It’s Flashback Friday! It also happens to be the feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the Catholic Church. đ Usually this date, June 24th, celebrates the birth of St. John the Baptist, so that’s what this poem, written exactly 3 years ago, is about. It’s in a form called a Rhyming Wave and is kind of funny. đ
Saint John the Baptist was a quirky man,
A quirky, quirky, quirky man,
He acted strongly in God’s plan,
He acted zealously.
He said, “Greater comes after me,
Comes after, after, after me,”
He dined on locusts with honey,
He dined in wilderness.
John the Baptist was a quirky man,
He dined in wilderness.
I have a morbid sense of humor that has sustained me through the darkest times of my life. I remember when I was in a suicidal crisis in 2007, being held at the police station while waiting for the crisis service to assess me, telling the officers how I wasnât all that creative, since I had thought out only a few ways to die. I think one of the officers tried to distract me by saying that I must be creative, since I have a blog, but I wouldnât listen.
Once I had been admitted to the psychiatric hospital, locked ward, with no privileges (as they are called) to leave the ward unsupervised by staff, I started to crack jokes. They were rather lame jokes if you ask me, jokes Iâd plucked off the Internet, such as those about the differences between the patients and staff on a psychiatric wardâŠ
I found some fascinating information about Magritte himself, specifically about his early life. Learning about what events inspired an artist’s or writer’s work is endlessly intriguing to me!
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It seems Magritte was a vampire:
Looking into the mirror seeing no face
No hair empty black suit black hat.
White Walls.
Is this the real world?
It seems an image given by a false mirror
An image given yet at least free,
Free of that damned apple
Which filled the entire space between
These
White Walls.
I’ve been trying to write something all week for this captivating picture (preferably something that is not terrible). This poem started to take on some surrealist qualities as I wrote and looked at more of his paintings. At least, that’s my excuse. Apologies!
Today’s prompt for day 28 was to write a concrete poem, and that is what I did not do. Instead, I have a villanelle for MLMM’s Saturday Mix: Lucky Dip. I’ve been working on this for days and, because I had to wait a while for my ride home from work, finally finished it this evening!
It’s a sad poem, but I wasn’t very sad while finishing it. In fact, I was eating free frozen custard, and it’s pretty hard to be too sad when you’re eating basically ice cream but better! The only exception is when you are eating a whole pint of ice cream by yourself in one sitting because you are nursing a broken heart … but that is not what I was doing. đ
Inertia’s difficult to overcome,
It’s making every door seem like it’s locked,
It makes me think I’ll fall again in Glum.
Though Now is pleasant, future’s worrisome:
This beating heart inside feels like a rock,
Inertia’s difficult to overcome.
Is there an out? Faith tells me there are some,
Although it seems Hope’s shop is out of stock,
Making me think I’ll fall again in Glum.
I try small tasks. It feels like chewing gum —
Not really doing much — this brain is blocked,
Inertia’s difficult to overcome.
Even when good arrives, will better come?
I must do more and cannot only talk —
How often must I fall again in Glum?
Will better days arise? God’s keeping mum.
Any large change affects me like a shock!
It makes me think I’ll fall again in Glum —
Inertia’s difficult to overcome.
Another poem to add to the “I wish I’d written this” file:
Ben’s fantastic and disturbingly relatable response to the Emily Dickinson prompt from 2 days ago!
Because I could not stop for Death â He kindly stopped for me â
Emily Dickinson
Stopped for Em, but not for me.
I tried⊠Flagged him down Stood in the road Flung myself under the hooves
Drove along, he did.
No âkindlyâ stop for me.
But then, Death does not operate a taxi service, does he?
He doesnât come when you call
usually.
He comes when you are ready,
And I guess I wasnât.
Am not.
Yet.
This is the âearly birdâ prompy for #NaPoWriMo22 (National Poetry Writing Month 2022):
Dickinson is known for her elliptical style, unusual word choices, and mordant sense of humor. Over the past year, Iâve experimented with writing poems based on, or responding to, various lines from her poems. Today, Iâd like to challenge you to do the same!
Yes, itâs already April 2. Iâm behind. Just like death, sometimes.
Lorraine has written and shared this beautiful sestina! Please check out her site and give her “likes.” Thank you. â€
I met Him while down on the ground,
We both spoke the same language,
It was the language of hearts,
Not the language of power
Where hearts have turned to stone,
It was a language of tears.
The world despises tears,
As it pushes us onto the ground,
But we are not like stone,
Pain and hurt forms our language,
Tears form their own power,
The power to heal hearts.
We all have sacred hearts,
When we can cry tears,
Not from a position of power,
But from way down on the ground,
Itâs a universal language,
When our hearts are not stone.
Itâs easier to be stone,
Nothing touches our hearts,
We speak our own language,
We cannot cry tears,
Unless we fall on the ground,
Losing all our power.
Itâs frightening to lose our power,
To be kicked, like a stone,
Pushed further r onto the ground, ByâŠ
I tried to write a happier piece and then this happened. XD Hahahahaha!
Every hurt and hidden pain â
Bid it to relent.
I am not all broken yet
But am surely bent.
If I think itâs gone away,
Here it comes back stronger â
Shall I make a deal with Death?
He sweetens his offer.
Only God can rescue me,
When I do not want to be.
It is “Quadrille Monday” at DVerse again, and this week’s word is “shiver.” Linked with JusJoJan. Once again, it took longer to find an illustration than to write the poem.
I cannot help it : Even when you’re standing next to me, And I’m wearing two jackets And holding your warm hand — Yes, this present is pleasant — If I think about the future, It is not the coldness of the night Which makes me shiver.
revivedwriter 
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