WritersCreed

Prompt:

The Concoction

Sugar, spice and everything nice + CHEMICAL X. That's four ingredients. Why is that relevant for this prompt? That's because it's the benchmark: pick at least four (secret) ingredients that would be used in a concoction to create... you!

Hide those ingredients in a magical poem.

The poem can be about brewing a concoction, but it certainly doesn't have to. The ingredients chosen will be just there to get you going, re-enchanting the world once more.

before you lift your head

from the pillow

the sadness or is it madness

is there blue black

behind the eyes

finding coffee & drinking water

reviewing the night passed

the possibility arises

this is nothing but regret

the words spoken like fire

upsetting friends & enemies

truths not needed uttered

the audience holding breath

not knowing where you were going

feeling dread but wanting more

the coffee hits water level goes down

hydration comes as you wonder

who is talking to you & who

has closed their door

your pen waits fresh pages to fill

the muse hangs back a while

this struggle between inspiration

battle of will

But I will find peace alone on top of the mountain, the breeze in my hair.

The way he smiles at the end of a sentence

And the way she giggles quietly when she’s nervous

The way the moon reflects on her collarbone

And the way his eyes search for hers in the silence

I had been moving through this world so rapidly

And then there was you

The night is close

to the day. My head’s

thick with whiskey

and bitter ideas.

My hands ache. I find

it hard to speak

at length without

losing words, or how

to say them. So, I wait

and listen to the silence

for the words to stop

their emotional slither,

and allow me to go

home, alone again.

wicked willow trees

stupendous serpents

giggling gorillas

hypocritical herons

sadistic sunrays

climbing cancer rates

gore ridden governments

clueless confusion

my head is spinning

frightening future

a clash of morals

or doors wide opening

for new solutions?

who knows?

who 'll tell us?

please get me out of here

and kiss my innocence

Eyes Upon the World

we dream of

better things

better times

complicated endings

simple beginnings

the yin and yang

of the world

which surrounds us

sometimes we live

in the illusion that

we are on the

outside looking in

when in fact

we have always

You the sun and I Arcturus,

As you rise I fade away,

I, the night and you, the day,

So in darkness I must wonder,

How some claim this makes me fonder,

All it does is bring me pain,

You can see the deck your dad built, nesting,

From space

I walked past the classroom where you built birdhouses

And I bet they’re still wherever they’re perched, too

Love like that

Doesn’t leave this earth soon

It takes a lot of emotional erosion

More than weathering of plank board, acid rain,

Or even fire’s renovation

I kick myself

I should’ve jumped from the car

And pleaded the woman

We could’ve walked down the steps that he made

We could have earned

A splinter

Sure, something to fester

But even that gets pined for sometimes

In the missing of another

Some souvenir to prove he keeps

Needling into your life

Sliver decks share hive mind abilities

I project these things

I don’t understand fully

I only want traces in me, too

____________________________________

Our

bare-faced

wanting

turns

the world

In this instant our day’s to start.

The sun rises with imagination’s art.

Canvases unfurl forever changing.

Changes unfurl with minds raging.

Heads spin to lust and learn.

And the ageless age with every turn.

It’s time itself telling time.

By degree our world’s a chime.

A brushes stroke and all’s made right.

Then our sun will rise on another’s night.

~*~

this is where a poem would be. if I had one.

this empty space looks back at me- an eternity observing at a distance, waiting.

i've settled into this three-dimensional space, living out my linear existence- my sentience cast as sculpture, waiting in line.

the silence has acquired a shape. dust rehearses the outline of things i almost meant.

somewhere, language is still becoming itself. birdsong discovers the morning without first consulting a dictionary. the tide arrives having forgotten every name ever given it.

perhaps poems are not written.

perhaps they are excavated- a careful brushing-away of everything that believed it was stone.

if so, i've mistaken the waiting for the work.

i've been polishing the pedestal instead of listening for the first fracture.

this is where a poem would be.

now this return of a ghost from the shadows, moth-soft.

its breath visibly pleated inside a small unspeaking mouth.

its beaded eyes, condensed obsidian spheres, moonflower intense.

i befriend darkness by its wings that are half sheen half lace. and measure space by its wingspan to travel light years into the past. when you and I were aflutter against blinding love.

i tell you "i am lost without you."

"love doesn't need a memory" you whisper.

"i wish …" i begin to say

but every memory dissolves into diffused light.

i wouldn't trade caressing your limbic system for all the copper pipes buried peacefully in the walls of communal mobile homes

A hill,

A mountain top,

A journey that must one day stop,

So I hurry on with haste,

Keep a steady heady pace,

I see flowers,

Smell them sure,

But I hunger still for more,

Time runs out and I with it,

Life's so short,