Poems Built From 14 Prose Poems

Folder: 
Vintage Words

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I.

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For some a bit of bread is like a catchy tune, too much of a lifelong view to taste it correctly. That’s what it means to be a writer, published, and alive all at the same time. Or it is the new reverence, the new paladin, a reminder that I have poetic acquaintances among family with no money who are about everything to say and doing nothing about it. It is just air and makes lots of noise traipsing and leaves you riding on bad thinking. I write it all down, so it will be accurately chronicled.

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II.

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I know my job is done when I turn off my computer and rush out screaming, then sit down on the park bench and talk it over with myself. Yes, I could leave and the clouded thoughts could go to sleep, but the park would be near empty and there is so much grass there and a lot of imagery to tell me what to think about the wildflowers.
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III.

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In this setting, I give ground to the fire called emotions that begin to arrive more frequently pretending to be artistic expression. Sharpened pencils is how a philosophy works, as children who go their own way, as ours as the water bill, attached like a tether to a bird's middle finger. Words appear out of no blue sky, but from the more briefly done reading and wandering around.
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IV.

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I think America, in the center of the mind, will keep challenges coming but the prose police say no. Ask your neighbor maybe they can create a challenge or two. Just so long as they are not totally somebody else's challenges. They might burn off charge like a flashlight, to hold onto a semblance of clear skies. But clouds, big dark clouds eventually flee or fall in drops to leave watermarks inside the paper. At these moments, writing comes naturally to be in a competition with sun-challenged conformity to defy the mundane reality of containers overflowing with mac and cheese. There are better recipes to make food for thought. Don't you just love a good pun!
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V.

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Control comes from sources known, thus darkness has Her realm but Death rocks. Death rules in the end so don't ask for money. That all should die is good lest the world overcrowd. You know hysteria will be an embarrassment if you end up dying in winter alone. You must have your thoughts. When I die, I will have mine for instant recall or available from the library to be read if I am unable to interact with the outside world. Everywhere, so few can describe experienced love, as if it were the way I pay for utilities. Get up and do something and be grin prone. Love is no disco kind of dude, but he likes to grow taut too late. She withers so fast. Did you know crows have feet like poems? Cut loose between dying and dead, Death as a woman will rock your world soon or late. She will like to dance with you to the jingle of hellsh bells. I have earned the fire, I truly believe this to be true. Like you, I dream of Heaven. In this dim hemisphere of air and light, I may rebel and creatively consider Death the ultimate rebel lass of all creation. After all, she's a handsome devil. Her feet are sure, her emblem is embossed on her holster, the epitome of cool. Her spurs whirrrrr in the breeze of her passing. Willows wilt as she passes. This is the writer's definition of power.
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VI.

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After the feast, I have to scrape the table. All these rogue vowels and dangling participles must be edited with bleach. I need clean blue sky because I need the sun play with outside. If all the worlds around all the suns of all the galaxies end up in the dark, existence is so in the dust. Who will remember me then? History will be history. In the great parking lot of opposition known as the real world, I will not feel at home because nowhere is anonymous. Words then from God are cold Get over it. Shut off the noise in the house, Death is at the door. His sister, Dying, has come to school us and to work the work, inauspiciously. Death comes like Sunday after church, doing it after hearing a sermon written just for me. He tickles, goes down the funny bone hard, and makes me laugh now so that the children will be confused. In my opinion, Death has many offices and faces. Writing about him and his family now is my duty just as afuture it will have been my duty.

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VII.

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Knowing and loving the spaces after birth make the universe lead us to a means of conformity and light, God’s best friend who is like a specter from another Thule. The cadence police arrive with too much poetic license, suspicious of my quill, ready to revoke my ability to buy ink. I chose to write in spite of the peers laughter. I knew it would be the death of me. Electricity was limited to a few candles worth of light, like a stop sign painted lonely and gong to be more lonely. Therefore, I took a seat, loosened up flexing my fingers here and there, opening them up to the wind thus, now and then. It’s a lot of work. Blood flowing fine then it’s time to use them at the polls. Just when I got grounded on Nobel novelic turf, elections become a good note to send to the state capitol or the nation’s governance seated. The train of thinking is writer-blocked in the stormed castles of the brain’s synapses. All my muses leave town. No one I vote for wins.
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VIII.

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Mistakenly, the norm rides on money to be earned from what is produced from the mind aka me, but sometimes my writing fingers refuse to loosen as they near poetic terrain. Fingers as tips and knuckles that need to become malleable; not tight in a fist and not untapped in a while. So I am back at the nothing screen, blank, thinking someone else inherited all the spaces God created of authority, I was not included. I am man-made mostly, a woman of bread crumbs most mornings with no power to look where I will. A herd of devils sit on my right shoulder looking for a herd of white horses to appear on the horizon. I wear a white hat on land. On the sea I wear whatever I can borrow that you own. It’s a writer’s life, but where did all these bread crumbs come from?

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IX.

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On the devil’s dance floor, or not, I am just complaining about other-wheres. We are all different I yell out of a bad dream. Our love will last like our songs. The verses were each once made live outside, written down, but the head must be held just so. The fingers brush light against the chin, the elbow barely touching the surface of the well worn wood of the desktop. The paragraphs of the ecosphere are overcast with the threat to lose light unless I pay someone's, anyone’s light bill. The darker plane is where poets prefer to float. This is wisdom. In the literary mode, plants are a vegetable garden in a pocket. Scat rain! Rain scat! Red as overdue rent, I bake bread late and eat in the morning. Yes, that is what writing is like; a huge repeat, like sunrise, like the rhetorical spiel, the prosody of betimes. The dough must be tough. Reverence gets up, dusts off his breeches, aims until the headless horseman shows up and is shot. This empty page of a brain is secret seen only in sunshine set or at rain stops. The manuscript should look like today, small and barely paying attention, or smiling like a vampire whistling a snappy tune. Death rhythm or life rhythm, I paint it with words mostly so as not to disturb your rest some nights. Still and yet, it is good to visit other writers who talk of grandchildren and contemplate peacock patterns in the carpet on Sunday morning.

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X.

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Temporal existence lives between the lines to another realm where the ending has gone to weeds. That's not how I need you, holding those alpha-numeric chains that keep the arms calm at the sides of the body. I need keys for those locked up ideas to unleash at the bluest of blues, between the church pews, with the day predicted perfectly as news.

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XI.

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I take the reins upon the park bench, look down the path and discover a direction sign in the shape of a red cross. This is my greatest hour when the solitary bench is approached by the stranger eating burnt toasted bread, eyeing my ripe and well grown vegetable stuffed pockets. Thieif! Thief, I exclaim. Those bread crumbs look just like my tomatoes! It’s a poet’s life I’m tryng to describe here. Where else could such loony vegetables grow? My voice must be indoor quality or they may revoke my mortgage. Those are not nibs falling out of my purse, those are bb's. I like to shoot clay pigeons in my down time. On the bird feeder, seen from the literary window, there are always birds and things that eventually fly away or end. My only thought, I am in charge, but the robins arrive like swallows who throw the dandy script into the thicket where the crows peck at it like critics. I shall fly south for the winter and the fall and possibly spring. I will return only for Indian Summer. Brighter days are forbidden fruits. Summer is for musicians not lyricists.

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XII.

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Thunder, oh thunder please stop! I want to announce why that napkin fold is oragamic and cosmic and contains the formula for a Pulitzer. The tab must be paid to allow the usage of poetics and prose devices like bathos, or the tab must be made to create the indent at the beginning of the highly alliterated text.
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XIII.

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Anything is game to keep our frozen fingers thawed and to make my day the way I roll like that. It is close to the fact that writers are mostly very busy unemployed people. Twenty-eight years later, when I am cold and non-descript (smile here), I will mutter and mumble when we talk of an illusionary semblances and ideological allusions long ago written and forgotten. Then, and only then, I will think to wear the cloak of an old pen, a tattered plume, an emptied ink well. My hat will be made of old newspapers. My shoes will be lined with epitaphs and eulogies. It will be posted on all the covers of books about old writers. It will describe in the blurb what I wanted and how I walked wherever the need decided, which would be where God let me go. If I should perchance become you, whichever road you waltz, I hope we do not end up the same. With so many kids strewn like mimeograph paper about my well worn sandals, I will indelibly raise them without instructions.

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XIV.

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They can read my entire life work in manuscript form, unpublished. That is the ultimate way of the pen pal. It is my strategy to remain anonymous except to my descendants. I will continue to sing, when I am beyond the grave, the virtues of being in print, and I will send you word of how long you have to make your contribution. I will lament then too that I should have learned to build houses.

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allets

11-15-14
1:39p

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem was broken into 14 different rewritten poems. I just like the long version. - slc

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and_hera_met_zeus's picture

wow stella!!!!!

this is incredible!!!!  i feel like i need to read it about a hundred more times.  i wish i had a prize to give you, or a nomination, or a recommendation.  something more than this tiny comment that does your writing no justice at all.  i don't know how you did it, but this piece is absolutely phenomenal. 

allets's picture

I Read It Earlier Today

but this evening, more laid back, I read it out loud and enjoy the jokes and puns and fun connections and dislocated imagery. I'd write my autobiography like this, but no one would understand it - with the exception of a few poets or other around the country. Thanks for the offer of a prize. It's the thought. My sincerest thanks and did I mention, U rock! - :D