photo by Charley
tell the truth but tell it by saying what it is not rather than what it is.
from “EGGS” by Matthew Sherling
It isn’t that I started out by being a hermit;
or that I discovered a deep-seated distrust for my fellow human beings — really.
It wasn’t that I felt the need to escape life
as I had lived it, casting off technology, time, and ever-pressing deadlines.
It won’t be that you’ll come upon me smiling,
looking like years have been peeled away, in better emotional and physical shape.
It all turned out to be necessary, though.
“Dance with yourself with all your heart and soul, and occasionally others….”
— Homily, by Jim Harrison
“…if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror….”
— Danse Russe, by William Carlos Williams
along the razored
stone, high above pounding
in sea spray.
by ecstatic solitude
by the Spirit of the deep,
into an arabesque joy.
When you entered
the sacred dance
floor, we wedding-marched
down onto the soft-shoe
sand and began
our love, acknowledging
the applause of our adoring
crowd of breakers.
* * *
I owe everything I know about writing from Jim Harrison prompts to my favorite poet,
Yes, my child! O, yes, we once were civilized.
In my lifetime — sadly not yours — we were held together by a glue of, if not love, at least feigned concern for one another. Truly, though, little one, it was a veneer — a fake appearance. What happened, you ask? My child, my child! We allowed our true, instincts to escape —
or Pandarus’ ploy?
Here’s a fact, little one: We weren’t engineered to get along — we strive, we grasp, we hate. Trust no one, little beast —
especially not me.
* * *
Another image was dropped into The Sunday Muse that would not let me be.
I have moved
on from this cascade and feel no need, no desire for reflection.
captured in a pool at the base of a wall, only memory’s projection
I am forward looking
to my own, my own protection.
* * *
So, Chrissa at The Sunday Muse brought a prompt: “This is the curtain [see image above] behind which I feel last year was lived (and this year, with exceptions, is as well) and I’m very interested to see what might lie on the other side. Or what lurks on this side. :)”
Why is it I can never do these the easy way?
Unphased by the moon, she trods
her garden of diminished returns.
Out on a limb, fowl she gathers, cages;
for idiots defoliate helter-skelter erecting green-friendly blocks of luxury cells….
As she gazes out, derision plainly displayed
upon her face. She wonders aloud, asks,
“Wasn’t anyone listening to Joni Mitchell?”
* * *
Faced with this image posted on The Sunday Muse, and the decimation of what was once habitat and oxygen source around our area, I just had to. Really.
“Language is wine upon the lips.” — Virginia Woolf
a small pour, please, in a crystal stem
pull a fresh cork and decant – breathe it’s not about new but vintage unique not the bouquet only but the palate words sucked through the back teeth the challenge of tastes the first sip then clink clink clink togetherness
* * *
Another response written as I was falling asleep. Seriously. When I awoke this piece ended with two and a half pages of “ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd”!
* — Yeah, I know the title is probably nonsense in French. I’ve never learned French. If you call me bad names in French, I won’t be offended.
A spray of ghosts, mists of creatures unfortunate; who met their fortunes at the bottom — at the bottom.
Winds carry no grief save the Northerlies. They howl, they moan through the riggings and the sheets, crying.
For you on the land, you are granted grounding markers that tell location; you can come back… and tears as flowers.
But for us, we fly, flung up on a crest.
* * *
So, a good friend and I have been tossing poetry prompts back and forth. This image drew me and, as I was slowly ebbing towards sleep — hands on the keys — this is what came out.
Image: https://rachaeltalibart.com/ Instagram: @rachaeltalibart Facebook: @rachaeltalibartphotography Twitter: @rtalibart
When I entered the room, all — predators and prey — were assembled, drinking. At the periphery, not joining in, pushing to bring muzzle to a stilled surface; but watchful — waiting. The ones that couldn’t, wouldn’t be tamed remained outside, quenching a wilder thirst. I quietly stepped back out, returned to the safety of my cage.
* * *
A simple visual prompt on The Sunday Muse, one of two. What could possibly go wrong?
bound by technology and mores.* Without a voice of her own — tinsel and ornament, purposed to entertain to cook, clean, and wean. It would be decades before she roared. The struggle, the progress — advancing, but far to go. But now where is woman? Erased; bound by decree. Without a voice, a name. Silent, then. Unspoken.
the fixed morally binding customs of a particular group
* * *
Blame this one upon
The Sunday Muse …and politics.