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I hope it is okay to write here. I read the Original Post and it seemed like it was ok. If it isn't, please delete this.
Tissue rumples the sky
so softlly I lift my hands
to stroke its paper belly,
calling forth the rain.
I wouldn't turn
when roses fell
when friends called
when the sky stormed.
I overheard someone
who thought every time anyone said
earth, they were racist. I met someone
who thought every mention of rain was her.
I was someone who believed
red was my own invention.
The belly's lies are loud. Ignore them.
I am here only because I turned.
Because I missed you.
I like this much, playcatch. Not even sure why, but i fell into your telling. And for me, that's as good as it gets.
I saw this earlier and I meant to comment on it and to welcome playcatch, but I was carried away.
I like this poem also very much, playcatch, it gave me that kind of pleasure that sincerity only gives me.
Thanks for sharing and welcome to the forum!
(thanks also, PP, for reminding me of it).
I did the same thing, Pel. Read it early, then again later, then one more time and wondered why i hadn't shown my appreciation for a poem I liked.
And of course i liked yours too, Ange, but you know i always like yours.
Night all
Angeline, you are seriously rocking the Fibs. I've enjoyed all of the ones you've posted. Still looking forward to the completed Jazz set.
Maybe it needs an anti-fib for balance... say the first 8 numbers of pi.. 3 1 4 1 5 9 2 6...Thanks Trix.
I find that if I write a form over and over I really get to explore its possibilities. I'm still thinking about the Monk set. It needs more but I'm not sure what yet!
Maybe it needs an anti-fib for balance... say the first 8 numbers of pi.. 3 1 4 1 5 9 2 6...
I would write
the
definitive
thought
that breaks through the rules
to shake our standards free of proper
modes of
this fibonacci form!
The glos:Body Language Receding
...
the wound to my heart
is scarring over, the wild
madness yielding a numb
but necessary callus.
The mote:The glos:
Body Language Impeding
The wound to my heart
bleeds a raw acid into living
and I pray that the raw gash
is scarring over, the wild
anger and fear, the receding
agonies packed with grief -
madness yielding a numb
pathway to sleep. A memory
of you, irritates a painful
but necessary callous.
I hate it's thick, unfeeling
bulk right where my heart
beats in denial of you gone.
Beautiful, sweet friend. Need a tissue now. You are writing out a river, it seems. I am thinking beavers need to find new cribs. Powerful waters always find a way.
I don't know if this is poetry
but my spirit demands I write
now while strength still holds
my spine erect and while tears
are checked behind the strong
levees of friends and family
I mourn the man these ashes
are gathered into. How can I
keep smiling at happy days?
I remember his face
beaming welcome to his son;
the instant recognition
of his daughter's kindred soul.
I only weep sometimes,
more often I smile and laugh.
I know he'd get it -
I know he'd understand.