April 25, 2018

πŸŒœπŸ‡πŸ‘ƒπŸŽ‘πŸŽ™πŸŽͺ🎭🐐 #NaPoWriMo2018 ... Day 25

my electric kool-aid mr tumnus look


(this poem is characterized as being without title)

prima parte


are we at war 
with those 
that would 
eat souls 

have we holes where the rain gets in 
are we fixin' to be an it or even better 
a cheddar get-ter 
rolling down hills 
gravity for wings 
do we sing terse songs 
do we seem old but feel 
we were never meant to be 
here now, at the end of the world 

cellular level break down 
brake down telo mere a mere tell 
what have we ideas of if not, us ... 

the singular soul is old at birth 
longing for a company of fools, sages, animals 
and page after page of books yet to be/ 
the budding redolent air 
ripples with caterpillar scent 




(archetypes in the middle of a poem)

seconda parte


it is raining 
everyone and no one
the wind waits 
each of us and none of us
time eats 
what we project
clocks kill 
what we protect 

I am not a grand painter of worlds 
but rather a smooth river stone story teller 
who finds commonality to lens 
feelings of hey I see myself or others I may know 
in this scenario/landscape/imagined world
do I take from you all ...  your cadences your projections your visible spectrums 

yes

do I mine what I feel is the underbelly to it all/ to us all 

yes

so 
let's have dinner 
as a poem might 
an Ethiopian style table 
and roti bread cloth 
evening pouring through 
open windows 
billowy curtains 
and wall sconce candles lit 
no utensils, no phones 
nothing but what fun 
used to be like 
we'll talk and laugh 
out loud, boisterous emphasis 
on working our core muscles 
our being, our souls 
our why(s) 
we eat best 
hand to mouth 

night 
why it is 
a womb 
we always revere 
why it is 
the one mystery 
born to us 
we never need 
solved

we bleed 
maidens and squires 
in the weeds 
we want 
price and place 
we are willing 
to become 
crown thieves 
the grifting of bejeweled 
comes from ash and dust 
limbs, lust and sutured time 
bones are articulate masses 
revisionist insisting sisters 
they lack mercy 
we deserve heresy 
and as such 
perhaps 
every seed 
will be inventoried 
while eggs 
are given 
free reign 

yes, we'll meet in Tunis 
and we'll have tea 
one last time 
as the sea 
laps up against 
waiting mother 
in the sand 

and father 
trapped in starlight 
over the mountain 
will hush us 
to catch 
her beauty 
one last time 

EJR ©

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