scribbles
sorry i haven’t been here
for
m o n t h s
w e e k s
d a y s
sorry i had gone
all s i l e n t
*
did i not have
any verses to w r i t e
any s t o r i e s to tell ?
i was in the process
of l i v i n g
them
blocking this
w h i t e n o i s e
inside my head
**
did i not have
any verses to w r i t e
any s t o r i e s to tell ?
/ o killing silence! /
sorry i haven’t been here
for
m o n t h s
w e e k s
d a y s
*
Sleepy days and blooming nights — f i e l d s drying out of fine c o f f e e A nice, slow sip, tasting some fancy b e a n s — a fragrant future drawn on my bitter e s p r e s s o I stole a puff blowing some faint s m o k e verse — but your tired eyes wouldn’t read f u z z y letters S l o w words, fake rain, dripping on h o p e f u l grass — some shattered glass Spilling red ink onto w e t p a g e On sleepy days, I write a faint smoke v e r s e — Our fragrant future d r a w n on a bitter espresso
He felt like sneezing;
laughing to himself;
or remaining silent
Helplessly searching
for drowsy stories
to put into words
"Finish that page!"
the choir
- w h i l e
h e h u m m e d
a h o p e f u l
t u n e -
kept chanting
And then,
just like that,
he departed
Thankful for the life
he’d lived
loved
l
e
f
t
I read
overread,
skim-read,
d
a
n
c
e
&
r a
e d
.
and,
while
r e a d i n g
b e t w e e n
t h e
l i n e s
I keep losing
my
t r a i n
o f
t o g t
h u h
. .
I don’t wanna
read
overread—
or
misread !
d
r
i
n
k
&
r a
e d
. . .
S o ,
I
w r i t e
***********
It’s been a while since my last post
(Or my last writing activity,
for that matter)
Now,
slooowly,
getting back to
writing mood
Please bear with me -
While I invoke my
Free verse muse
Happy to be back,
beautiful,
naughty,
dark &
clever
WordPress souls !
I wish I’d never let you read any of the stories in my draft book Since I always knew you’d just skim through those pages ( Lousy reader that you were— now, your time, pronto! to get back to school ) This is a book that will never get published Too bad you trashed the draft upon first reading Too good you’ll never ever get to read the end, One so tenderly written in my doctor’s handwriting - undecipherable, for my Failed R e a d er E x t r a o r d i n a i r e
New seas she sails with wet, wet eyes cold, purple lips a wild, wild heart A fighting mind one fateful tune one fresh start a blinding light New poems read with tired eyes a stunning feat those rhyming lines Warm, purple ink a healing heart she will, one day, recover might A writing sword on stormy fields she will in dreams all battles fight And conquer will those seas she sails those dry, dry lines a fighting mind She starts to sail she longs to write - new poems, wild, they will take flight New seas she sails a bright new night with drier eyes h e r s o l o w r i t e s
Smoking
French
poetry whore
cigarettes
o n e,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
i wet my lips,
i puff—
frail
particles of
d i f f u s e d
s m o k e
S
d u
n m e r
u r
o
i bat my eyelids,
i stare away.
and puff—
o n e
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
still no
words, yet
i perceive
some
d a r k
v e r s e
s m o k e
has subtly
embraced
— p o s s e s s e d —
my f e a t h e r e d
d r e a m s
and,
while
i type
a widowed
v e r s e —
for a poem
i may
have dreamed—
but will
never, in ink,
b i r t h
smoking
French
poetry whore
cigarettes
o n e,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
a drunken
song
waltzes
around
i n
m y
h e a d
“they’re not good for you.
he’s not good for you.
stop wasting
y o u r
b r e a t h
a w a y
remember—
smoking
ain’t good
for
the
l i v i n g .”
i n h a l e.
e x h a l e.
s m o k i n g
o n e ,
a f t e r
t h e
o t h e r
a
subtly
s o o t h i n g
d a r k ,
s m o k e d
v e r s e
e
s m
e m e b
c r
a
i write on your page slightly tickling your skin with a white f e a t h e r dipping my finger into the porcelain inkwell— so delicately moist with i n d i g o i n k my soft strokes very lightly caress the most sensitive creases on your p a g e i take my dripping finger, full of sensuous thirst, and autograph some verse bites on your back c o v e r and all night long i keep writing free rhymes until you drunkenly fall a s l e e p no need for more words as smudged ink reveals i am about to lose a bird of my own f e a t h e r so long, writing lover of mine— here is one last indigo ink tickle for your g o o d n i g h t p o e t i c d r e a m s
been feeling dry for days, a verse-provoking senseless fear permeates my dreams my quill, a half-gnawed bone with one last ink droplet staining my b l a n k surface
LannaZee 