Anger–dVerse MTB

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Depression is Anger Turned Inside-Out
A Narrative Poem

She hadn’t touched her paints for a while. In the other room an unfinished canvas lay propped on an easel. Orange and cerulean blue paint danced in cacophonous colors and screamed at her in taunting ecstasy. One evening she’d smeared a palette knife of black paint in a thick wavy line down the middle of the canvas—the result only heightened the drama. She abandoned her work for now—she couldn’t paint and wouldn’t write—not since he told her he wouldn’t see her anymore.

Today, dVerse Poets, hosted by Frank Hubney, invites us to submit a narrative poem–as I see it, a bit of prose that is written poetically. That implies incorporating poetic elements such as metaphor and sensory details, active verbs etc. This is a tiny piece that I adapted from my novel “The Sin of His Father.”

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has the proliferation of social media engendered terror?

 

Photo: V. Slotto

Photo: V. Slotto

i.
a cloud-shroud encircles the mountains
but sun breaks through
diffusing soft light on the lake
that dances in the breeze.
why am i not at peace?

ii.
in another desert,
a human torch is lit.
the world looks on in horror,
a world rift with –isms.
why is there so much anger?

iii.
thoughts of brutality
overpower these moments.
even the finches and sparrows
wage war
at the feeder outside my window.
why are we so selfish?

iv.
a goose forages by the lake—
left behind by his flock,
not accepted by the mallards
because he is different.
why do we exclude?

v.
yesterday, i drove too slowly
for the man in the red SUV.
he tailgated, flipped me the bird,
then cut me off.
why are we in such a hurry?

vi.
it’s useless to try to change
another’s point of view.
i keep silence
unless my own rights are threatened,
but do i have the courage to die
for my beliefs?
why do i even have to ask?

vii.
black and white thinking
does not work.
why do we hate those many shades of gray?

viii.
the clouds move in across the valley.
gentle rain clears the air
as sun slips behind the mountain
casting peach and gold and mauve
upon our earth.

but elsewhere
peace is shattered.

A very rough draft linked to Abhra’s prompt for dVerse Poetics.

The Metaphor of the Elephant in the Dying Room

Artist: Borg de Nobel, all rights reserved

The Metaphor of the Elephant
in the Living Dying Room

Those final days
we spent together,
ravens peppering
the green,
green grass
outside her window…

Those elephants
exposed for what
they’d always been:
chimera of secrets held

T            L
O           O
O           O
O           O
O    I    O
       N   N
       S
       I
      D
      E

the telling made us
bleed.

Over the years,
planted
on opposite sides
of the continent
our anger
oozed
like sap from
wounded bark

like pachy-
dermic pus.

I wish I’d been there,
crawled into her bed
to hold her
when blackbirds came
to set her free.

Instead I have a memory
(a dream):
her hands touching my head.

And Butter-
flies.

Today over at dVerse Poetics Claudia Schonfeld invites us to write an Ekphrasis on the incredible artwork of Borg de Noel, a Dutch artist. One image brought to mind my sister who died at age 61 of pancreatic cancer in a period of only four weeks. I spent much of that time with her, talking about our perceptions of our difficult growing up years. We were both only 7 when our widowed parents wed. During those years my parents, well-meaning to be sure, never spoke of our deceased parents–her mother and my father. Cris sent me back home the day before she died, but came to me in a dream and laid her hands on my head (in blessing). When I received the phone call informing me of her death, I was sitting on the deck with my morning coffee. A migration of butterflies invaded the yard. As a hospice nurse, I’d witnessed apparent “event” experienced by the families of my patients. This was the first I’d encountered myself.

Even if you don’t have time to bring your own poem to the Pub, I encourage you to make it a point to stop by and read about this talented artist, and while you’re at it, taste some fine poetry.

Monday Morning Writing Prompt–a Rant

Yelling Man

Image by Orange Steeler via Flickr

Life brings its moments of joy and it often seems easy to write about those: romance, the beauty of a moment in nature, children, pets.

It seems those experiences are highlighted when contrasted with events that are filled with frustration. You only have to open a newspaper to understand what I’m talking about.

For today’s writing prompt, I’d like you to zero in on something that you find frustrating or even anger-provoking. Write an essay if you will, a short story in which someone vents his spleen, or try this poetic form known as a rant.

A rant is usually written in free verse and so may tempt even those of you with poetic-phobia to give it a try. The topic should be kept to one (preferably exasperating) subject and explored from all angles and in excruciating detail. The writing is usually in the present tense.

I hope you will participate and invite some newcomers to join in as well. Remember that you can write poetry, essay or a short story and there is no deadline. Please post a link to your work in the comment sections of this post.

Here is my effort. Although rhyming is not part of the rant form, this is how it happened. This needs editing, so your input and suggestions are welcome.

Love Song to TSA

A Rhyming Rant

 

“Now, take off your shoes, jacket and hat.”

I take a deep breath, prepare for a pat-

down—here, there, all around—

(love being touched by some arrogant clown)

Keepin’ us safe, invadin’ our space.

Can’t take much more. “Hey, open that case!”

Shoulda stayed home and read a good book.

“Back through the x-ray; I want a good look.”

Next time I travel I’ll fly in the nude.

Just makin’ it easy, not tryin’ to be lewd.