Maybe this poem makes me sound pathetic, but gosh all I want is a hug. I don’t live by myself but am still so isolated, especially emotionally. Thanks to Fandango for the prompt word, and I am also sharing with the Writers’ Pantry. Will post this before I change my mind.
As the seconds tick, quickly,
Are we a cog in the machinery?
Is the meaning of all this visible?
Is finding meaning, simply risible?
Look at those Roman numerals —
We recognize these symbols
Of an empire once great,
No longer such a powerful state.
Note: This is for Paula Light’s Thursday Inspiration #62, for which she gives us the word time and the picture above. Also, I do not believe that finding meaning is “risible.” In fact, I believe that finding meaning is among the most important things in life.
“We go in different directions down the imperturbable street.” This is the sentence, a line from a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, that Merril gives us to use for DVerse prosery. Just so you all know, this is fiction, and also I am really not used to writing flash fiction, so go easy on me in the comments!
We meet each other on a sunny day, people bustling down both sides of the sidewalk. We embrace, you and I, my dearest friend. Our lives have gone in various directions since college, yet we have kept in touch, and now I finally get to see you again. After all this time, I still have feelings for you. Maybe if I were more daring, I would say so.
When I see the ring on your left hand, I paste a smile on my face, belying my true feelings. We enjoy the afternoon, but everyone, including you, is oblivious to the turmoil inside my heart. When the afternoon ends, I know this is the closing of a chapter. We go in different directions down the imperturbable street.
This was inspired by Linda Kruschke’s paint-chip poetry #21. I was also partially inspired by Memorial Day, which was on Monday.
The blue irises of her eyes
Find the looking-glass, and pine
For her Beloved, praying, that
Under a field of poppies he’s not staying:
The nursery which she’s preparing
For their child waiting to be born,
Is a safe place, needs to reassure —
So her soldier’s return is worth waiting for.
This is what happens when I attempt to clean. I get distracted by partially-formed, existential poems that need to be written! *laughs*
Update: linking to DVerse open-link because I actually really like this one and hope that more people see it!
And dust will rest on everything:
Dust will rest on once-pristine
Photo frames, and images of saints.
Dust will rest in the corners, by the
Floorboards, and on high shelves.
Dust will comfort the furniture,
As if it needs dust’s thick gray
Blanket when it is so neglected.
And dust will rest on everything:
Dust will rest on what I just
Dusted yesterday, thickening layers.
Dust will rest on my matryoshka
Dolls and the lucky manekineko cat.
Dust will read the many books
That I have stacked high, and one day
Cover every journal that I write.
Shared with this week’s Writers’ Pantry, which Sanaa has titled “Birthing Hope.” We didn’t have to write about that topic, but I wanted to mention that because I liked the idea of it. The poem that I wrote was inspired by Linda Kruschke’s paint-chip poetry.
During the golden hour,
World bathed in that wistful
Sheen of happy memories,
I will remember my first kiss
And the first time (at
Homecoming) I wore hot pink lipstick —
I will relax, watching
That admirable sun set,
Sipping chamomile tea and
Drinking memories, knowing
A geode had been my life —
With amethyst crystals inside.