I suppose it makes sense,
bodies have limited shelf life unlike almond butter
atleast it comes with the option of being stored,
refrigerated even;
it can last up till months, but us?
We crumble like wet paper,
our fibers torn when neglected.
Bodies are conscious but don’t have consciousness
they care not for rules and regulations
they scatter,
like potpourri evoke fragrant kisses;
painting the soul in shades of atomic tangerine,
rose and bittersweet shimmer— what am I?
Why am I here?
Will it matter when I am gone?
The answer perhaps lies in existential animateness
I am alone
but not really in my query of the universe;
this pattern is decades old,
with the moon and stars bursting for everyone to see—
birth is only the first gate,
like Persephone I bathe myself in the devastating light.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Laura Berger Illustration, Pinterest

Day three ~ Existentialism

Posted for “Play It Again” @ Real Toads

And Posted on Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub

Round up the centuries and feel the heat,
the percussion of lightly perfumed syllables joined
by other strings–
and though April is sullen
let us remain together in Poetry,
make use of the fire that’s raging in our breasts–
primrose dreams remind us
that even in the face of adversity, we are inseparable.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Day two ~ Taking it to the Streets

Posted for “Play it Again” @ Real Toads

Hurry across the promenade,
run your fingers upon the shallow depth of field
and embrace
the periwinkle silence that surrounds;
perhaps, I am a fool for being in love with small things,
the ones that often go by unnoticed–
the sounds of early morning,
sweet, melancholy song that’s sung aloud
almost teasingly–
the salt on my tongue is witness to the changing atmosphere.
A thorny bush of roses,
the smile that forms on your face
when you catch me glancing upon my shoulder;
tell me, would you exchange them?
Let go to the extent that fire in your soul is extinguished?
Poems carried inside one’s pocket,
coolness of early Spring air and a kind word spoken;
these are the things that matter, don’t they?
Perhaps, I am a fool for being in love with small things,
the ones that often go by unnoticed.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Dream Portrait, Antonio Mora, Pinterest

Day 1 ~ April is for Fools and Poets

Posted for “Play It Again” @ Real Toads

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

Tossing and turning I drink the moon,
its tempestuous breath melding with my own—
I find the concept of ‘averting one’s gaze,’ slightly bewildering;
do they? Really?
Is that why we choke on reality?
Now that winter has moved on and the wind is ushering
apple blossom trees;
they never tell us about the brittle, naked limbs that stretch high
in the icy abalone sky—
I am slipping, stepping gradually through
the intricacies wedged within Spring are too small to see—
poetry after dark,
I want your lips, eloquent in their desire for a better world.
Leave me a note,
a whisper, a taste that follows into the stream of consciousness;
who can resist rejuvenation?
You set the pace for words to bloom, undismayed
I feel everything deeply: intentions, auras, acumen, flavours, nuances.
Is this not what the moon intended for us?

 

 

 

Photo credits: ‘Between,’ Painting by Mara Light, Pinterest

Posted for the Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

Softly contumacious, embed the sun into our veins
it’s necessary
the blackness forms a sort of primeval aversion:
are we not entitled?
The rustling leaves whisper to each other
unraveling
a story in their breathing;
“She was warned. She was given an explanation.
Nevertheless, she persisted.”
The simple sweetness of existing isn’t enough,
consolidate the orange torch of twilight
into our words,
the kind that enables others to find their own courage—
stretching out in front of me like a map
are approaching centuries,
its grid lines darker than threat of biodiversity;
I never understood
why rhetoric should remain outside the chambers,
are we not competent?
I have an answer against the anti-rhetoric of philosophers,
my tongue
a thin sliver blade raised; “let us, by all means, be lucid.”

 

 

 

Photo credits: Stanka Kordic Painting, Pinterest

Magaly invites us to write inspired by the quote from the description of “Nevertheless, She Persisted,” a flash   fiction collection published by Tor.com 💝

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United