Careless with my
dead weight,
– reality forsaked –
lost in dreams
of prettier things
than me
caressing my
bitterness and grief
– your toys – my
air – sustaining my
illusions –
acknowledging the
sacred but
a few fake smiling
faces
would be
cool.
Tag: Sreejit Poole
Adrift
Adrift,
with neither an anchor to port nor the wind to support its sails,
inhaling
is the sole solution for moving forward – giving purpose to movement –
exhaling
seems a betrayal of all that was lost when life kept its promises:
– constant change – what is born must die – what laughs must cry – no experience is a lie, yet all experiences are lies because they are not constant.
Adrift
– our state whether known or unknown, contentment only coming with the belief that God’s hands will guide us – no God means no home –
either way – what is born must die – what laughs must cry – no experience is a lie, yet all experiences are lies because they are not constant.
Ad Libs
—
1, 2, 3, 4 – 1, 2 – 1, 2, 3,
1, 2, 3, 4 – 5, 6 – 7, 8, 9
The pitter patter of my life is like a 9 beat song – pitter patter – well – more like I stomp through it hoping for the best, with head down, and glancing both ways to dodge those 8 beat bangers and 6 beat romantics – knocking into others as I don’t figure into their rhythm – grooving to 9 means you probably can’t jam out with friends, instead you’re careful that this word, this look, this smile expresses this moment in a way that others can understand, and feel natural about, it can look – unperturbed – apathetic – cool to outsiders, but in reality is always one ad lib away from total self-destruction.
—
—
This is a cool 9 beat (at least that’s how I hear it) song written by Rhiannon Giddens and performed by Our Native Daughters
Glory
We scream as we
enter this world
and numb ourselves
to the pain
as we leave it,
yet without limits
we glorify these limbs
as a God
in whose image
we’re painted,
meanwhile,
the bulk of our life
is spent with sagging skin,
fat spilling out
in odd places,
weathered eyes tell the story
of our closest friend
– pain –
the one true love
that is fated.
Manufactured
Hearing the sound of
the trolley’s bell, on Occidental
and Jackson, inspire me
to write some English 101
style prose – where you
go on describing things that
no one cares about as it just
gets in the way of the movement
of the story – because the
sound of that digital horn –
programmed to sound like
an old-fashioned ring that
we would have only heard in
movies – creates a guttural
nostalgia – that is clearly corporate
driven as there weren’t even
trolleys in Seattle when I was
growing up – and I’ll ride
that Trolly and feel like a kid
again until I remember that the
hospital is its and my
primary destination.
To be shared with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #70: Discovery.