Her hair is iridescent blue.
Her mind is God-knows-where.
The air she breathes is truly true
As if she wasn’t there.
We talk about philosophy.
She won’t admit she’s wrong.
So long with rationality.
Be obstinately strong.
The monsters deep beneath my bed
Are fearful of her sight
As might the monsters overhead
When she turns out their light.
I trust she’ll always have my back.
She won’t lead me astray.
She stays my mind when doubts attack
And shadows come to play.
Text: Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar. I am hosting and the theme will be odes, poems of praise–praising whatever, any or no form.
Photos: “Only Shadows” by the author.
“I fear that should you read my mind
You’ll find my mind ain’t there.
I fear I’m holding you behind.
Don’t leave to run off where
Nighttime’s dreamings cannot stand.
I must not hesitate.
I fear I’ll reach my outstretched hand
Too fashionably late.”
Linked to dVerse Quadrille hosted by Victoria Ceretto-Slotto with prompt word “fear”. The pub opens at 3 PM EST. Come join us!
Photo: “Three Uprights” by the author linked to K’lee and Dale‘s Cosmic Photo Challenge with theme “three”.
It looks like jasenphoto’s Tuesday Photo Challenge also has “Three” as a theme. So I am linking this as well
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.
And that’s when Alice wanted to know when
I was going to grow up and she apologized
for giving me the arsenic even though it was
only imaginary arsenic and then she started
crying because she wasn’t real any more than
that arsenic and that’s why she acted the way
she did and I told her ‘It’s OK’ because what
else was I going to say and then I told her that
even atoms were almost all empty space, nothing
there, and she said, ‘Really?’ and I said ‘Sure’
and then she wanted to know about that tiny stuff
in the middle of the atom and she started to cry
again and I had to tell her that when that stuff
was a wave of potentiality it wasn’t there any
more than she was and she said, ‘Really?’ and
I had to think because I didn’t want to lie to
her and I didn’t want her to start crying again
and as far as I could tell she was more real
than any old atom was and so I said ‘Sure’.