I Hope That Someone Gets My

Seems I’m not alone at being alone
A hundred billion castaways
Looking for a home. ~ The Police

I dug through the drywall first

careful scratches with my fingernails,

slow going.  All the time, writing.

So proud when I reached the end

only to discover plaster and wire lath.

I have no tools, but my intention

is strong and true, so I look for the seams,

pausing at mealtimes to sip

my fairytale gruel.  At times a poem

is slipped under my bowl,

scrawled in a perfect circle;

this is how I keep my edge

tedious uncovering of the walls

that entrap me.  And how can I express

my anguish when I finally pull 

all the crumbling material down

— all the while scribbling —

to find I’m living in a cage?

I slam and shake in fury and fear

and only result in shining my

metal enclosure.  The poems are

piling up now, higher and higher

until finally one flutters out,

called by a person in need

of my exact words.  And I see

that I, too, can slip out

with my newfound flexibility.

I land on your shore a great snowy

egret, stalking on my skinny black

legs.  Watch my sinuous quiver

beak to tail right before I seize

a wriggling minnow and swallow it:

ask what nourishes you.

And I open my angel wings

pure white fluttering

see

how we can rise up 

with poetry.

I circle the lake once,

twice, for emphasis. Follow me,

my poem flickering in your heart

embers long after I’ve gone

back to my cage, waiting

for the next listening ear.

 

Inspired by the dversepoets prompt to write a spec fiction poem.

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I Am Pele

(Featured image by Parker Hamblin.  See more of his amazing artwork here.)

The center of the earth burns

through me.  My power wild and glorious

you cannot harness.

I have been called demon,

but you know better.  

I live in your heart.

I burn through all your

illusions and delusions with

my magnificent gift of necessary destruction.

Seek me when you dare to create. 

You will find

I am the fire running

through your very veins.

Right now let us rise up,

tune in to our outrage

sheer conflagration bursting

from the long-suffering

earth.  This invitation burns

our reservations, no longer

hesitating to join the dance

over hot coals, reality finally exposed

insubstantial, imagined obstructions

kindling to our true life flames.

**

Inspired by these prompts:  Although my doctrine has been to groove with fresh inspiration in my writing here, today an accomplice laid those plans to waste; I take solace in offering a poem I wrote several months ago.

 

This Pure Anguish

“All youth are at greater risk when their elders try not to be at risk at all.” — Michael Meade

I can no longer blush.
When I was young, I was taught to slink
by the powers who should have protected.
Today I throw off that well-worn
blanket that never shielded me,
so why the hell did I cower,
like a dog waiting for the next kick?
No more. The children rise
up and demand to be safe —
too late for their own blushes,
their innocence betrayed.
They are not hiding, looking for the escape hatch.
They are marching in the streets
again, alone and fierce
so young and savvy.
Their blindfolds have been ripped off
and they are not wasting time
blinking in this harsh reality.
What cruelty is this, when a child
is abandoned
by the people in power?
What community herds their children
into windowless boxes and
shoots them? Walk out,
oh vulnerable young.  Keep calling for us,
the elders, to waken
from our confused slumber,
this distraction called the mainstream,
fear strangling
our disillusioned ideals, hopelessness
like dementia that keeps us apart.
I am old now with nothing
to lose: it is time to give them
what I never had, what I know now.
The foundation is rotted
and there is much work for us all.
We must dig together
down to the heart of the matter
where love speaks the message:
wake up, wake up, you are needed here.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: blush