Return to the Ocean

Seeing you

in movies and memories

or frozen in pictures

doesn’t remind me quite

of your living presence, your

sweet cologne, that which I seek

sniffing, seeking lungfuls

the instant I exit my car, wafting long

on the cool whipping breezes.

I couldn’t quite remember

how silky felt your touch,

how it clung to my skin

for hours after;

nor your turbulent beauty,

the rumble of your voice,

how much you make me want to

dive right in,

melt into you.

Nor could I justly recall

the sweet salty taste of you on my lips,

the tang of plankton and algae.

Being near you, I feel

excited, electrified, awakened,

comforted, re-energized,

at home,

feel my soul

filling with sparkle

and my every fiber of being

with sweet life.

Three and a half years later,

and at last I’ve returned to you.

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Re: Orlando

Why does there gotta be

so much negativity

and hate

in this world?

They say that this is the land

of the free; well,

maybe it’s just me

but doesn’t that also imply

freedom from fear?

I understand that maybe

you want to exercise your gun rights,

but is it right

when your righteous struggle

to defend your own rights

makes it far too easy for people

to take away other peoples’ rights,

especially that other one, the

not-so-important,

size-8-font-at-the-foot-of-the-legal-document

right to a little thing called life?

You know, part of those

certain unalienable rights brotherhood,

LIFE, liberty, AND pursuit of happiness? Yeah,

that’s the one.

Why in the world should we

as a country be known for our 173 shootings

in far fewer days of the year, be known for having

statistically the most gun violence in the world?

And why can’t we

just realize for once that this

is all a derivative

from our own messy history?

We don’t discourage

hatred of people who are different,

of women and lgbtq+++ people

and Muslims and Jews

and African Americans and Mexicans

and anyone who desn’t fit

in the straight cis white Christian male

category cultivated

by culture and media, especially

straight cis white Christian males

who are forcing themselves into a false construct.

We encourage this; societally,

even those who don’t fit this category

strive for it every way they can.

Why can’t we

remember to love?

Why does it gotta be

so hard to love? For the love

of life, please,

save us all by helping us learn

to love.

NaPoWriMo 2014: Days 11, 12, 17, and 18

Love Poem of a Pawn and Glasses

She felt

so small, insignificant.

He could see right through her,

she was a pawn in the face

of his face. But she loved

his clarity, clean boundaries,

well-sculpted edges and curves, chiseled

to godlike. And she? Well, she

had a figure that caught his eye,

that called for examination. She, overjoyed

that she could have caught

his attention,

smiled

like the queen that she could be

if she really wanted to.

Black/White

To a poet

or a writer

or an artist,

black and white

is anything but;

not

boring, it’ a skeleton,

the foundation

of all existence. Invertebrates

don’t exist

in creative reality

because they’re too squishy, they don’t

survive

the prodding

of lit critics.

And don’t say that creative reality

doesn’t exist

because it does,

thanks to creative liberties.

Air-bird Written Thoughts

All thoughts

gushing,

rushing,

released

through a pinpoint ballpoint

pressure point

release point.

It’s not legible

and I probably won’t be able

to read it

in six million years, but

it’s out there. Pent up thoughts

of days,

maybe weeks,

even months,

half a year

of poetry solitary

confinement, no contact

with another member

of the poet race.

Be free, thoughts! Spread

to the corners of the world, show

just what my thoughts are,

just what you are. Be

like the wind-bird air flyer-thoughts

of culture, spreading viral video

across the globe

and even to the parts of the world

that don’t have internet,

Imagination

is our internet.

Writing Not-writing

I wish that I could write

but for writer’s block;

that terrible region

of thought

with no exit,

no freedom, no

known way out.

But if I’m writing a poem

about writer’s block

does that mean

that I still have it? Or no?

Gah!

My sanity flees!

Yet…

how can I have written

any words

if I’m blocked? Freedom!

Un-blockage

of the block

turns it into a circle-shape (ha!),

rainbow bubbles that float

on the peaceful winds

of imagination.

There is a lot of imagination going on in all four of those poems above. That’s probably because I’ve finally hit back into that niche where my good and original-type of poetry comes from. I’m sorry if you have no idea what I’m talking about; you must feel quite lost! Some poets out there might get it, and they would understand what a lucid place it is. It’s exciting! Words come onto the page free and happy like butterflies made of shattered shafts of sunshine! *cue rainbow happy squee music* This is another moment when I really recommend a morning paper exercise (See here or here for a better description of it). So many of my un-blocking poems are like it that few are fit for anything.

Let’s return to the first poem. To better explain it, I’ll grant you your prompt of the day: write a love poem about two completely random, inanimate objects, anywhere in the room you’re in–or outside of it. If you’ve got a few Story Cubes, those would work really well, because you don’t want to unconsciously look for the best pair. For example, you could do a foot and the moon, an eye and an arrow, a face and a mask, or a bridge and a star (examples that I rolled with the cubes). They shouldn’t have anything to do with each other–like a queen and a king from a chessboard. A shoe and a sock. Salt and pepper shakers. They are way to similar for this prompt! Try a shoe and a pepper shaker, or a salt shaker and a sock instead. Go with more a DVD and a curtain tie. A teapot aaaaaaaaaaaaaand…a tennis racket. Seriously, I could do this all day. When I wrote my poem, the glasses were faced well away from the pawn, which gave me the impression that maybe the pawn was in love with the glasses because the glasses didn’t seem to care about her. And don’t ask me why the pawn’s a she–maybe because they turn into queens if you get them to the other side of the board? Who knows! Pick and fly with it. ;

 

Unrequited Love: Depressing, Interesting, and Strangely Appealing

Used To

I used to

laugh at your every joke,

sigh at every smile

you gave me,

record each possible flirt

in a diary

and create backups

and carbons

and hide CDs of the evidence in strategic points,

like under my pillow

so I could read them each night

and know,

rather, think,

that you really did have something for me.

Yes, I used to

fret over your casual text

that said:

Wednesday = kk w/me

and puzzle out the meaning of

can’t w8 2 c u 2 ūüôā

and analyzing their every letter right down to the font. And I used to

script my every phone call

and even the three-sentence emails

telling you that you forgot your hot, hot, hot wallet

and not mentioning that I hadn’t found a picture of me there

yet,

and by the way here’s a cute pic of me,

just in case

you’d happen to be

missing me.

Yes, I used to

feel my pulse accelerate

to 300 beats per minute

and start to feel dizzy and nervous

and like my feet were size fifteen

with my hair in a crimper

constantly

if I saw your face

a picture

a text from you

any mention of you

or anybody with your first name

or last name

or either first or last name that resembled

slightly

either of your names

or age

or address

or suit size.

I used to

dream of the day you’d propose

with a smile and the words

“Kathy,¬†the day I met you…”

and open that ring box that contains

one fancy yellow 2-carat diamond,

and say those four magic words that make every girl’s heart stop

when they hear them

addressed

to yes, that girl:

“Will you marry me?”

Oh, I used to believe

that you loved me,

that I was the only one for you

and you were the only one for me,

that we’d be together and loving

for, well, ever.

How I used to believe

that in every one of your glances my way

there was love,

a way for us.

I used to…

I used to believe that we

would be something,

that we were something,

that we were more than just friends,

because it’s just so hard to tell

between a man and a woman

and it’s just so hard to find

that you were pouring mud down a bottomless pit

in the hopes that it would fill,

just so hard to find

that for all you’re giving

there’s nothing coming back.

And all that I did

turned into the imperfect tense

the moment I saw you with another woman,

the moment you said

she was your girlfriend.

I used to believe that wasn’t true.

I used to believe that there was a space

between

“girl” and “friend”,

that she wasn’t your girlfriend but a girl friend

like that which I turned out to be.

What small irony

there.

And all those “do”s of mine

turned into the imperfect tense

and now a preterite, if you will:

My heart

broke.

My heart

broke,

you insensitive idiot,

and the worst part about it is

that there’s a piece unbroken

and that piece still loves you.

How could I have loved you,

once,

how could I have used to love you?

Oh, the same way I used to have

a heart that was not broken.

I used to…

Unrequited love is interesting. Sure, it’s depressing and it kicks you real good and hard in the feels, but it’s a nice change from the “Happily ever after” advertised throughout the media and fairy tales. People should definitely know that real life is rarely “happily ever after” all the time. Otherwise? It wouldn’t be interesting, frankly, if you got everything you daydreamed of. Desire, and, unfortunately, some pain, are part of living and what fills your soul.

Enough of that philosophical stuff, though.

Take Eponine, for example, since she’s quite fresh in the world’s mind after Le Mis came through in glorious movie form. ‘Ponine is deeply in love with Marius, who’s passionately enthralled by Cosette, who loves him back. Typical love triangle, really. Anyway, Eponine hopes and hopes that that twerp Marius (no offense to any fans who would want to take offense of that for his sake) will at least recognize her love, although she is aware that it’s foolish to believe such a thing will come to pass. Then in the end…well, there are still some people out there who are unfamiliar with the story of¬†Les Miserables, and though they really should see/read/listen to the recording of the original Broadway cast, it’s not any real interest of mine to spoil it. Fellow fans of the play, you know what I’m talking about, of course…

Returning to the original topic, unrequited love is sad and extremely painful for those on the outside. It’s my good fortune not to have experienced that. “They” (who’s they? No idea) say it’s best to write about what you know, but sometimes you have to write about things you¬†don’t know. Then you fling yourself wholeheartedly into an imaginative daydream/reality experience of your character and struggle through to find what you’d do, then throw in the variables of your characters’…um, characteristics. You know, important character-building stuff like mental scarring, hopes, dreams, secret desires, etc. Such “experiences” make you more in tune with other people’s suffering so that you can cry at depressing musicals like Le Mis and feel proud of it. It makes you a better person.

Once more at the end of this extremely long post, unrequited love is interesting. But that’s what makes it the topic of so many poems and stories:¬†it’s interesting. It’s different (ha-ha, a little irony there if you can spot it) from the “norm” (whoa, I’m using “quotation marks” a lot in this post) Here’s to hoping you don’t have to experience it!

–Aidyl

NaPoWriMo: Days 9 and 10

A live sand dollar. Click for the site I found it on

Sand Roomba

Purple sand dollar,

 your fuzzy squishy purpleness

is like some cartoon creation.

You creep like a starfish with your tiny tube feet

over my hand, scouring my skin

with your churning mouth.

In the sand where I release you

you begin to whirl in sluggish circles

as you suck up sand and food

for all the world you were a

fluffy sand Roomba.

Touching your cushiny skin,

it’s hard to imagine your

bleached white shell*,

hard, firm,

underneath your

squish surface,

even though on your violet back

is that same star shape.

And white bleached shell*,

it’s hard to look at you

and remember

that fuzzy purple life

around this barren bone

without taking a moment

to honor what was.

¬†Once when I was a kid, my family went on vacation to Pismo Beach. It’s home to a few invertebrates, most famously the Pismo oyster. But, as I found, it was also the home to many, many sand dollars! It was pretty hard to find a whole shell*, but by the end of our trip I had three. Even better, we found a real sand dollar. It looked pretty much like the picture. (Psst! See it moving in time-lapse here!) Oh, and by the way, when I said shell? *Sand dollars don’t have shells! Shells are, in short, on the outside of an animal, while a¬†test, which is what a sand dollar has, is on the inside. They’re like shells with the role of a skeleton.

And now for day ten:

Love/Unlove Poem

You’re always there for me.

You’re always there.

You’re always there.

Why can’t you stop

stalking me?

I don’t even

like you

that way! Do you

know the meaning of

personal space?

You’re not even special to me

as a friend, so

will you leave me alone,

find someone else,

because you’re

annoying,

creepy,

irritating,

and adorable!

You need to get

your ears cleaned out

of your rotten brain because I never said

you were adorable.

Well,

maybe I did.

It depends.

Are you available

this weekend?

–Aidyl

National Poetry and Writing Month: Day 15

Today’s poem is called and is about, of course, “Love”. Did you happen to miss the last poems? Just scroll down, or check here for the previous ones. If you’d like to know when they come out, subscribe!

Okay, so I wrote this yesterday, but I wanted to post the poem I¬†did¬†post yesterday¬†first,¬†and I really didn’t get the ending ironed out until today, anyway…that counts for my book, does it count for yours? Oh, why and I asking you that? You’re the one here to read, and I’m the one here to give you stuff! Oh, brother, here’s the poem:

Love

Love is a golden chain

that’s looped around my heart,

extending infinitely there, yet pulling

thus clenching painfully when we part.

Love is made of golden links,

built steadily over time,

constructing a strong bridge of old

between hearts, mine to thine.

Love is made of weak gold circles,

each’s resistance not always at best,

a single strain can be enough to break some,

putting anger in mind, pain shooting through my chest.

Love is a golden chain,

breaks rebuild-able with co-operation,

that link then the strongest of all,

thus strengthening our affection.

This is just a little poem about an idea, “Relationships are like chains”. I began wondering, “Well, how¬†exactly¬†like chains? What kind of chain? What happens when you leave for a time?” etc. The rhyme and meter was just coincidental and it just came out of my fingers that way. I suppose it’s because meter sounds better than willy-nilly words, kind of how paint ordered into vague shapes looks more like what you want it to be than a random, careless heap. But, like the impressionist art I was just using as a metaphor, poems without meter may actually have a fine choice of word and location that the casual reader can’t discern from the rest.

Metaphors and¬†similes¬†are very important to the world of poetry. Today’s challenge is somewhat like yesterday’s, but more detailed, because instead of simply writing different ways to see something, you’re going to pick one of those ways and specify it. If you felt that you didn’t do a good job of your challenge yesterday, pick another idea or feeling that you like. It can be something from a book, your own idea, a dream, something that people say a lot…but I’d rather it be your own stuff than what other people have said. Now specify your idea, going deeply within it to explore how it actually would be. Day 5’s poem is a little like that. Go ahead, dust off that imagination and don’t be afraid to be silly, serious, or sorrowful.

Your poems are yours! Let lose as you would to a diary!

–Aidyl

Thank You, Thank You Very Much! A List of All Small and Large Thanks-Givings

Thanksgiving! The day when the pilgrims gave thanks for their good harvest is the day when Americans today have a traditional feast and give their own thanks for this day and age. But most may think that there isn’t much to be thankful for…there is.

1. I’m thankful for being well off money-wise¬†in this economy. Not rich, but not in poverty, either.

2. This thanks go to my family. Nothing else needed.

3. My mind is so good at carving my story. Thanks to it too.

4. I’m thankful for living in America, because it’s generally safe here.

5. I’m thankful that I live in this recession, and not the great depression. You should be too.

6. Thank you Evelyn, my parent’s jeweler, who showed me the gemology world to open the door for my career decision then.

7. Thanks for Skype, letting me talk in person, face to face, to anyone I love far, far away.

8. I’m thankful that the economy went down at the right time for me to get this house at a good price

9. My good health is something to be thankful for, too.

10. I hate my oven, but I suppose that I should be thankful that it even works.

11. Words. How else could one express what they feel to another?

12. Thanks, whomever did it, for inventing the internet and publishing. I can talk to people all over the world, everywhere, and when I die I’ll still talk to them.

13. Thank you, cool weather. I prefer living in a mild climate, even mildly cold to living where it’s sweltering all the time.

 

That’s just a short list of the things that I’m thankful for. There are many, many more things that are taken¬†for granted that we should be thankful for. For example, yeah, gas costs four bucks a gallon, but hey, it’s not ten, right?

 Thanksgiving

Family gathered around the table,

the lights dimmed to a candle,

the food awaits us patiently.

Hands clasped, we say grace,

and give ritual to the giving of thanks,

before serving the traditional turkey.

‘Round the table, each

member of this stalwart event intones

his or her thanks for the year.

As we eat, each reflects

and is filled with thankful air.

Thanksgiving.

Thank you for reading my blog.

~Aidyl