calando–dVerse MTB Music

requiem

watching life slowly
slip away (calando)
as winter skies bear down
as winds disrupt the birds
as clouds hang low
and inch across the mountains

(down the hall the hiss
of oxygen
and ponderous moans)

I slam the door
and crash upon my bed
as elton’s funeral
for a friend
sounds grave

ly of lies
this is no friend
who robbed your child
of innocence

in the tree
outside my window
the branches
have been stripped
of leaves

I wrote this for my prompt at dVerse Meeting the Bar. I’m asking for the incorporation of musical concepts as they apply to poetry. This poem is inspired by stories I’ve read in the paper recently. I extrapolated, imagining the feeling of a mother who allowed a child to be abused by her husband or partner. That part is fiction. 

 

 

Un-Plugging Poets

Photo Credit: David Slotto All rights reserved.

Photo Credit: David Slotto
All rights reserved.

Un-Plugging Poets
A Cento

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.
It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out; it doesn’t matter much to me.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out;
it doesn’t matter much to me.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

Hello, darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again.
I cry for my darkness to come upon me.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

I have my books and my poetry to protect me.
I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb,
I touch no one, and no one touches me.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

Take me to the garrets where the artists have died.
If we’re all going somewhere, let’s get there soon.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

Just like the driftwood of a dream, left of the seashore of sleep.
Just like the words that wouldn’t rhyme, lost in the desert of time.

Here you are again—entertaining angst.
Pull the plug on pain, my poet friend.

The mist is slowly lifting, I can see the way ahead.
I don’t like this lonely feeling, it wasn’t meant to be this way.

Life isn’t meant to be that way, my poet friend

Music Lyrics:
The Beatles: Strawberry Fields Forever
Moody Blues: I Know You’re Out There Somewhere, Driftwood
Simon and Garfunkel: The Sound of Silence, I Am a Rock
Elton John: This Song Has No Title
Eric Clapton: Bad Influence

I didn’t expect to be able to post today, but when I first heard that the theme would be “unplugged,” I thought of an album of that title by Eric Clapton. This morning I plugged into some music to entertain me while doing chores and was struck by the lyrics from Simon and Garfunkel’s “I Am a Rock.” ( Yes, I’m really old.) These are the ones: “I have my books and my poetry to protect me.” I started paying attention and realized how an undertone of angst is a recurring theme in the poetry of song-writing. And thus, this Cento. If you want more information on this form, you’ll find it here. And please join us for Fred’s prompt at dVerse–Unplugged. But I’m glad I was plugged in to music this morning.

Sweet Painted Lady–A Sonnet

Prostitute being arrested

Image by mrlerone via Flickr

I am resubmitting this for dVerse Poetics http://dversepoets.com where fellow poet, Mark Kerstetter, share his knowledge and talent, inviting us to write from a point of view “other” than our own. I hope many of you will visit and take the challenge. Thank you, Mark.

Sweet Painted Lady
A Sonnet

Ain’t nobody’s damn right to judge my heart,
To guess the whys of things I gotta do,
That ‘cause I walk the streets I’m just a tart.
They can’t see from my sacred point of view.

Got calluses from these damn three-inch heels.
I stink from filthy men I’m s’pposed to please
Who, with rough touches, my self-worth will steal
Then toss me crumpled bills to find release.

The haughty turn away when they pass by.
They snicker, whisper loud, “She’s sold her soul.”
But in my deep-part, truth reminds me why:
My body is not me, my spirit’s whole.

I ain’t whoring for drugs or my own joy.
His daddy split. I’m caring for my boy.