Catching up on my NaPoWriMo challenge – Day 1. This is no way to start the month, but yesterday was UTTER chaos! I am using the Lune (The Lune is a short form: 5/3/5 – no other rules, may rhyme, any topic) as my form of choice in response to the challenge: Daily prompt (optional, as always)! Sometimes, writing poetry is a matter of getting outside of your own head, and learning to see the world in a new way. To an extent, you have to “derange” yourself – make the world strange, and see it as a stranger might. To help you do that, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem inspired by this animated version of “Seductive Fantasy” by Sun Ra and his Arkestra. If you don’t feel after watching it a little bit like the top of your head’s been taken off, and your thoughts given a good stir – well, maybe you are already living in a state of heightened poetic awareness!
the tapestry is unraveling
earthy tones of brown and
tan, yellow and red fading,
white patches soiled from
blood and tears, offering no
warmth, no consolation,
threads splintering, breaking
unable to hold together the
dreams of the innocents
wrapped in it like a shroud…
where are the seamstresses
with steady hands and nimble
fingers, trembling with needles,
eyes too narrow to thread, to
mend the tatters, to scrub
the fabric clean, to restore
the tapestry, or better yet,
to weave a new cloth, one
that is brilliant, softened
with batting, large enough
to cover all who slumber,
to shield us from nightmares,
from the darkest of nights,
to bring us safely to the dawn
we’re hanging by a thread
tossed by tempests, trembling,
chilled to our bones
while the world burns
Crawling out from under my rock. Sorry for my recent silence. I confess that I have been overwhelmed of late by what’s happening to our brothers and sisters of color, to those sick and dying from the pandemic, from the lies of our leaders, from the hate ravaging our streets, disturbing the ardent pleas of peaceful protesters, from sheltering in (sheltering…what a benign word…sheltering). I have struggled to find words, forgetting that it is words that save me from the abyss; that help me get out of my head. I hope everyone is staying safe and well. I hope…at least I am trying to even as the dawn seems so very far away. Peace ✌️
‘We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore, The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew, Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you, Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.’—W.B. Yeats
Those of us who have lost hope in praying,
pray that there is a special place in hell
for those self-righteous zealots in churches
defending vile monsters high on the hill.
Piously waving tomes filled with fables,
quoting their misplaced contextual creeds,
heaping full judgment on anyone other,
claiming compassion while lowly hearts bleed.
Surely a just god would be disgusted
by vacuous souls who claim him by name,
who pour salt on wounds; hang with abusers,
no tinge of conviction, remorse or shame.
If you are listening god, if you’re out there,
isn’t it time for your rapturous sweep?
Call forth your faithless; send them wherever.
If they’re not here we might actually know peace.
Another verse From ‘The Valley of the Black Pig’ for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats – Day Nineteen’ poetry challenge. And it’s those pigs again! My poetry as a result, of late, seems more like rants. But I do find them cathartic. Living in this alternate reality is not for the faint of heart! Peace!
It befuddles and confounds us; the senseless rage rising up like fire, raining down like acid. Friendly fire that no walls, travel bans or profiling can protect us from. Why are we confused by the realization that our worst enemy is not some other?
And yet we refuse to own it once again. Those with the power to address tragedy turn their eyes away. Their pale lips drip with platitudes and empty prayers, while their pockets moan to be filled with alms for their loyal cowardice.
It is no longer when, how or if this madness will ever end. We are trapped in this house of mirrors. But the terrible monster is not hiding behind the looking glass. No. The monster stands tall and center, glaring at us; a million eyes, burning holes through our souls.
Shi Sai Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 8 October 2017
okay universe…you have my attention
in the wake of hate’s fire
it was the perfect disguise
misty shapeshifting fay
soul deep pools of ebon wonder
here’s the order in black and white
luna’s face glows flush
gently letting go
swirling into syllables
truth’s reflection burning bright
of course we never let on
crave its sweetness
by lingering sadness
rooted in stone
every sinister force
untouched by seasons
A shi sai or ReVerse poem is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the shi sai features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.
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