Sweet and Bitter Stuff of Wonder
Brought to you by Mary K
Of course, the water is still.
By the shores of that lovely lake,
I find only ruins of my own oath
melted down to a puddle –
no shimmer, no chime in it.
Short of breath, it’s just a sorry sign
beaten down,
groaning with the low ripple of the lake.
© MK, 2019
Written for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl where many great fellows contribute words of poetry.
His Toxic Rub
Against our skin
Was heaven
Although we knew he was a con
Yet, we closed our eyes to what
Our reason whispered.
How he embarrassed us
We flushed with shame and we were naked
In the square…
For all the world to laugh at us and spit
In our direction.
All that came to pass
There is no scar
But the initial which I razored
On my shoulder.
The oldest oxymoron in the world
“Sweet pain” would fit here,
If it wasn’t so outdated
And so stale.
~~~
Remember to gather your grief
beside, and not inside, your trunk.
Remember to touch
your peace of mind
as chill falls upon you.
Remember to whistle
the fly off her sting.
Remember and live
everything.
~
This is my poem for the Sunday Whirl #367 of the past Sunday.
Sunday Wordle #366
Term of the day: Audacity
Next on the menu: How to span the idea
without losing control.
Be aware that tables turn easily,
however well-spoken you are.
Granted you have the courage
to probe the deal,
life will not be terrible.
Term of the day: Audacity.
31.08.2018
I packed and hit the bar
My mind sharp on my destination for the day.
The pub’s small dog was snarling at a stranger
on the street –
sharp fangs bare.
The stranger raised his arm unconsciously –
showing a scar, faded with the years, but still visible.
The hearth of home was waiting for me –
I saw it sharp before my eyes
Then I hauled my trunk on the cart and left.
(c) 2018, MK
Sunday whirl #341 came, as usual, with interesting words to make you think and flex your poetic mind.
The train squeezed listless along the platform,
as if a game for happy children:
their January holiday,
with a completed list of gifts –
the sane apathy of parents reluctant to question superstitions.
The train – a figure of shady authority
puffed towards the winter shelter
where grain is stored for hungry throats
where chickens are cuddled to sleep before
they are taken to our feast table,
realistically rising to the occasion –
the gravity of holiday matters.
(c) 2018, mk
This is my weekly wordle poem in answer to Sunday Whirl #334.
Sunday Whirl 333 – a Wordle without a Title
The spy whistled –
the still water denied the staccato existence of Colorado rapids.
He sat down with a jar of thinner –
maybe diluting it would make it faster.
His sidekick resented the whistling –
he took it for a stupid habit you should kick clean of.
Instead he binge-watched Sabrina, the Teenage Witch
for hours
while sprinkling their home with gas
until all was slick as sin and wishing for death.
(c) 2018 MK
Sunday Whirl #332
The Mighty Nothing
Ditch truth, tell only rumors.
Boil before serving.
Nothing real is as mighty as something
you hear on the grapevine.
The seams of your age-old wound
are the only reminder of the sliver that pierced your cheek.
The memory is almost lost in the middle of glorious light.
Your tears streak down to nothingness.
© 2018, MK
If you want to check the original post, you can visit the site. There are other poems written on that prompt – you may like them, also.
The Secret Admirer of the Spare Star
Who will approach the spare star
and wonder at its glitter?
Maybe the one who walks among the fields
without despising the gutter or the lane,
the split honour of being second best.
Roll like thunder,
release its lights –
the flashy line of godly might!
When all is dead and over,
you’ll pin the star to the museum wall
for visitors to stare bluntly into it.
(c) 2017, MK
Always enjoying the wordle poems. This one was written for the #331 Wordle Prompt on Brenda’s blog. I guess that’s the case with everybody, because you never know where words can take you in their whim.
This is my Sunday Whirl participation this week. Rather surprisingly, on time. It’s been a terrible beginning of March in this part of the woods, to be honest. No more waiting, here is the pool of words and here is the poem, too.
The spring makes snowy attempts
to be delivered,
tearing cables and posts down
like blasphemy of weather.
A whole land plagued
by blizzards,
born to be tossed
in disasters.
We are dreaming of the rustling trees,
of dry grass and sweet air,
that will keep on like that
and yield photos to be envied.
So far, “All hands on deck!”
is the summon spring has for us.
(c) 2015, forestlove
Shared to Sunday Whirl #203, prompt for March 15th.
