Each month, write a new collection.
Be quiet!Shut up!Cállate!I yell at my thoughtsAs if they still livedIn my childhood.They finally obey andFold inward like aCardboard box,Flattened out and Unable to hold Any substance.I stand on the quiet boxAs my thoughtsPress back underfoot.I sway as tiny ones escapeAnd knock me off balance.I wonder what the large ones will do.Carole Avila7/7/15
Carole, it's great to see you here! Great poem too!
I love it. I love how the box folds in on itself.
Leather Bound ForestI sit in silent solitudeamongst the trees in my private foresteach one labeled and namedstanding neatly in endless rowsThe leaves are no longer greenand the trunks no longer reach to the sunmy forest has no birds nests or bee hivesnor the babble of a nearby brookMy forest is specialits where nature evolved into technologythe branches now hold the thoughts of mana merger of mother nature, and human natureThere is no whispering windsave the gentle hum of a ceiling fanand there is no chirping or clicking or howlingsave my reaction to the words I am readingI smell the age on the paperfeel the softness of the page between my fingerscarry the weight of the meaning behind each wordIn my heart, like a mountain lion carries her cubsIt's peaceful in my forestand I have never lost my waythough I have gotten lost in many a storyI can always find my way backSurrounded by countless voiceswho speak only when I crack their spinesthey guard me like a leather bound army shielding me from the outside world
Happy birthday, Molly! Great birthday poem too. I love this!
I like the reference to books "I smell the age on the paper", and "when I crack their spines". This is superb!
Walk AlongI go for a walk aloneI see the sidewalkand look at rocksand the dirt and as I lookI see the rocks are sometimesshaped like heartsWhen I pick one up to see it closerthe imperfect shape leads me tothrow it back It is like I am a heart rock wandererwith my head to the ground searchingfor the perfect rockPeople pass me and say helloSome pass and remain silentI keep looking with my head downand search for the perfect heart shaped rockI wish I had a dog to walk alongThe dog with its tail waggingand its smile on its face with its tongue hanging out of its mouth pantingThe walk turns the corneras I look up again to see somemilkweed, but no butterfliesThe air is fresh in the morning rush with people going to workin their cars with a fast paceand in a rushcontrasting my easy strollonly going ahead a mile or twoTo only get some fresh air andsome exerciseIt let's me see more people like meA lot of them are talking and busyBut, I am quiet and alonewith myself with my walkand my internal dialogueI get an idea to writea poem and pull outmy pen and paperIt is a good notionto have some wordsto title a poemLike walk along
Ah, I love how that comes all the way back around to the beginning. Fantastic!
SHOWTIMEI wasn’t prepared for the coyotesOr the intensity Their yelps made me quiverI don’t remember the last time I trembled like thatMaybe it was my first kissOr the time under the klieg lightsWhen I was so nervous I could dieIt must have been a killI thoughtSitting upright in the tentI imagined the blood on their lipsHowling at the shine of the moon
Love this description of the coyotes. After a decade of living in the mountains, they still send chills. You've got them down.
quiet in thecorner content to watchthe milling crowd
Which proves "keep it simple" still rules. Lovely, as usual, Thomas Thomas.
Yeah. You really capture something with these short poems!
Thank you. I never know what sort of poem I will write until I start (well sometimes I plan on a certain style). Once I start the poem leads me.
What I see, when I am QuietI sat downOn crisp, creased off white sheets.On a Serta mattressSo comfy.I look into the mirrorOf my small wooden dresser...I look down and close my eyes.No peace to be found...Only images of my favorite people yelling at me to be better,All the while choosing to be content with what is, what I am. I scream, "Get the f*** away from me, just leave me alone!"Unfortunately, I do scream these things out loud.Having become used to being known as that neurotic 20 something white female or that psycho mexican woman.Which ever they prefer. Since it's always room service.I admit though,I do the same thing those people do,I sin just as much Maybe at times lesser or greater,Whose to really say?I think the voices are there to keep me from sinking to deep.But alas, are they even real?
That's a really touching poem. I love the way it ends. This is really powerful
Maybe too touching. It was quite uncomfortable to write. I'm glad it is powerful. That's worth the digging and stretching it took.