The dog is not about the rain. Miserable brown oval lakes accuse me of cruelty. For the raindrops fall, she sudden stops, still and quaking, shakes from nose to tail. I am unwilling this walk to take, but duty tethers me. She cannot count the scents for cover of water; slick it leaves her empty. She tucks her tail, turns, trots me to the door. I warn her, in vivid terms, not to make a deposit in the floor, but does it go beyond her flying nun orifices for understanding? I doubt it; stubbornness is her template. She is that dog, glimpsed, my heart forsook reason, had to adopt, immediately. Love names her mine; pain asks me why? The dog is not about the rain.
Some said there was not Any way it could work out Too much at stake, about A zillion ways to go wrong, But hope stood by in support. The ideas seemed solid, right, No one could stop what began Not one found, as an also-ran No guarantees but love, delight, Laser-lighted heart and mind. Could it happen? Would it be? Might the practice succeed? Should impossibility thrive? Naysayers did not a defense rally, Many tried to end opportunity. All hours, days, months, years Progress delivered with salty tears, Mistakes, failures, dead stops Such negativity bore down a lot; Somehow creativity survived, a poet Poetry unleashed – becomes the poem.
Prompt: What is your experience of creativity? Is it always cheerful and pleasant, or does it sometimes come when it lifts your mind from depths of darkness? Create something juxtaposing the good and bad parts of your practice.
I am not being today, I am still human Because I was born that way – But being, I have not The energy, inspiration, or heart I cloak myself in gloom And hide away cocooned. I disappear best I can Make no contact with humans, Maybe I will burn out Like the main over-loaded, Or fade away like jeans Worn and washed too Often because they fit a way. I cannot be; alone is too Much for me, but there is No one who wishes me To see, speak, love I am a left-over no longer Fit to any appetite. Life becomes a tune Turned down, a whisper, I cannot dance it right, I continue, locked out the doors So living is a complex device; I am not being today.
Five lines written in the syllabic pattern of 5-7-5-7-7. Here I have five of them to be read, each, as a standalone. Prompt: If you like simplicity, you should try your hand at the form. Tanka are an excellent warm-up for any writing you wish.
Lost in and out of Times relativity and Space’s imposition. Where can I wander without Myself, who finds me yonder?
You dance me around Margins following the lines Imagining we Return to those moments when We were one, reality.
We thought we could learn To live without each other, But storms battered us Until we came back calling For the people we once were.
Touch is mystery Boldly original with No filters, constructs; It is always what is, no Denying precedence, no.
Love is like ice cream, A tasty high calorie Treat, providing energy, Delighting all our senses, Yet trickles away with ease.