tweaking, leaking
more than all this scattered pilfered paint.
This ain’t the circus, ma’am. Move along and find
your own damn song. See?
That guy with the sign, he knows his. Spare him
a dime, some time, a small kindness, a long
lost brother to hold. Forgive
me; this is just to say
I would like a new universe, please.
This one’s grown cold.
It’s Poetry Month! Join me and all the other fools writin’ a poem a day over at Poetic Asides.
Oh sweet Jesus. You kill me.
“chant for plums”
“Come my way –
we’ll ink ourselves sill-y”
“We’ll fuel ourselves” …
“cinnamon sage tea
-shirts soaked in salt, sorrow. Stung.” … I love you.
“They think we’re working, but we’re really
twerking” … I’m not even kidding you, I just read this, jumped out of my chair — bouncing up and down in place — and then climbed up on top of my chair and shouted “YES” to no one but the moon … because this is what I want to see and picture when I read poetry.
Well, damn. You turned that hurty-south in a hurry. The second half isn’t nearly as playful. But still excellent poetry. Just … a heavy punch. And not the Kool-Aid kind I was expecting to round-house it out.
“shouted “YES” to no one but the moon”
…Now I must write a poem with some semblance of that as title. 😉
Sorry ’bout the ending. The world makes me weary this week. Escaping in poems this afternoon, but sometimes they just go where they go, as you know.
Daddy took all the kids out for the afternoon. I’m home alone, but I have written absolutely no poems. I think I’m scared of them now. I seem to have a writing-poems-phobia. It’s like, I fear that I’ve lost the ability, so now I’m too fearful to even try. So I’m just popping pistachios and letting the world(s) pass me by while I decay.
Write me a “This Poem Is…” poem. And just email it to me. Doesn’t matter what tumbles into it. It’s just me. Maybe it’ll jangle loose something you like.
…or something you need to say. Which is sometimes even more important.
Or decorate our “Sad Dens” with words. Bring chalk, fireflies, cherry blossoms. (See my comment on the other post.)
You just made my legs quiver and my shoulders quake, thinking about what I “need to say.”
You know I don’t do that.