Category Grief

Stand, Listen, Regret

freyathewriter 21 Comments 
basking

raising my face to the sun
closing eyes to recede
and join the world
one and the same

ears buffeted by a breeze
a low note faceted with the subtle chill of autumn
whilst the high, bright notes are playful
bringing the bleat of ewes and adolescent lambs
the metallic clunk of farm machinery
tractors are tested, dismantled and put to bed
until the fecund seasons start once more

silence and boil
whisper and yell
contrast me
still —
silent with all that surrounds
the quietude is a fallacy
or perhaps not
perhaps striving for silence is something we created
to battle against the noise of our minds
the clamour of our industry
the demands of our modernity
the delusion of an easier life
machines doing our work

illusory

and yet —
how have we filled those dreamed-of empty hours?
our cups overflow
too much data
haptics vibrating
upticks in our constant chase
rat-defined race
the creeping animals are left breathless in our verminous wake

there is no silence

all those people underground tapping the underside
reflection of what we desired
or what nightmarish imaginings we strove to evade

they come to haunt
those things we spent our time aiming to miss
We are no better than those who came before
before
... before

and before

we merely found new ways to become the animals that we truly are
cannibals

destroyers of futures
creators of destruction

So I stand

I listen
I, regret
I... stand
I
listen

yet

Over at dVerse, Grace is inviting us to write a descort, which is a poem of deliberate difference rather than having a defined form like, say, a villanelle. She suggest that we might experiment with:

*varying line lengths
*changing rhythms or meters
*inconsistent rhyme schemes
*different stanza shapes
*shifts in voice or perspective
*fragments alongside complete sentences
*the use of another language or dialect
*unusual visual arrangements on the page

We don’t need to use all of these techniques, but keep in the mind the key principle: Let the discord mean something.

This was quite the challenge, but a lot of fun. If you want to give it a try, head on over to dVerse (linked above), read Grace’s helpful guide and join us!

Transient

freyathewriter 27 Comments 
How can you prove something didn't happen
when the only witness is you?

When you’re the one curled up on the hexagoned floor
watching the blood seep through

the cotton weave of your favourite skirt
the one that caressed the slight mound

of your stomach, the one you’d hidden
for all those years, flattening it with

girdle pants to be just like the girls
with concave femininity, the ones

who glanced sideways at your tree trunk thighs
sneering as they passed you by

tree trunk thighs with muscles of water
as you scrabble around on the bathroom floor

scooping up blood rivulets in shaking fingers
drawing faces in the most intimate places

imagining eyes of an unavailable daughter
laughter of a boy running towards you

and your arms ache, your stomach burns
your heart expands and the lesson you learn

as your defective womb leaks all over the floor
is: this isn’t for you, it’s too late and too soon

for the world to welcome another like you

Over at dVerse Open Link Night, we are invited by our congenial host Grace to share a poem in response to the prompt she has set, or something else entirely. This week, I have decided to go for something else.

If you would like to take part and also have the opportunity to read other poets’ work, please click on the link, read the post and dive on in!

(Image by Jean Marc Pampuch at Pexels).

The Conversation – Magpie Tales

freyathewriter 8 Comments

035a

“This is where we marked her passing,” you say.

“She didn’t die here?” I hardly dare ask the question, my voice barely a whisper. You are a man for statements, not explanations.

“She did not die here,” you say. It is a bald statement.

Yet again, as has been our custom, I let the silence hang between us. It is a new routine, to replace those of my prior, solitary existence.

“She died out there,” you say, pointing to the hills that brood on the horizon.

“I am sorry,” I say, looking at you. You are staring towards those hills, as if to destroy them with your thoughts. I kneel down, reach out to brush the dust and lichen from the worn stone, to reveal her name to the elements.

“NO!” You grasp my arm, pull me up and away from the headstone. I bite down on the yelp of protest as pain arrows across my shoulders. You do not like dissent. I have learned this lesson well.

“She was careless,” you say and stride away from me. You mount your horse, landing in the saddle in one, supple move.

I turn my back and walk into the house.

You will return.

You will return.

 

————

Here’s my latest entry into Magpie Tales. There is a theme running through my weekly writings once again. If you want to know more about Sarah, please read my Five Sentence Fiction and Three Word Wednesday entries. Can you identify with her at all?