Midnight Meanderings

28th September, '09

Clickety-clack
clickety-clack
slippers on cold marble.
Midnight meanderings.
A stomach gone hungry again.
Twisting-turning
Twisting-turning
a psyche about to boil over.
Eyes searching for some warm company.
Unceremoniously picked-up
Unceremoniously dumped
a ball of white fur
Curled up at my cold feet
Sleep visits me again.

The Death of A Pop Star

My response to prompt #93 by Deb Scott- Deb wanted us to wallow in the depths of our fantasy and make poetry out of the experience. Though she wanted us to begin with free-writing, I must admit, I cheated and went directly to the poem bit. This wasn't the first idea I got, but the only one that clicked.

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23rd September, '09

The death of a pop star
just limelight gone sour;
Or so I thought,
underneath
sheets so blue,
while the media raged
and the fans engaged
in
a semi-fantastical
boohoo.
I slept a normal
sleepy night
dreamt my dreams,
one or two,
and woke up
fresh-faced
and non-teary-eyed
to take
on the world
anew.

I walked the walk and
talked
the talk
since I had not much else to do
there was a vacuum
in the air
everywhere
from all the handkerchiefs blown into.

I resolved
to make not much of it
to try and keep it
an impersonal issue
but little did I know
and little did I think
that 'Billie Jean'
wouldn't
so easily
say adieu.

Sunset came
with a lolling gait
and a face
less orange than blue
it seems
he happened to know the guy
and really cared for him too.
I sheltered under
the indifferent lamp
whose light was never new.
He cared not who stood
he cared not who fell
so today
he shone
with no less ado.

Feet stretched out
my cat
cuddled by my side
my warm
dependable rescue,
I held on to his tail
hoping to float
if the oceans of tears
anymore grew.
I knew when he smiled
his Cheshire cat smile
flicking his pink tongue,
that he was going to
mew;
the sweetest,
lovable-est sound in the world,
and I hugged him tight,
as if on cue.

But Lord of Sanity,
what do I get
but a pop star's voice,
and the
jerking
sliding
dance moves too,
and a steely lecture
for all my disdain
and a few words about his own virtue.

I feel down on my knees,
and cried
and cried
I finally gave the pop star
his due.

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Please do let me know what you think of my attempt at telling tall tales. All comments on the idea and form are very welcome. Thank you.

Something In Between my Matresses feels like a Word

14th September, '09

WORD JEMS by Jessica Fox-Wilson- This week Jessica scattered some fine word jems around for us to play with. It was fun trying to use as many of them as possible to create poetry. I started off with blanking out, but eventually, put together what came to my mind's eye. So here goes; some disparate images, truths and sniggers of life- inspired by words.

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Red ripe succulent plum
crushed between your rice-grain teeth

Sleep,
lifting my lids and strolling
into my midnight musings

Whisking white cotton tail,
and paws and ears and some spots,
disappear into the green-ness of clover

The death of a pop star,
limelight gone sour

To conform and yet to condemn
to spit in the mud you roll in.

Bumbling within the bars of a self-scripted cell,
coke powdered wrists, opium drenched nerves,
drowning in the foggy ecstasy of nothingness
a pittance of an offering to the deity of life.

A multitude of words,
heaped up,
like sugar on a tablespoon.

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Please feel free to comment on the ideas as well as the form of the poem/poems. Thanks.

Rain Rush

7th September, '09

The whoosh of the rain,
slowing down,
to a pitter-patter;
A tap-dancer on an asbestos roof;

Rustling old notebook sheets,
torn, folded,
engineered into hasty creations;

Rubber chappals on wet, washed earth,
the crunchiness of wet mud,
laughter bubbling at the seams of my soul;

Sucking in the smell of freshly-soaked mud;
The skies have just unburdened themselves.
The whiff of their countless secrets.

Excitement floating through the air,
mingled with the rain and laughter;
Three fine visitors on a boring afternoon;

Sunlight streaming through peepholes in the rain,
specks of gold and grey and nothingness;

Boats bobbing on rain-water rivulets,
drawing imaginary boundaries of joy,
floating images of serenity on water.

A Fine Night For Dying, Again

7th September, '09

A fine night for dying,
again.

Spinning in speckled spools of time,
a blur, a flash, a searing flame,
closer closer closer closer,
until the cobwebs all melt away.
Drops of memory,
spilling onto the ground,
a bottomless pool of pain,
the soundless screech of loss.

Feet bumbling towards forgotten places,
arms all awry in a corpse-like gait;
the walk towards that cold dark spot begins,
again.
In the corner of my sightless eyes,
a vision explodes into life.
A creature mirthful and young,
drinking from the waters of the forests of old,
flying with the eagles of the forever skies,
seeping into my pores, filling me with the new.

The tree people come visiting my door again.
a lights shines into the cold, wet cave.
A fine night for dying, again,
a fine night for soaring the skies.