Verdict of Discretion

blue crescent moon and clouds

Verdict of Discretion

 

Tears wait in dark clouds.

Walk upstairs backward.

Springsteen or Pavorati?

Stars fill your eyes.

Capitolism or socialism?

Sunbreak or downpour?

The bar is closed.

Cannabis or chemo?

The moon holds a cool blue aura.

Men or women or ???

I don’t care.

Paleo or vegan?

Loneliness owns cities.

Tarot or I Ching?

When will the duck call?

Amethyst or seraphinite?

Sterling or stainless?

Bus or train?

Cloth or paper?

Bellingham or Kiowa?

Audrey Hepburn

or Janis Joplin?

Who is the blind woman?

Golden years

are fraught

with cyclic dilemmas.

Tiny stitches to nowhere.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

Iambic Smash: If you would put the key inside the lock

saddest night

Iambic Smash: If you would put the key inside the lock
Hello, my friend. What are you doing here?

I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow.

Excess in drinking could be bad for you.

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit

of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

’tis not so sweet now as it was before.

I see the wings of eagles flying by.

It crossed the gloaming skies above the roofs.

You watched the aging people gently rock.

I saw you yesterday, your features grinned.

So tell me, what is life if not for this?

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

This myth reflected what would happen if

the rain began with striking thunder noise.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

Moonstone on Labrdorite 8 April 2014

NaPoWriMo PROMPT:   (optional, as always!) prompt. Today, let’s rewrite a famous poem, giving it our own spin. While any famous poem will do, if you haven’t already got one in mind, why not try your own version of Cesar Vallejo’s Black Stone Lying on a White Stone? If you’re not exactly sure how such a poem could be “re-written,” check out this recent poem by Stephen Burt, which riffs on Vallejo’s.

 

Image

Moonstone on Labradorite

   After Cesar Vallejo’s “Black Stone Lying on A White Stone”

 

   I will die in a down comforted bed, of course on a rainy day,

On a day I’ve remembered since birth, a day on earth

Where robins bounce in rusty orange vests

And the cat will purr me asleep on that day,

Tuesday or Saturday, by then it won’t matter.

 

I will hold amber in one hand, azeztulite in the other,

And I will remember my replaced joints and reconstructed

Parts that will only last so long and even today I notice

The resistance to movement as I walk the road, not

Alone for the dogs pause here and there, all

The company I need.

 

C.J. Prince is dead.  Will anyone still be alive

Who would notice or care;  she keeps making friends

But the less she moves, the more distant they become.

Who will scatter her ashes to the four directions

And honor the goddess?

 

There need be no witness for the days of the week,

The tumbling of months and years and decades twine

Within the bones of my body, the place of memory

Swirling now beyond the earth into the solitude

Of the milky way where I walked before

On a rainy day.

 

C.J. Prince

©2014

 

POEM TWENTY SEVEN

 

 Image

Image Source:  Unknown

What Does She See?

 

Her mother’s words rise up

like dandelions in spring,

ubiquitous.

 

Hack, whack or mow them down

and still they rise again.

You must suffer for beauty.

 

She wonders now

if she can even define

the details or the results.

 

She sees the little lines of life

become creases

and then crevices.

 

Mirror, mirror are you true?

What does suffering require?

A little gold chain

 

edging from ear to ear

tucked under,

 to hold up her double chin?

 

or a surgeons scalpel

to make her face a drum

so tight she can’t smile?

 

She wonders

if that’s what her mother meant.

What was her mother’s other expression?

 

Beauty is only skin deep.

 Copyright 2013

C.J. Prince