Writing

The Solid Lines Of Disappearing Things

Jeff Griffin’s awesome prompt at FPR today inspired this poem. I’m afraid I had to skip the last three prompts but I’m so glad to be tackling today’s prompt #17

 

The air, the tree house
that once knew love is now weak in the knees
and in the time it took those moments to become page weary
to turn from solid lines of tree trunks to smoke

A world fell.

Somewhere in the twilight age
the shaved head of jasmines ride the desire
to bloom on wet branches of August
but they have lost touch with themselves

We cannot become ourselves again.

You and Varanasi
where human heads sink when alive and float when dead,
where seemingly harsh, bladder-bright yellow crystals gleam,
are disappearing thoughts

A male world is full of dirty jokes.

Hospitals do not care
children continue to laugh off mestizos
and we do not know EVER if we want to laugh or cry
but Swifts come every day

Watching the middle-aged man finely tune his deck of life.

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s