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.
We wanted to go to the beach– it’s within reach– New York coastline– capacious, fine.
We were young; we stayed up all night– before the light, starting to drive– happy, alive.
The sun rose, the ocean was near– we parked the car– the sky was blue, the people few.
Undaunted by sunburn, we slept– our bodies wet, salty from waves– those were the days.
The W3 prompt poem this week is Britta Benson’s “Longing for Water”. She asked that our response include the name of a city and asked us to use a form appropriate for that city. I wrote a Minute Poem, in reflection of “a New York minute”, which is a very brief span of time. Looking back at my 20s it truly was all over in a New York minute. Lacking technology, we never took photos or tried to document our lives then. We just lived them.
If I could see horizon’s light at first dawn, Venus would greet me shining up the rising sun. But I live in darkness, almost-full moon suffused with secrets, luminous, surprising me–reflecting through my window, later, soon– casting shadowed leaves that shift, mesmerizing, absorbed in Van Morrison’s musical dance– hazy as to borderlines, transformed, entranced. Perhaps Diana orbits inside my dreams– I almost catch her in the wavering beams– and following the fragments, drift—caught between.
An eleventh power poem for the prompt offered by Grace for the dVerse 11th anniversary celebration, also in answer to this week’s W3 challenge, a response to Steven S. Wallace and his poem “Oh Luna” that contains three proper nouns.
why wait for now to pass? always living in to be— tomorrow is not where we are, ever
each minute, hour, a chance encounter we can’t foresee full of spans impossible to measure
where am I? here and now and no place else—out or in, over or under, it doesn’t matter
each fragment itself whole– each moment contained within the present completeness of forever
I haven’t written a kerf poem in awhile. The W3 prompt this week, a response to Burden of Time by A. J. Wilson, also has the restrictions of 12 lines or less, and the use of the word fragment. The kerf, a 12-line poem, was just right. You can read A. J. Wilson’s poem here.
Illustrations are two variations on the seed of life motif.