Poetry

All posts in the Poetry category

IN SEARCH OF A HORSE

Published April 14, 2018 by Nan Mykel

 

 

 

The horse should ideally pull

the cart. Agreed? But if the horse

is not in sight you’re left with

the cart part, and must envision

what kind of horse will pull your

poem into the light of day.

Problem is, most cart-pullers are

tired, worn out and hacknied, lacking

sufficient strength to bear the load.

Love, death, flower, tree, even Trump

won’t do it today.  The backside

of an eyeball? Ingrown toenails

seeking freedom? The charley horse

that sets you dancing? Or the rat

poison under the sink?

What’s common to all of us?

Hate? A drag.  Sorrow? Too close.

Hope? Delusional.  Denial?

Not me!  Revolution? Not yet.

Pain? Love my oxycodone.

Truth? But doesn’t that depend on

where you’e standing? Reality!

Let’s hear it for reality!

Really?  I’ll vote for Make Believe:

 

Two golden butterflies pull my

cart through rainbows in the sky.

Oh my! Curly tresses, rosy cheek,

music charms when ere I speak.

 

 

Two Animals – a Poem

Published February 5, 2018 by Nan Mykel

On a path two

interplanetary

beings meet:

human animal and

animal animal.

 

Is one food

for the other?

Who will move

first, and where?

 

Whose fear is

that in the air?

Reason has instinct

by the throat, or

is it the other

way around?

 

Tethered by memories

of other meetings on

other paths, the two

step cautiously by.

WORDS, a quadrille for d’Verse

Published January 29, 2018 by Nan Mykel

 

 

 

WORDS

My thin black words

on this cold white page

can’t breathe, won’t bleed,

don’t whimper in the dark;

impotent fossils, barren husks,

dropped spoor.

Not the real thing at all,

not the rustle in the weeds

nor the shrill screech

of the wild boar.

 

 

PIFFLE DINGER – An earlier ode

Published January 3, 2018 by Nan Mykel

MONDAY NIGHT’S POEM

With all the boo boos and yoo hoos,

to-do’s, who-are-you’s, e-mail news.

Poetry Month and broken hips,

cherry blossoms and weather dips,

serve up a poem, slightly rare

with metaphors, if you should dare.

Oh, there’ll be some deep; otherwise

we’ll aim for paucity of lies.

This ev’ry Tuesday writing thing

plays bonkers with the yan of ying.

Should you want me to be quiet now

I’ll heed your wishes with a bow.

 

 

Pumpkim carving:

Ray Villafane, http://villafanestudios.co

 

 

 

(Obviously written earlier)

 

 

Step outside – Reblogged poem

Published December 27, 2017 by Nan Mykel

Wow and wow! Superior!

TheFeatheredSleep's avatarTheFeatheredSleep

The doctor

who is 47 and wears a baseball cap

she doesn’t look her age, even her hands are unlined

but she knows her stuff, telling me, it’s a virus

got into you, maybe by the loosest thread and working its way up

attacked your spleen like, a well placed fist will split even hard skin

opening up secrets, spilling them like spaghetti squash, reveals its jewel

thumbing through test results, her eyes raised imperceptably

we both joked at the irony of finding a virus, good news

by then I had, a long list of debtors, thinner wrists, curled with many knots, my mouth was parched from staying open

who knew I’d learned so well, the art of begging and beseachment

and the phone, if it were not disconnected, would not have rung because I’d found out

those who stand in faded ink on birth certificate, are not interested in…

View original post 239 more words

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #8

Published November 9, 2017 by Nan Mykel

I had to re-blog this… My favorite is Number 6 — visit her site to read after 1-5…

Rajani Radhakrishnan's avatarTHOUGHT PURGE

Micropoetry MonthThe last time I tried my version of Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” I called it “ Thirteen Ways of Looking in the Mirror” . Think I need to change my perspective!

Try your own set of thirteen (or three or ten) or share any other form of micropoetry using comments or Mister Linky! Here’s mine.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Myself

(1)

my silence
is the space
I concede to you,
sometimes
willingly

(2)

as a fragment of a fragment
of a fragment…
should I worry
that I am incomplete

(3)

whatever you see
when you see me,
know that inside
I am polished mirror

(4)

my anger has a way
of finding hidden words
while pain sits in the dark
reading someone else’s poems

(5)

what I know about love
I learnt from the river
that polishes one stone
into a…

View original post 140 more words

Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending with beauty – reblog

Published September 21, 2017 by Nan Mykel

Incredible.

sarahsouthwest's avatarfantasticmetastaticme

I have been considering
kintsugi, and how
we heal ourselves,
we who are no longer whole,
and if we can
be beautiful
and flawed
and flawed
and beautiful.

I have considered
my scars, not golden,
not joyful,
not thoughtful, but
silver pale, glistening,
secret lines,
hidden from view,
and wondering
if I can be beautiful
even though
I can never be
mended, not entirely.

I am broken,
re-made,
broken again,
mended. I am
burnt, cut,
poisoned,
damaged.
I am not
who I was,
and yet I am
still here,
beautiful
and flawed
and flawed
and beautiful.

View original post

The Long and the Short of It

Published July 25, 2017 by Nan Mykel

Life’s too short

Tooth’s too long

Horses snort

Answer’s wrong.

Eyes too bright

Pool’s too deep

Bra’s too tight

He’s too cheap.

Sky’s too high

Feet too smelly

Words can lie

Too tight belly

Stream beds trickle

chewing gum sticks

I’m in a pickle

Up to old tricks.

Lost my keys

This won’t do

Down on my knees

Should get two

Don’t say pome

Only a verse

Come on home

Could be worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IMPATIENCE — Poem – photos from Pixabay

Published July 15, 2017 by Nan Mykel

I enjoy the  cat’s pajamas

they verbalize at times, but not

the moans of underlying pain.

Don’t let us know what lies ahead

a life of somersaults, dance

and glee only to be sidetracked

by a dislocated knee.  That I’m

one of those complaining does not

change my mind a whit.

If you think that I am lying just you wait a bit.

Dialogue: Poet to Poet

Published June 30, 2017 by Nan Mykel

“I guess I have been holding back some of my resentment. I’m in a  nice normal poetry group on the outside and they love to laugh at my funny lines. This isn’t a therapy group–far from it. It’s a nice civilized friendly group, and I sure can’t let the cat (me) out of the bag there.”  The above was posted on June 25, 2017 under Could I Re-Write My Childhood?

The above is kinda setting the stage for the following dialogue. Because P1 and P2 is boring, I’m calling the participants Me and You. but don’t take it personally.  Remember, “You” equals P2.

Me: I’m puzzled and frustrated by poetry sharing in my blog family.

You: You only post on your own blog and d’verse.

Me:  Yeah, and I’m puzzled by that.  I didn’t understand, and I recall giving advice on grieving, not realizing it was probably  just a poem, not reality.

You:  You were just a newbie, you didn’t know any better.

Me: I don’t have that excuse any more.  I think it’s wonderful how most people praise each other’s efforts/poetry on d’verse.

You: Me too!

Me: But I have two general questions. Sometimes we  respond to content (“I’ve had that experience too, in Florida…); sometimes we respond to the poetry form and metaphors; and sometimes we respond to the emotions which we resonate to. I guess the foregoing is not a question, just an insecurity about which is preferred.

You: So you do want to do the right, preferred thing?

Me: Well…yeah…I guess.

You: Okay, what is your next question or insecurity?

Me: Is the purpose of d’verse to make readers  happy?  I’m not saying it right–moved, enlightened, thankful, appreciative of life?

You: Sounds like a worthy purpose to me. I don’t like whining posts.

Me: Me neither,  but when I attempt to write poetry I’m starting to feel a “should,” like I should write for its impact on readers, like I should brighten their day instead of “let the cat out of the bag,” that I’m feeling hurt, pain, jealous, vengeful, despair, unloved, rejected, cynical, bruised, hopeless, etc.  (Not that I feel like that often, mind you).

You: d’verse isn’t a place for therapy, you know. There’s a  survivor’s blog somewhere out there for survivors,

Me: But not a poetry blog for survivors.  I guess I’m unclear about the difference between whiners and grieving and non-believers and reality.

You:  If you’re not feeling love and thankfulness and joy,  you don’t have to write a poem, you know.

Me: I’m already feeling misunderstood. I think I’ve been guilty of “arguing back” with some poets myself, instead of just accepting their words.  And I do remember that the best gift you can give is to hear and accept.   I remember Carl Rogers now and how precious it is to just be really heard.

You: You do realize that now you’ve made anyone who comments on your work self-conscious?

Me:  Oh, I’m sorry!

You: I should think so!

LESSON FOR TODAY:  People are just people and really accepting them means just letting them do their thing and follow their creative impulses.  So there’s no other message from this  navel-gazing post.

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