I take for granted the bright Moon
The way I do the Sun’s clear day
And should I find that someday soon
The Moon gets lost or towed away
Or popped above like a balloon,
Would I regret it couldn’t stay?
What a sky-is-blue-grass-is-green day! I love sitting on this park bench with my imaginary friend, Alice. While I’m enjoying reality she’s telling me that if she ever hears another rhyme between “night” and “light” or “death” and “breath” she’s going to do something I’ll regret. Furthermore she insists I stop writing those happy-happy poems because as a fully deconstructed, beyond-whatever-existential adult she would rather have angst, dread and drivel smothering her than sentimentality. I tell her that I kind of like those rhymes. She pulls out some pills, “Here. Take these.” As I swallow sending them down, down into the depths of deconstruction she jumps up from her existential happy place and proclaims, “Haha! That’s arsenic! You’re dead!”
Then Alice cries, “I’m sorry I gave you that arsenic even if it was only imaginary arsenic.” “That’s OK.” (What else am I going to say?) She explains that it is all because she’s not real. That’s why she acts the way she does. I tell her, “Look at those atoms. They’re just empty space! They aren’t any more real than you are!” She stops crying and asks, “Really?” And I say, “Sure!” Then she wants to know about that tiny stuff in the middle of the atoms. She starts crying again. I tell her that tiny stuff isn’t real either. “Really?” At this point I have to think. I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want her to start crying again and for all I know she’s as real as anything else I can imagine out there and so I say, “Sure!”
I am hosting dVerse Meeting the Bar Prose Poetry today. The challenge is to write either a prose poem or a poem explaining why prose poetry doesn’t exist. Any similarity to real people in this prose poem is purely imaginary.
We’ve thrown so many things away
And lost so many, too,
But this one’s hanging on the wall
Reminding us when she was small
And what she used to do.
She drew a smiling figure
With ears and big, orange eyes.
With care she knew that she could dance
And lovers knew fulfilled romance.
We watched with proud surprise.
Linked to dVerse Poetics One Momento hosted by Mish.
Photo by the author
Some days my happy giggles don’t
Do what I want them to.
They hide because I’m feeling sad.
They hide because I’m being bad.
They hide because you think I might
Be someone who is not quite right.
That’s why we hide from you.
The “I” and “you” are imaginary. I just like speaking in the first person. One day I might collect these and call them “Confessional Poetry of Imaginary People”.
Linked to dVerse Quadrille #27 hosted by De Jackson (aka WhimsyGizmo) making use of the word “giggle”.
Photograph: “Birds Who Think I’m Quite Alright To Be Around” by the author.
Like a cat I kiss around your face.
Sleeping, you want only to sleep more.
Shifting me, my feet land on the floor.
In your mind my kisses scratched some place,
Broke your dream so you can now forget.
Wake. Remember? We’ve already met.
Merging wakened hearts with threads of grace,
Forming through the years our two as one.
Routine wonder: this day has begun.
Linked to Poetry Challenge 2017 #7 Ninefold Style. Ninefolddragon invented the form in 2016. It has three stanzas each containing three lines with nine syllables per line. The three stanzas should relate to body, mind and spirit in that order. It should evoke emotion or be about the supernatural realm. See the link for more detail.
This desert road feels lonely.
No cars are going through.
Although the storm has passed us by,
Dark clouds still dominate the sky.
I’ll have to check with you.
The land is bare about us.
Our wasteland’s freshly wet,
But there’s that rainbow still in reach.
New seedlings take a risk and teach
That we’re not over yet.
Light can come from anywhere.
The Sun won’t interfere
Though earlier it owned the sky.
The Moon is full. The buildings rise.
The snow-like stars and star-like snow
Reminds one of the cold.
There is a bridge from here to there
And back again from there to here
Off-center and below
That maps attempt to document.
Is there a narrative in this?
Has someone sent a secret kiss
That sets in motion someone bold?
Is there somewhere some consciousness
That daydreams as the night grows old?
This night’s still young, too wise to care.
It’s cloud-hazed, bright and anywhere.
Linked to dVerse OLN hosted by Grace.
Photography: “Red, White and Dark” by the author.