When did it start -
this slow rejection,
this back-breaking, heart-wrenching game?
Once I told my hands to move
and they clapped praise.
Once I told my legs to move,
and they danced worship.
Once I told my voice to sing,
and it created harmony.
But while I was otherwise occupied
the whole damn organised organism
led a coup d’état.
while my arms hang limp at my sides,
while my legs lie useless before me,
while my vocal cords remain silent,
my heart leaps and shouts and sings and claps
who had all the answers in my rucksack,
am left standing silent and bare
on their way to
Today’s prompt is to write a lanturne about “street fair.”
The Lanturne is a five-line verse shaped like a Japanese lantern with a syllabic pattern of one, two, three, four, one.
I wanted to say thanks to all of those who have been on this National Poetry Writing Month challenge.
Just knowing you were there spurred me on.
And how blessed I have been by some of your most amazing words!
Let’s keep writing . . . and I will come around and visit you from time to time.
And now, as most of you are rising and starting your day,
I bid you all a fond farewell
as I head for my pillow.
Man’s last red will be blood
His easiest shade to lose.
His late night’s enmity
all for eternity.
So hell rises in joy
Thinking yet to conquer.
But dusk comes to reveal
All is stained bright red.
(a reworked version of Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost)
We turned back through thousands of years
to the letter addressed to the residents of Philippi
and sang the song with our family who have gone before:
“Maker-master, come in love to live among us.
Saviour-servant, come to sacrifice.
Humble, obedient, surrendering all.
Exalted-lover, ever glorified.”
“Make us servants like our brother,
make us humble, make us wise.
Let every action be a channel;
Let your glory be our prize.”
Soaring in spirit
I came down from the mountain
and abhorrence found my eyes.
Cruel and wicked people
who take whips to their sons
and beat them much more soundly
than they ever would their mules.
“WHY?” I cry –
knowing that this sin
is my sin,
that this abomination
is mine –
Fall to your knees
Beneath the cool green umbrella of the forest canopy
walk the dark, dank, musty ground,
inhale the thick, verdant perfume of the ancient watch,
rest my weary soul in the virescent atmosphere of life.
a crying hornbill cuts a jagged scar across the understory
rending the glaucous moment into shivery shades of cerise.
A quick repose against a garrotic fig
and then I return to this restorative ramble.
The next pause finds my fingers caressing the luxuriant soil
pulling fistfuls to my face –
the rich, intoxicating taste of life.
Rolling to my back I gaze up,
(through the shiny emerald stars of leaves
twinkling as they sway to and fro in the breeze)
up to the heavens –
and sing my own song of speechless praise.