Yu Yu Hakusho inspired poem. Fanfic poetry? What will end up on this blog next?
Kurama Watches Hiei
Something about it being April
While my friend
So quietly stares at the ocean
Like it’s a library
His back to me.
One hand shoots black fire into the sky
It falls like newspaper
To torch the sea
Scorch his arm.
I want to tell him come here
Let me rinse you forever.
I hear him laugh at this,
or squish his eyebrows together.
If you can squish your eyebrows together
What can you do with your ears?
Hear what my arms want
with your whole body
Rest it on my flowerbed.
It’s been Halloween for three seasons.
I don’t mean October 31st
We’re not in a time loop.
It’s been a half-open otherworld up here.
Misty metallic air, like the whole atmosphere is woven with ghosts.
Earth breathes greener than it’s ever been in front of these eyes (these old bad boys, these astigmatic dorks)
The sky blinks sunny and blue but there’s a rainy electricity in the air.
You can smell it.
It’s Halloween so early? So late? So long
But it’s Spring. It’s gotta be. The weather searches for softball
and shuffles the tarot cards.
Mushrooms puff out of the grass,
and candles do too, like ominous flaming flowers (all colors)
There’s a twinkle in the eye of every pond
glitter in the inhale
of dusk and dawn
and all of us can fly.
Trees crack their backs and
all black cats can talk
birds chirp fairies fairies fairies
I hope this lasts.
gung ho – hung tho
i missed the lilacs bloom this year
their sweetness and purple color.
Dumbass Me. Can’t believe it.
hooked into a jack ass with
ass for days
nothing near as sweet as spring
so i passed the lilacs a dozen times i bet
one night i go outside just me
i drop everything i can let go
in the grass
no phone keys wallet
it’s just me out there with restless crickets
so i missed the flowers and became a kid
hosed out my stamina wheel
left the block breathless
i sat in a cemetery before work
on a bench by the service berries
white petal perfume
pure and delicate.
This poem was originally posted here a few months ago as Clair de lune. The true inspiration behind the poem was “Patience” by The Lumineers. I called it Clair de lune because I also felt this way when hearing that song, plus it’s a song everyone knows. Still, it felt dishonest to claim the true inspiration came from a universally beloved classical piece rather than a modern song! Is that silly? Here’s the latest version, which is nothing like the other version.
After hearing “Patience” by The Lumineers
You are the only voice who can sing this one.
No offense to clarinets
But my god
Your black and white teeth
Bite along my spine til it straightens.
You loosen my jaw
Floss my teeth with your strings.
And you’re smooth
As a bar of soap on glass.
Dear Piano you make my eyes roll back
Like a tongue between my thighs.
I was born to understand what sweet is
in many languages.
I found this poem in Poetry Magazine’s December 2017 edition. I’m in love with it!
Hello! I hope everyone’s doing well. I wrote this one yesterday, so it’s still fresh! Not sure about the title yet. I’m trying not to publish the VERY first draft of any poem because they’re rarely good enough to claim. But the 2nd and 3rd drafts? Sure. I’m an impatient millennial. I always wanna post [exciting/interesting/unusual/new] things as they happen.
See you later! I might even do a 2018 Goals list like everyone else.
This one’s possibly two years old now. Since I’m writing so many new poems a day for NaNoWriMo (and my book), I thought I should share a few of my older poems.
What he said was good grammar
good tone, good smile
How much does an artichoke weigh
How much Truth Do You Want
How Hard do I Tap my Feet so he Hears I wanna be light
as a dancer on a drum
Do I sing or scream through my window
& how sweet do I make the sound?
The longer I stay the faster my forearms feel dumb
From him I inherit a thousand
tiny vases of jagged glass
in my gums and stutter
on the first word I think to say
and find there is nothing to express
-So I Leave
Of the many poems I wrote yesterday for NaNoWriMo, this one was my favorite.
I hit 30,000 words a few days ago. Hopefully on this long weekend I can catch up!
This weekend I went to the Big Water Film Festival in Ashland, Wisconsin, as the film I worked on made it into the festival. Long story short, I forgot all about my money-making job (which doesn’t pay me what I’m worth and doesn’t allow me to utilize my strongest skills) and fell completely head over heels back into my creative brain. I breezed through conversations, initiated debates, made people laugh and included every person in our group into all of it. I experienced what it truly means to be in my element. I was among my people: creatives with ideas.
And now it’s Sunday night. I’m faced with the dread of returning to a job that kills my soul. For most of us, it’s a familiar feeling. Somehow by returning to work tomorrow, I feel that I’m letting myself down. What is my true potential? I should be questioning everything around me, making art in whatever medium I want. I should be playing.
This isn’t an idea that generates much sympathy. After all, in Corporate America, a balance of work and play is the formula for happiness. This idea has poisoned American workers for generations.
Work and play. How about work that feels like play? Play that is actually work? Something actually enjoyable that stimulates your mind and brings your inner strengths to the surface on a daily basis? That sounds like my type of job.
This isn’t an argumentative essay about the realities of “work”. Rest assured, it’s about me. Maybe you will find something useful in my anxious, panicked rant.
Work + Play = Balanced life.
Play + Time = Balanced life.
Here’s the thing.
I have so many ideas addressed to my attention
coming from a place of panic.
I don’t have to change the decade to feel I’m being bold.
2017, you see me at my parent’s house
forced to invent my own job.
I should record poems and put them on bandcamp,
quit the bosses and publish a book,
get on stage with my violin -> give everyone some music
whether they wanted it or not.
Where did the idea that work is not enjoyable
To be continued.