The party ended
And the last friend waved goodbye
You linger here
And I linger with you
Hands in my pockets
Not sure if anything’s okay to say
The first drops fall through you
And soon we’re standing in the rain
Soaked, I shuffle my feet
Not saying a thing
I know it’s late
I don’t want you to leave
I can’t ask you to stay
As you evanesce
I wipe from my face
Tears disguised as rain
*In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Happy Happy Joy Joy.”
Note: The tears shed in this poem aren’t happy, I know. I personally don’t shed happy tears, so the prompt did not quite fit my experience, but it still led me to write this, so credit is given. The prompt prompted, even if it wasn’t what it was meant to prompt.
After you jump,
everything in your life will be fixable
except that you have jumped.
Four seconds and 225 feet from now
you’ll be reduced to a statistic
But, if you don’t jump…
Your partner will not sleep alone tonight.
The two of you can even go Dutch for dinner
if that’s what you wanna do.
Your parents will have one more visitor
and one less loved one to bury
in their golden years.
Your children will get to brag
their parent can beat up other parents
just because that’s how kids say
I am proud of you.
I love you.
Fingertips stretch toward desire,
Yearning for the next taste.
Armor peels back.
Defenses fall away,
Leaving me vulnerable.
With every fiber of my being,
I want more.
With every fiber
*In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All Grown Up.”
While attending a Christmas party held by our writers group, a woman asked what I write. After telling her I write poetry, she talked for an hour about how poetry is good for helping improve your fiction, but is otherwise a waste of time. She once wrote a poem in fifteen minutes that was published by a vanity publisher who gave her a few awards, so obviously anyone could be an award winning poet if they wanted. She insisted that all of the real money, talent and success is in genre fiction.
Some write for money. Others for fame or attention. While I have no problem with those motives, I personally just favor art created out of passion for the expression itself.
Listening to this person indirectly insult poets and our craft inspired me to write “Handwritten.”
*In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Hindsight.”
Attention and attraction will wane.
Only those who respect you will remain.
*In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Cliché.”
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tight Corner.”
Life can become a corner
Perpetually in timeout
Where you contemplate
what you do wrong
There is a real problem
when you don’t get it
You don’t like the consequences
but you don’t see anything wrong
with what you did
Or, you agree it was wrong
But can’t quite discern the nuance
that made it wrong
So, on those rare occasions
you are let out of the corner
You make the same stupid mistake
sending you right back
Staring into the vanishing point
of your narrow perspective
Wondering how it got to this
Wondering how to correct it
if you can
If a revelation comes to you
And you turn to apologize
for what you’ve done
I hope someone
who appreciates you
is still there.
I hope you aren’t alone
in an empty life.
If you go along with it any considerable distance,
it’ll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have.
What it’ll fit and, maybe, what it won’t.
After a while, you’ll have an idea
what kind of thoughts
your particular size mind should be wearing.
For one thing,
it may save you an extraordinary amount of time
trying on ideas that don’t suit you,
aren’t becoming to you.
You’ll begin to know your true measurements
and dress your mind accordingly.
– Mr. Antolini (Catcher in the Rye, Ch. 24)