In Too Deep – A Décima

In Too Deep – A Décima

I’ll never say I told you so
there is no pleasure being right
no gloating glare from me, despite
the fact I warned of this…you know.

We’re in too deep, we’ve sold our soul.
The piper’s ruse, out of control,
devours all that’s decent whole,
leaving destruction in its wake.
Now with our very lives at stake
ignorance knows no bounds, it grows.

~kat


Decided to give this a go. It’s a new poetry form, the Décima, and a new challenge from RonovanWrites. This week’s prompt word is Grow (C rhyme line).

A Décima is a 10-line poem with 8 syllables per line. The rhyme pattern is: abbaaccddc. Further study of this form indicates that the subject matter of a Décima tends to be more socially conscious than some poems, taking on topics such as philosophy, politics, dogma, and religion. It can also be in the form of satire, criticism or insulting to an enemy/opponent in a situation. 


sheltered

sheltered

there is no drama here
no coffee-breath, he said,
she said, I heard, did you know’s,
no traffic, no rude drivers
riding my ass in a hurry to
get nowhere, no whispers,
no prying eyes, no judgment.
here, there is my desk, my
computer, tasks for the day,
routine, sun shining outside
my window, and rain, I don’t
mind it, here there is bird song,
an occasional butterfly flitting by,
it is quiet, I can breathe, I am
breathing at long last, my heart
has settled from my throat to
my chest…I could get used to
this, I have gotten used to
doing what I do without leaving
my house, relishing the freedom
of forced sheltering in place,
these walls no longer feel
confining, as they embrace me
here, safe, well, solitary bliss…
they are planning for us to
return to our cubicles, but
a part of me is hoping
I’ll not be missed

~kat


Asleep

Photo above by Mike Warner, KATU TV

Asleep

I have been asleep, Rip
Van Winkling through life
pretty in pink, golden pin-curl
locks and porcelain skin, muted,
pale, pastel privilege, oblivious
to the jewel tones that lower their
eyes when I pass by, yes, ma’am,
no, ma’am…please don’t call me
ma’am,
I say, but they just smile
and whisper, yes ma’am, as
they shuffle away.

I have been asleep, yearning for
love’s kiss to wake me, warm
breath against my cheek, life is
a fairy tale, simple, sweet, but it is
a hot shallow breath that rouses
me to the nightmare, I can’t
breathe
, he can’t breathe!
blood runs cold, crimson,
amidst a sea of jewels rising
from the asphalt, beautiful,
terrible, how can anyone sleep
in the shadow of this injustice,
we should do something, what
can I do? how can I help? this
has to stop, how do we make it
stop…do you see what’s happening?

yes ma’am
please don’t call me ma’am…
I have been asleep.

~kat

#Black Lives Matter


matin

matin

i rise
to sun dappled treetops
to emerald eyes
to soft rhythmic purrs
to coffee-infused air
to cool sheets
to softness
to light
to love
what a miracle it is
to be granted another sunrise
to feel my lungs swell, to sigh
to know that i am clothed
in this moment, grounded
in its sweetness, charged
to greet this messy world
in the afterglow of glory…
     may i be a blessing then
     as i have been so richly blessed
i rise
to a new day
like every day before
and every day yet to come
if the fates are willing
to sun dappled treetops
to emerald eyes
to soft rhythmic purrs
to coffee-infused air
to cool sheets
to softness
to light
to love

~kat


healing

healing

healing

i hold my breath
try to forget
my shoulders tense
then I remember
the sweetness
and my breathing
grows soft, healing,
like rain, my breath’s
like a kiss, soft, slow,
persistent

~kat


Today’s Blackout Poem inspired by this magnificent poem by Yesenia Montilla.

a brief meditation on breath

i have diver’s lungs from holding my
breath for so long. i promise you
i am not trying to break a record
sometimes i just forget to
exhale. my shoulders held tightly
near my neck, i am a ball of tense
living, a tumbleweed with steel-toed
boots. i can’t remember the last time
i felt light as dandelion. i can’t remember
the last time i took the sweetness in
& my diaphragm expanded into song.
they tell me breathing is everything,
meaning if i breathe right i can live to be
ancient. i’ll grow a soft furry tail or be
telekinetic something powerful enough
to heal the world. i swear i thought
the last time i’d think of death with breath
was that balmy day in july when the cops
became a raging fire & sucked the breath
out of Garner; but yesterday i walked
38 blocks to my father’s house with a mask
over my nose & mouth, the sweat dripping
off my chin only to get caught in fabric & pool up
like rain. & i inhaled small spurts of me, little
particles of my dna. i took into body my own self
& thought i’d die from so much exposure
to my own bereavement—they’re saying
this virus takes your breath away, not
like a mother’s love or like a good kiss
from your lover’s soft mouth but like the police
it can kill you fast or slow; dealer’s choice.
a pallbearer carrying your body without a casket.
they say it’s so contagious it could be quite
breathtaking. so persistent it might as well
be breathing                        down your neck—

Yesenia Montilla


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