slap new colors over thorns and roses.
But my palette wasn't right.
Artificial bright washing
drains an already weary heart
that needs to make its aching known,
despite attempts to force my mouth
into saying, "This is fine."
Things hide in false light. And they bite
leaving marks bleached away by lack of contrast,
so that we don't know we've been poisoned.
No. I need to reach for the right colors
to tell the truth waiting patiently amid the grays.
Perhaps the mood for brighter hues will return again.
But, when they do, they will be real,
not camouflage for what I don't want to see.
Linked to the Tuesday Platform for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads and Poetry Pantry 342 at Poet's United
Process Notes: Recently it was my turn to create a prompt for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads. I came up with one I thought I was happy with, but when the day arrived, I found there was no way I could honestly get into the child-like spirit I had envisioned. The final product was more cynical teen than wide-eyed kid.
The truth is that after November 8th, it's not going to be easy for me to be upbeat on demand, even if I'm the one doing the demanding. As a wise friend and I later discussed, putting up a false self makes for lousy art. The only way I'm going to grow as a poet and a writer, is to be willing to work with the truth of who I am and write that.
Song Choice: Paint It Black covered by Ciara
Song Choice: Winter (from Vivaldi's Four Seasons)
As I choked, I remembered
Song Choice: Heathens by Twenty One Pilots
“I ache and I am angry. I listen to every complaint put before me. I mend every broken body laid in my hut. I sometimes don’t eat because I have no time to. And no one tends to me. No one nurses me in my pains. But they notice if it makes me slow in caring for theirs. I am angry and I need my anger to be heard.”
Autumn waves starlight trimmed sleeves
while the nights grow longer
and nature's din dims to
sighs and susurrations.
I can't help slowing down too,
swept up in the pageantry
of Autumn's regal progression.
Song Choice: Kamigama-Sama from Spirited Away
Song Choice: Pocket Full of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield
This poem is in response to A Dash of Sunny's prompt, The Hidden Realm
Keep all beauty away from it,
because there is nothing too pure
for it to devour.
Yuuki could never forget – there was no getting around the oath he swore - though he too had let go of hate, for the most part, decades ago. His oath required him to serve one hundred generations of this family, whether they acknowledged his existence or not. And tonight, centuries and three continents later, the hundredth generation was about to make her grand entrance.
Yuuki smirked under his kitsune’s mask, pleased to see any reaction, even a small one. Being ignored for over a century was demoralizing. If the nurse could truly see him, kimono clad with a sharp toothed smile painted on his fox’s mask, she’d probably run out of the room screaming prayers. So would the young man holding the hand of his laboring wife. It was not an unwise choice when dealing with kitsune.