A Turn in the Wheel, or:  Portaled

I collect myself and all my possessions, worn
and piled up beneath the light of the ragged
waning moon.  Too late says the night, it’s
too late.  Too many calamities to count.
  A
summoning will not suffice.
  Too few doors stretch
open.  Too many openings shrink closed. 
To
the weight of the world I say:
Give me hope for a reprieve.  Mercy.  I’m
in need of unburdening.  Forgiveness.  To be free.

A golden shovel poem for the W3 prompt, using this line from David’s prompt poem:
Worn ragged, it’s a stretch to say I’m free.

my life

And why not I thought to myself, why not
–Robert Creeley, “Like They Say”

in the beginning and
also in the middle and the end I wonder why
I am not
someone or something else, why I
am thinking this thought
when there is so much else to
consider in the universe that is not myself–
so much waiting to be asked why
and what and how—so much I am not

Another shovel poem for Muri’s April Scavenger Hunt. And my response to the NaPoWriMo prompt write a poem that takes the form of the opening scene of the movie of your life.

Tears of

My life–
How much more of it remains?
The night is brief.

–Masaoka Shiki

My hand traces invisible lines through each day.
Life has its endings, but I wonder again why and
how do we create so many boundaries?  How
much do we know of what we call ourselves? And what
more is left, at this late date, to be discovered there?
Of what am I really thinking when, with sudden fear,
it seems that everything is impossible, that nothing
remains?  Have I used it all up–the synapses firing,
the cells’ ability to regenerate rather than destroy?  The
night and the day and the sky and the land?  Why
is it so difficult to relocate the silence, that interlude of
brief completion when everything is being born again?

The NaPoWriMo prompt today is a reverse Golden Shovel poem–instead of placing the words from the selected poem at the end of each line and writing around it, the words are placed at the beginning. Either way, it’s a good way to approach writing when you’re stuck. I’ve chosen a haiku from Masaoka Shiki for my poem, but I’m adding a little afterward from Joan and Bob.

Tears of rage, tears of grief
Why must I always be the thief?
Come to me now, you know we’re so alone
And life is brief

–Dylan

Also for Muri’s prompt of a Golden Shovel poem with the theme of change.

Inside my December room, Wednesday 8 pm,

the window reflects only me, but
I know that beyond, in the dark, the
branches cast their shadow
against the sky—a patterned whisper, a voice
like wrinkled wind.  Outside is
far away from the artificial glitter of a
wire-wrapped tree, sparkling a mere
imitation of stars, pretending to echo in a vibration
of what the night has to say—the messages passed amongst
the members of the nocturnal choir.  The
listening of the landscape requires attention—the trees’
murmuring, air displaced by invisible wings, thin
threads woven in soundwebs—stillness shivering the leaves.

A golden shovel poem for the dVerse prompt from Peter for endings. I’ve used a line from M L Smoker’s poem “Mercy”–a source for a number of pages of writing in my journal.

“But the shadow voice is a mere vibration amongst the trees’ thin leaves.”
–M L Smoker, Mercy