November 10 by The Running Son
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Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 16. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉
collection pt. 16
” Nobody likes________ “
and we all hate
Flat laughs and bad timing?
But nothing a long kiss
written for The Poetry Question Daily Prompt Nov. 8
I sit here thinking up ways to frame
my depression and make it acceptable.
In a mixed up academic malaise, I obsess
in attempting to name the ineffable.
Confessing to sins seldom committed.
I admit learning lessons—a few reconsidered.
Taboos, thick fogs and selected omissions
condition my message to seem less embittered.
½— bi-polar bummer —½
Some call it manic depression, that’s OK by me.
By any name
It’s still a game of extremes, an amalgamation
when daylight fades, and black and white bleed
to grey, poles
and shifting perspectives miss the moment’s lesson
about the lunar you
becomes more clear each new cresting.
tendril, slip in between—
slip through—to the other side unseen,
light continues to shine
long past midnight, and clear into high noon.
⇘ Over seas ⇘
Land passes us, fast by.
County to state of grace, to countryside.
Continents like great hands interlace,
weaving deep beneath the sea
as the ground, receding, shakes and sighs;
tears gather in that basin,
then by the sun, tectonic uplifting,
and the moon’s patient mothering, lactate dry.
Adapted from a duet with Poetic
✧ All the properties of home ✧
Called up! Adopted off, shown
to a room, left in the gloom to execute
ghoulish gait and affect, my teeth rattling,
stealing peeks, squeezing through cracks
in any door fitting an adoptees with needs,
or lock cracked to receive adoptable latch-keys.
Got rocks in my pockets, and a fat sling
where my wallet oughta be.
Got a backpack bursting
with tshotshkes—shards of glass I grabbed
in passing; kept souvenirs
from past lives littered with regret and confetti:
a ring of old keys. Shrapnel from old dreams.
Alchemy is sorely needed,
wisdom reborn from mere reason.
The right math, egos conceded,
clears chaff to refine wheat season.
Wisdom re-soles well worn heels;
divine sight, granted by feel,
sealing holes in souls, wealth revealed,
spilling the gold all hearts conceal.
“Genuine communication deconstruction”
Strange how apologies went unspoken.
Token words broke in–smoke in the mirrors
(best reflected kept clear,
or clean enough to see you, or to see
if you were teasing all along like I feared).
Strange how things got broken,
sharp words darted with focus, penetrating
slow, a gentle easing (reticence in fear of displeasing?).
The slow blade separates
bone from reason and meaning from seasonal
upheaval, feeling from evil, agape from semen,
and genuine promises
from real live people, genuinely leaving.
♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim –
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