Mingled Phrases of Friends

HurdyGurdyMan1

Mingled Phrases of Friends

The hodge-podge hurdy-gurdy man

with ropey muscles

raised free roaming chickens

in his pocket garden.

He was a firecracker

but could not live on expectations.

He curled up at the Bodhi Tree,

read a bowl of creation,

eyes glowing like light bulb

filaments .

He blew smoke rings.

Jesus jumpin’ jiminy, bring

me a beer, he yelled.

No one heard him

as he grasped the iron

gate, an ice box of writer’s

block.

Hated, berated, anticipated.

Fire ants.

She sent him air kisses

in a bone china cup,

the expectations torn

open.

Underneath the covers,

he pondered the departure

of his mortal coil.

A daydream, a sanctification

of the fruit of the universe.

On the red eye, he hit his head,

excused himself, no longer

trapped but unwrapped

without insomnia.

He would dance

with a Himalayan gourd

at vespers.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

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DAY 16 : Dignity

The prompt did not stir in my busy day.  I wrote two the day before.  So, here we go:

9.13

Dignity

Do not pat.

Ask.

Never close to water

that  sun might

sear my Scottish eyes.

Ask to touch.

Do not pat.

Allow me to listen,

Consider.

Maybe my aura

Is too thin.

I cannot bear a pat

Do you know me?

I must be north—

on the north side.

North windows .

I repeat do not pat.

Allow my hat brim

to shadow my face.

Read me Bobby Burns

With a brogue

and let the cat

do as he will.

No gratuitous clichés.

Allow our conversations

to be deep, swirling,

meandering through

death.

Do not pat

or I shall scream.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

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Dear Muse,

purple pointy toed shoe

Dear Muse,

You stand there, elegant as Butterfly Woman,

a halo of white lilies in your pale,  gossamer locks.

Skirts of aubergine and amber synonyms swirl

in the breeze of lip licking meter.

You stir the cauldron of dictionaries, words

that never touch my ears.  I see you

toss in the rosemary of metaphor, a pinch

of saucy simile, a waft of allegory,

followed by a taste of alliteration.

You lift a wooden ladle to your lips.

A fleeting frown.    Deep in your apron

pocket, you call forth the nutmeg

of language, a foreign word, a bliss

of chocolate rhyme.   Your ephemeral

cookbook shimmers with the suggestion

of couplet. You dribble a hint of haiku,

three drops of rhythm,  a twinkle of sonnet,

a repetition of villanelle, a glossary

of mouth-watering Anglo Saxon,

a sprinkle of anonymous antonyms,

a smidge of stardust.

You peer through the amber vial

of Latin and allow three drops to fall.

Bring to a boil, simmer and chuckle.

Then your purple, velvet pointed pumps,

dainty on my window sill, waken

me to the breath of the unexpected.

I remain your faithful servant.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

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A Dialogue Between Inner Self & Oversoul

self and oversoul

A Dialogue Between Inner Self & Oversoul

     After William Butler Yeats

 

My Oversoul, I summon you now at pyramid’s peak;

Above me, I perceive, yet in my very marrow,

Why do I await the Owl’s call, to catch your starlit voice?

I plunge through horizontal labyrinths of each day, neglecting our oneness.

In the darkness, I feel your Light never wandering.

My dearest Inner Self, one of many, as you know, unique as freckles on your flesh,

No severing occurs when your mind strays;

You cannot rend the golden thread that flows between thee and me.

Follow the Green Man through flowers and forest, centuries

of incarnations.  With every arcana you turn,

I am there, in the Druid circle, in every stone you hold.

Wear silken embroidery or torn peasant’s clothing,

But fear not.  It is a journey.  Your choice.  My presence.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

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Hori Hori

I will give you the prompt for today from NaPoWriMo so you will know why I dare write after Sylvia Plath.  Her poem included.

And now for our prompt (as always, it’s optional!). In keeping with the mysterious quality of the number 13, today I challenge you to write a riddle poem. This poem should describe something without ever naming it. Perhaps each line could be a different metaphor for the same object? Maybe the title of the poem can be the “answer” to the riddle. The result could be a bit like our Day One poems of negation, but the lines don’t need to be expressed in negatives. To get you thinking, here’s one of my favorite examples of a “riddle” poem – Sylvia Plath’s “Metaphors”:

I’m a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf’s big with its yeasty rising.
Money’s new-minted in this fat purse.
I’m a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I’ve eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there’s no getting off.

???????????????????????????????

Hori Hori

After Sylvia Plath

I’m a riddle in four syllables,

sharp as a Gemini.  I bite

like a dragon, teeth

serate or slice. I repeat myself.

Two of five elements,

I strike at your whim.

Dualistic but even tempered.

I am rigged for hard work.

Without me, tulips fail.

I’ve eaten grit in your honor,

am more practical than an averrcunator.

You think me foreign;

however, I assist earnest earth-workers

on bended knee.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

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Digital Dating

CJ and Hamilton

Digital Dating

The first time I saw you, you tossed your net.

It was your eyes, staring out at me

from the computer screen, telling me

I’m the one.  I wasn’t certain.

It’s just pixels beating my heart faster.  What if it’s only

your good looks that grab me?  Or did we spend

past lives together?  That’s how much I wanted you

in my arms, to feel the heat of your body against

my breast, to devote my life to your well-being.

Can you be co-dependent with beauty?

All your information, your sad background

of life in alleys, hunted, haunted, lean

almost dying.  The capture.  And  your

aloofness.  Were you lonely?  We would

meet no matter.  If we sniffed and disliked,

if we argued and hissed, then it would not be.

We rendezvoused  but not with your peers.

Just the two of us, supervised, of course.

Would I make the commitment

to touch the swirl of marmalade hair,

to honor the command of your voice, the embrace

that matches no other.  This is not madness,

I claim to those would disdain a new

relationship at my age.  It does not matter.

You are young and I am old.  We are perfect.

I will live longer on your devotion.  We knew

in that first glance of eye, the first touch.

Did others watch? I know not.

I closed my eyes, felt us be.

I waited for the confirmation.

And then the deep roar of your purr

in my ear, your tail around my neck.

To those in doubt,

fear not.  You can fall in love

on line.

C.J. Prince

©2015

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Vernal Yearning

Writer’s Digest Prompt:  today’s prompt, write a seasonal poem. This should be a snap for haiku poets; after all, inserting seasonal words is a rule for the form. However, you don’t have to write haiku to write a poem that references or happens in one of the four seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. Pick a season or include them all.

2013.2 013

My desire for roses—

he promises spring

with radical whispers.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

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