April 24, 2013

NaPoWriMo 2013 # 24

photo by Letizia Argiolu ©

Calabria midnight calling

the weep pull
of the Moon full
is seeping into
my thoughts
vanquish fantasy to wishes
to wants selfish
to selfless
desires haunting me
sand and the smell
of the sea
are at the sill
in rise morning rise
filter soft lime bell
leaves stretched out
scattering the Sun’s angles
over roof tops
early frost is now memory
in what seems
my strangely quiet neighborhood
maybe everyone is still sleeping
maybe the latest and greatest
mass televised fear programming
is working as a thought suppository
and folks are all lost inside themselves
maybe our pomp circumstantial
dance recital vegas routines
sold for our own good
have rationales with infinite wisdom
but they escape me, right now

I feel someone changing my radio channel

everyone talks about
peace and love, white doves
but give me that bird   and
I’ll show you flesh and blood
bone in constant demand
for locomotion, for movement
for swells of migration
deep patterned once
to our memory

we are an ambulatory science now
chained to false democratic principles
shooting at the stars
with worn votes
secret drawn and quartered
town square lottery assemblies
everyone in search of a circle
trying not to become
cornered here

driving train rides, I see white noise sugar factories

maybe, it is just about time
and those moments where I think
I am on to something
maybe, it is only a magic eye
waiting to be slip thirst
somewhere between the cracks
in the sidewalk    and
your rate of blinking
are your eyes dry today
are the particulates in the air
suspending hook and mop
making sure to redden raw
the entry points of light
the stir pot blades of vision
I see sometimes
angels in shadow gleam
sun blind too, part of a warm horde
behind the old trees peeking
from coronal bathes of white prism
the slow excavated hung flowers
of these old barked reaches
are why we grow
are why we are
slow spun wet clay
twisting memory
into thick skin sometimes

what is it
that we do 
when we dream
to stay awake
throughout the day
in a world 
full of distraction

the soul's view master smells of unborn polaroids

most times I am unable
to complete a task
so I retreat
go seeking a seat
where words
find outlets
places to hide
places to plug
into desperation
like the grasses
turned ice lattice
beaded loose
bonded and bowed
to the tides
we all capture
a little round
view of the world
to pocket compass our way
so just maybe
you’re at a window too
right now looking
for where the horizon arcs
into midnight 
your dreams



  1. In your world full
    of distraction..
    where the soul
    deeply dipped
    the truth of
    million cells,
    and emotions,
    for foreign eye,
    but subservient
    to tides
    of the moon...

    1. story town
      the die cast
      metal to need
      thrill rides
      fabled eyes
      synapse reach
      dopaminergic locksmith
      rush wish the bull whip
      snap crack flash
      follow, flesh is weak
      attraction to bone
      here, distracted
      by this world
      that never needed
      any maps
      tides or
      current horizons
      eons of carved right
      in rise...

    2. 'world that never needed
      any maps tides' -
      not your world,
      your tribe.

      Whether hide or not
      you were born
      as ministrel,
      a songster, a poet,
      'world dust word wipe',
      all the men
      in black and white,
      in between,
      left and right,
      searching their 'high'
      either gentle, rough;
      whose sweet torment

    3. maybe I'm just a hungry poem

      the fare
      about where
      the stomach
      used to be
      smells of a bakery
      as we all eat
      doth rain
      head to feet
      with words
      a flake crust pie
      a loaf of dark wheat
      sliced, torn
      to dip and spread
      these words
      are the paints
      with which
      our eyes are fed

      EJR ©

      great prompts
      thank you :)