I was a kept woman:
kept from wanting, kept from having;
kept at home, kept at arm’s length;
kept alive, kept from living.
I kept my head down,
kept my opinions to myself.
I couldn’t keep up.
I gave up.
Now,
I’m a giver.
Kept Woman
12
Tag Archives: dVerse
Fifth Annual Festival Fail
I was set;
had the flyer marked,
which events and where,
all within walking distance once parked.
I’d set my alarm,
then canceled one minute early,
overwhelmed by baseless fears
I thought I’d set aside.
Setting my sights on next year,
fifth year running.
dVerse Quadrille #89 – Are you set? The challenge: write a poem of exactly 44 words, and use the word “set” within the poem.
vortex
You are the funnel circling the bathtub drain.
You gurgle incomprehensible complaints and accusations.
You suck vacuously at lavender scented air,
all the while choking back the bile of sewer sludge
that tickles your throat.
Your vortex pulls in stinky sock lint –
flushed out of hiding from between unsuspecting toes,
clumps of sloughed off hair and slimy scum.
Lots and lots of scum.
I watch and silently will the tub to drain faster
so as to leave as little residue as possible
once you are gone.
And for the umpteenth time, I wonder how it is
you ever got elected to office.
Ink Bats
He is old, balding and bespectacled.
A Freudian slip of a man in a sweater vest
sitting across from me.
“I’m going to show you some white cards with black ink blots,” he says,
“and I want you to tell me what you see.”
Rorschach? Really? How cliché.
I say nothing. Soon enough I’ll be back on the ward
where everything is white.
Black ink blots seem downright festive at this point.
He holds up the first card expectantly.
“A bat,” I say.
Second card.
“Two bats.”
We continue thusly, well past either of our
enthusiasm for the task.
What does he make of all the bats I see?
Likely thinks I’m bat-shit crazy.
But really, I’m just reminded of my ramshackle apartment
and how bats fly in at night through the open window.
It’s happened more than once. More than twice.
Hence, I’m seeing bats. Ink bats.
He never asks what’s up with all the bats.
By the time he displays the last card, it’s painfully obvious:
at least one of us is not playing with a full deck.
I am given no diagnosis, no analysis,
no Rorschach cheat sheet to explain
the symbolism of bats.
I’m just returned to the white-walled ward,
where I will sleep that night in a hospital bed
and dream of ink blots flying away
through an open window.
dVerse Tuesday Poetics: Madness — “For this Poetics Challenge, write in the 1st or 3rd person of your own experiences (real or imagined) or your witnessing mental health issues.”
Lost and Found
The spider works quickly to get the larger insect wrapped within its web. The insect doesn’t struggle; it may be dead. But the web is in tatters and shakes violently every time the spider moves. I watch the action, hoping the spider secures its hard-won meal before the web gives out.
Progress is slow, and my attention wavers. When I check back, the spider is sitting motionless in its sparse web, and the big catch-of-the-day is nowhere in sight. Has it fallen from the web? After all the spider’s hard work? I am compelled to make it right, find the bug. Maybe I can stick it back on the web somehow.
I part the plants beneath the spider’s web, and sure enough, there it is. Still wrapped in webbing. Still dead. But… moving? Two small ants have taken a hold of the hapless bug and are hauling it off as their own pre-wrapped prize. I am too late. Nature has already made it right.
nature’s web pulled taught
broken strands and gaping holes
mend on, weavers, mend
Temperatures Rising
I arose when the sun rose.
As the temperature rose,
my rose blossoms opened.
My expectations rose
about winning a blue ribbon at the county fair.
Perhaps I would only win a rose-colored ribbon.
That would get a rise out of me for sure.
If Only
Day Five of NaPoWriMo. Lots of choices for the prompt today. I chose to write a villanelle, which is defined as such:
The classic villanelle has five three-line stanzas followed by a final, four-line stanza. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternately repeat as the last lines of the following three-line stanzas, before being used as the last two lines of the final quatrain.
Clear as mud? I thought so, too. But I gave it a go anyway.
If Only
If we only had the time –
just imagine if you would –
all the mountains we could climb.
Wouldn’t it be fine?
Leisured strolls in shaded woods
if we only had the time?
If we let the years unwind,
wove the hard times with the good,
all the mountains we could climb.
We’d pick peaches in their prime,
dine beneath the cottonwoods
if we only had the time.
If we heard the clock bells chime,
left our worries where they stood,
all the mountains we could climb!
How might our futures be defined
if we only understood?
If we only had the time,
all the mountains we could climb.
Also posting on dVerse, where the poem form for the month is the villanelle.
Table Troll
Furry troll with curious eyes
watched as dinner his table imposed.
“The password, please, else meet your demise.”
Troll drooled and lifted his nose.
Ominous threats no one believes,
beautiful puppy mine.
The password, please, you silly tease.
On table scraps you shall dine.
Sermons and Seeds
The dVerse poetry prompt today is all about the pantoum poetry form. As explained by Gina on the dVerse Poetry blog, the pantoum is a series of interwoven quatrains and rhyming couplets. I won’t elaborate further than that (‘cuz I’d just confuse myself), but you can read Gina’s description of the form here.
Below is my attempt at such a poem.
When bored with a sermon of a Sunday morn,
To the graveyard next door I would go.
Among the gravestones I’d play and roam;
Decorum of death I did blithely not know.
To the graveyard next door I would go
To escape stale air and the pastor’s drone.
Decorum of death I did blithely not know;
Off I would dance over rotting bones.
To escape stale air and the pastor’s drone,
I’d blow dandelion puffballs to free the seeds.
Off they would dance over rotting bones,
Then land between tombstones and weeds.
I’d blow dandelion puffballs to free the seeds
Among the gravestones. I’d play and roam,
Then land between tombstones and weeds,
When bored with a sermon of a Sunday morn.
Law of Nature
Mankind v. Gaia
without blame or forgiveness
justice will be served
What Rhymes with Stanza? 