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Do not feed the poets, for they hunger for starvation. Let them be sustained on the ink alone. Until their skin becomes their final parchment and their bones become their last quill. Do not feed the poets,
Creativity and Technique, cradled within method and madness
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worn down
walk the white cliffs in may breathe like salt and brine,
time will speak like masts of ships anchored in depths—
a breadth of years, chained, spanning wars and rumours
humour me, please I am weathered
untether me
July Water Poetry Week 4 (7/23-7/29) Eroding Away
July’s Water Poetry is ending with water’s power in this week’s prompt:
Eroding Away
Your piece doesn’t have to be about water but it certainly can be! *Please let this inspire your writing in any way!*
For our prompts, we accept and encourage all types of writing. We just ask you to please stay on topic and please read our post on topics we do not want glorified and condoned.
Tag your post #psjuly and we will reblog your work throughout the week. If your work is not reblogged within 48 hours (Tumblr can be glitchy with tags), please message @denmysterywoman
Any questions? Ask us!
Eroding away
'So what's the plan for today?', he asked as he entered the kitchen, yawning. 'Let's go to the mountains dad, we haven't been there in quite some time', his son replied almost instantly. 'Alright son, you're the boss these days', he replied smiling and went to make his breakfast. Preparing themselves with the trekking gear, the father and son got ready to go to the mountains. It was an hour long drive to the base, from where the terrain began and he could see his son was thoroughly looking forward to another adventure filled day with him. He was thinking about what life lesson he will teach his son today, in the mountains. This was a part of their outing; the experience and then the learning. They got to the camp and taking out their gear they readied themselves for the trek. Among the mountains they went and got surrounded by the trees, occasionally feeling the sun's rays reaching them from among the leaves. It was a beautiful sight and he knew his son was having the time of his life. 'You know son, we are here in the mountains and we have trees that surround us, but can you see there, in the distance where there is a part of the mountain with no trees?' 'No dad, I can't see, I'm too short', his son replied. Lifting his son like Mufasa in Lion King, he said, 'Can you see now?' 'Do you know why is it like this, or why should there be trees on the mountains?' 'No dad, but I can bet trees make the mountains look even more majestic and serene', he was only 10 and yet his vocab was better than his own, he smiled. 'Well son, let me explain. You see these trees, they have their roots in the soil upon which we are walking, and these hold back the soil from eroding away. So if it rains, the water flows down the mountain because of steepness and since soil is held back it is not easily eroded away, however if the trees are cut down then there is nothing to hold back the soil, and hence it gets eroded away when it rains. Now this has adverse consequences too, you see the landslides are also often caused by this, not all but sometimes.' 'Wow dad this sounds so interesting.' 'Now son let me relate this with our lives, you see we get angry quite often when things don't go our way, like you get angry too when you ask for something and you don't get it, and we sometimes compose ourselves to keep our anger in check. So these trees are like composure holding back on our anger from eroding away and causing havoc. And if we don't have composure, our anger will erode away leading to sometimes extreme results, also causing landslides which in this case will be loss of our character.' 'Wow dad, all this is so very intriguing, I guess I'll always try to remember this whenever I get angry.' - AA
from the inside-crashing
my plaster head breaks down slow until it's just dust for dirty dollar straws
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The Riverside
a poem
*
Sitting on a riverside that meant so much to me,
I hear the gentle water but there’s no more bank to see.
This dirt used to grow the most delicate Blue flowers,
I could sit here on the riverside and look at them for hours.
That was before the water washed out all the fertile earth,
And took away with it any chance of a rebirth.
What’s left of the riverside is stained a filthy Red,
And those lovely Blue flowers are now as good as dead.
There is something about the ebb and flow of my first heart-break that leaves me reeling and salts my cheeks even after the one thousand, one hundred and seventy two high tides that have passed since you left. There is something about the rush that came with dipping my feet into love for the first time that has hardwired my brain into thinking of you and the memories won’t stop roaring back to life and crashing over me with the methodical repetition that only a force of nature could master. I wrote you a letter about the weathering of all that you were to me and send it out with the tides. Perhaps your side of the Pacific holds a bottle addressed to me, dripping secrets of everything I meant to you. Perhaps all we ever were was a castle you built in the sand, that the ebb and flow of me passing through your mind has long since eroded.
I WANT TO WASH YOU OUT OF ME
-KD
I sat for years, Sitting outside your window. I watched you grow, I watched you disappear. When you were little, You climbed me fearlessly. Tugging at my arms and often falling from my height. When you were older, You would sit beside me enjoying the shade with me, your nose hidden in a book. When you peaked your age, You took over the house. Everyday you would look at me, and remember our good days. You had children of your own, and they too, climbed my heights. Enjoyed my shade with books, Looked at me with a smile from memories. I watched you, as you disappeared with the years. Yet, I still sit here, outside your window. Wondering where the time went.
A Lifetime // Kitten Quinn
