Scars

You can trace the scars and stretch marks 
where they have marked time and marred the flesh.

Each wound reveals a history of love,
pain and refusals to die.

We should not cover them, instead, 
accept they are part of who we are.

Nor should we celebrate, for most merely 
hide the deeper ones within.

Grow from the pain, for many
must be broken before they are made whole.

https://dversepoets.com/ prompts for a poem based on ‘one true sentence’ of Hemingway’s. I chose
“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”
–A Farewell to Arms (1929)

And sense a ‘sentence’ was the subject, each stanza is written in the form of an American Sentence of Allen Ginsburg.

In dark Corners…waiting For dawn

sometimes…..you miss the

……………………………madnesS

……………….It becomes more of a hunger

than an urge

you listen Close to silence,

study it’s …………………………………movement

follow the slow
……………………………daRk
…………………………………….trails
………………………………………………of its path

you Shout often

revEl in the boundless ………….power

of an unrestrAined wind

…………………………hold close the sound of

………….whispers.

Memory is a gritty irritant

…………….like sand in your

………………………eye…..

Things We Can Hold

How
we seek
that which we
can grasp, control,
when things of import
more often resemble
the feeling the first time you
held a baby — fragile, unsure —
or attempts to embrace wisps of smoke,
or reaching for a hand no longer there.

an etheree for dVerse

Perfect

There are things
which remain perfect,
provided
we always
remember them as they were…
not what they become.

.

A Shadorma for the image at the Mag

A Table for Two

I requested a table
for two – something quiet,
intimate – where we
could be alone … with each other.

The mood was right
the lighting perfect
the food excellent
the service superb

Her eyes swirled like
the spoon stirring her
coffee, and never met
my own.

I requested a table
for two, but at no point
were we ever alone…
with each other.

Are You So Inclined

There is an inclination
to try and force

order into
…the place of chaos,

bread into
…the void of hunger,

plastic people into
…positions of power,

any alabaster disaster
…into a lack of faith,

something of yours
…to become mine,

a demographic
…to be subject to an elite,

achievers of altitude
…to be brought back down…

 

I disagree with your ideas
of forced solutions.

 

Keep your order,
…I will create my own.

Keep your bread,
…and the associated  dependence.

Keep the plastic people
…where they can do no harm.

Keep your carved deity,
…there is one I worship.

Keep what is yours,
…leave me what is mine.

Keep your ideas of subjection,
…I will choose freedom and responsibility.

Keep your subjective equality,
…I will strive for the stars.

 

Why would I willingly subject
myself to the ideas
of societal behavior
with which I disagree?
Are you so inclined as
to abandon yours,
…in favor of mine?

The Shore

Life’s lasting impression,
one final

dawn.

The tide comes with the heat,
waves erase

tracks.

Tears mingle with the sea,
wind scatters

ash.

Red Balloon

Amidst the horde of hats and coats
huddled beneath

umbrellas — straining
to maintain structure —

there is an upturned
face —

oblivious to the wet, sting
of the drops —

watching the path
of the red balloon

as it fights to reach the heights
it is destined for.

Black

Black,
to him, it is more than a color,
it is an identity,
a mantra,
a way of life,
a culture and a belief.
It guides his actions
and determines his friends,
chooses the place of his home,
the nature if his church
and the power of his convictions.
It is the cross he bears
and the flag he waves,
the box he checks
and the first word used to describe him;
more important than gender
or place or date of birth,
almost taking the place of a name.
He would prefer to be called
a man —
no preceding adjectives —
but differentiating descriptors are a
societal requirement,
so, he clings to it and waits.
Black is his creed,
his motivation and his history,
a thing he could no more shed
than his skin.

Upon Reading the Poems of Mary Oliver, In Which She Refers to the Poet in Third Person

I write as often as I may
a poem or a chapter,
a recounting of the hours
of the day, or the days
that can pass in the course
of a night.

I write as often as I may
of laughter, but tears
frequently fall, searches
of joy where anger
is normally found.

I write as often as I may,
trying to expound
on the mundane found
in the spectacular, and vain
attempts to simplify
the amazing.

I write as often as I may,
never quite satisfied with
the result. Maybe this is why
I follow the advice of a friend
and leave the titles of ‘author’
and ‘poet’ for others to bestow,

never referring to myself
as anything more than ‘writer’.