finding peace
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I miss out on a lot of things;Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt
sometimes it’s just not worth it.
I’ll hold my bladder when there’s
a line to the toilet; I’ll skip meals
when all restos have q[ueue]s.
I’ll pay xtra to make things
quicker. There’s nothing smaller
than my patience.
How great the distance between us and the sunNa/GloPoWriMo Prompt
yet we bathe in its warmth. The joy of a clear day
that pushes you to your feet and take the step
forward comes from millions of miles away.
It inspires; it motivates. It keeps a smile that
dazzles in its light. Its warm embrace covers
the world. Distance means nothing when you
mean the world, and they become the center
of yours. Yet maybe distance is saving you;
a great divide uncrossable, not by will but design.
If their warmth cozies at this distance, will you not
char in proximity? Will their light not blind?
Their beauty from afar belies their passion;
like moths to the flame, your demise in juxtaposition.
Simple words sounds like gospel and angel hymnsNa/GloPoWriMo Prompt
when they come from certain people. No grand
speech nor long serenades match the emotion
born of a single word: yes,
and similarly it’s counterpart. It breaks the heart
and blights the soul. But there is nothing to be done
when it is not meant to be, not when a single word
cuts the path ahead: no,
there might be another more wrenching for the soul.
The mean of two words seem fair but mistakenly so;
indecision and fear of the unknown, a fog of war
hiding the road, or a cliff at the end.
Just because it is spring does not meanNa/GloPoWriMo Prompt
that everything will be in bloom.
Even for the blossoming
plants and trees, there are leaves
that fall even as
they grow. Flowers
bloom over-
coming
woe.
A pencil shoved behind the ear,Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt
sitting on a stack of references,
and staring for hours
on a blank piece of paper.
It’s not a complex prompt;
it’s open-ended,
all creativity up for grab.
Yet, untouched still.
A hand ruffling his own
hair in frustra
tion, “what do I
do with this?”
He’d draw in circles,
in lines and shapes.
He’d write lines
in stanzas and refrains.
He’d scratch it out
and start
over.
“What
am I doing
with this?”
Actions speak louder than words, but wordsNa/GloPoWriMo Prompt
are thoughts before they’re spoken, caught
before they’re thrown. Their effect affects
and threading tiptoe ends in naught.
Actions speak louder than words, but words
wound deeper. They do not scar; they fester
in the recesses of the mind. They get buried
and forgotten but, unearthed, wounds deeper.
Actions speak louder than words, but words…
words kill the soul.
The eyes are the windows to the soul but of theNa/GloPoWriMo Prompt
greatest sights in the world, none shall take
victory over that held dear. No piece of art
is as breathtaking as each second
that you behold your beloved.
Which artist can depict what
requires that they steal the world—
no, that they steal yours? No
battle more meaningful than that for your heart.
By the nearshore, amidst rocks by the ocean, is a cafeNa/GloPoWriMo Prompt
manned by seals and volunteers from the foreshore.
They'd welcome surfers and beachgoers, whoever
can reach their store.
And who else can be regulars other than folks
of the sea, the mermaids and mermen who
surface for coffee and tea,
and maybe pastries too.
They'd swim up from the deep seas
singing as sirens for their orders heard
while they by caffeine and sweets are lured.
No plastic cups nor straws, all paper--
all that dissolve in saltwater--
found beside foam by the setting sun.
1. Find yourself a muse.Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt
2. Take a pen and draw in their figure.
3. Draw words from the shapes and curves and edges.
4. Plot the lines with your words as corners and points.
5. Observe your lines; the thickness and smoothness, the rhythm and enjambments.
6. Add your background; add context.
7. Blur it; return focus to your muse.
8. Look at them, then back to your drawing—your poem
9. Embody their being into each line and color, into each rhyme and meter.
10. Find distance in the disconnect of a photo of a thing and the thing itself.
11. The poem is not your muse.
Can you be my muse for all my life?Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt
I’ll draw you out with my everyday,
color my world with you in every way;
be the palette of the rest of my life.
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