this writing thing is not for the weak
because words like to play hide&seek
just count to ten and don’t dare peek
then find the words and let them speak
from unrepentant keys
missing the point
plump, wet drops of obsidian
… flinging adjectives
each silvery word
plant a tree
one special just for me
one that has a word on every leaf!
even without my wandering muse
I’ll still have words to choose
and to use
I’ll sit beneath my tree
with its’ inspiring canopy
branches full of adjectives, verbs, a crown of nouns!
just make sure that it is evergreen
and we will always have
delicious urges boiled and simmered
as she watched the gorgeous man-boy swim
diving into the mist and spray of the sea once again
watching his bare skin glisten as he emerged into the sun
lying there on the beach she allowed herself to daydream
of feeling him against her, of tasting the salt on his skin
drunk on the thought, she languished, half asleep
not noticing his approach until she heard a voice above her
“Sorry to intrude but I was watching you watching me…”
and that is how they met
~Melanie Thomason 2/21/19
So my friend Gigi has been writing a series of short stories How They Met, spinning fabulous tales of could be couples’ first encounters. If you haven’t read any of them, you really should. Anyway she inspired me…and the above poem is a tip of my hat, if you will, to her.
I remember the reap and feasts
I remember you.
There is a line of crimson-curled poesy
working deep inside
and it’s biting at my ribs
to be let out–
(this is Awen–when muse strikes and you are helpless before it.)
oh I’m trying to live.
I’m trying to be real.
It’s not like anything else I know.
wanting to write
waiting to write
I was encouraged to contemplate the lint in my navel
upon inspection I don’t even have that to provide a start
all it takes is one word, a beginning
all great works; start with one word
one note, one thought
yet here I sit…
wanting to write
waiting to write
With his hand twisted in her long curly locks he said between moans, “I thought… you were… a good girl.”
“I was,” she said slowly, gazing up from between his thighs with a gleam in her eyes. “That wasn’t working out so well for me so I’m trying something different.”
After violently tearing page after page of happy faces frozen in time from the album she lit the glossy plastic covered things on fire and unceremoniously dropped them in the bin.
“Photographs of other people’s memories
remind me of a life stolen from me.”
she explained to her befuddled neighbor.
"I’d rather be hissed at for a good verse, than applauded for a bad one." - Victor Hugo
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