Official DUP NaPo/GloProWrimo 2018

Defective Bubble   - - - - -  (27 / 30)

The child is in the bubble
She found herself in trouble
Buried under rocket rubble

It started with a rumble
rocks fell like apple crumble
A roll and then a stumble

The child in the bubble
Struggling and seeing double
her double trouble, rubble and a cracked bubble

it's the child who made the last fumble
Was her fault she, sure couldn't grumble
about her fumble, crumble, rumble,  stumble

the child in the bubble
became the girl in trouble
a clumsy error, a bumble
died buried in the rumble crumble

in a place where rockets rock
and terrorists happily mock
there's no one to feel any shock
only an evil extremest fool
would rocket attack a kid's school
the child not as cunning as the fox
the young girl now lives in a box

Anatomy of Loss XIII

.iii

Déjà visité, I know this place
as though I lived here myself
ruins of jagged stone stretching
miles into the atmosphere

Some towering legacy, labor
of a nobleman long buried
But I, I know this very place
where gardens graced the lake

A covered footpath in a glade
stepping stones reclaimed by dirt
gardner's shack with aging tools
and . . .there it is, the secret swing

Peeling paint, rotting wood
half hung by frayed rope, memories--
the mighty oak from which it swung
now a snag reclaimed by nature

This geography and spatial relation
are as bodies of ocean meeting;
two amalgamating entities cojoining
to bind physical and spiritual Being

This body is different, Spirit is not
its Source ineffably unchanged --
the steps I trod, once I skipped
to Love born under that tree

That lifetime gone, this one not
so different, and yet the same
This old swing, that old tree
the castle in which I played

I cannot remember face nor name
I cannot utter the sound or game;
But, ruins stretching high their aim
O! Yes; I certainly know this place
~

27/30





For my J, with Love 💜

27/30


Communication

Interacting with people isn't easy

It never was

At least not for me;
words don't come and go
or flow as easily as poetry does;

finesse becomes fumble
as spilt milk, toast plates
tumble from tabletop to floor
knocked over during dinner
conversation. Such a mess

I hope to someday
be better at it

It's what I wish for;

being free of this fucking
house bound banality
talking face to face
gauging expression

not feeling mired down in
inferiority's mucking abundance
always underfoot whenever I
stumble

Bringing me up to speed
with what I desperately need
and lacked thus far, having
compensated this entire time
behind stanzas precision
packed with rhyme

I believe
in the power of your Love
and patient soul you are












for Ahavati with Love

💜

27/30


Numb


Tell me why
I’m still numb
I’m still alone
When I sit beside you
Even in your arms
I feel nothing
Hit me with something
I want to love you
Break down these walls
Invigorate me
What’s holding us back?
What’s keeping me from your heart?
Maybe you’re not the one
That’s okay
For now I’m paralyzed
For now I’m stuck here
Between loving everything about you
And killing the last of it

28.30

UW: 103

Travel

Back towards the city,
sweeping Haldon Forest,
sitting next to the littlest one,
her facing the boot, next to piggy in the middle me, squished,
taking a moment
to appreciate the rape fields
lined by slender trees
with monstrous Pylons cutting through the seamlessness of it all.
Her screams swallow my piece of space whole
and the toll of tiredness breaks me, quietly.
It seems for a moment my excitement for our trip
has tripped over itself and turned to fear,
too keen on taking premature steps
on weak foundations.
The Mr entrusts me with the Sat nav
and when I say entrusts I mean asks me to set it up
whilst imagining ways to outsource me to clones of himself.
I imagine food, and uninterrupted sleep, and Mediterranean warmth,
helps me reel in my nerves
and squash them, between my thighs
from the middle seat
trudging on to London.

CONTESTANTS MUST READ AND HEED THIS

In The Speakeasy Thread

https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/speakeasy/read/10144/

tell us where you live:

City, Town or County + Country + Timezone

as soon as possible!

====================

Please be sure to post your #30 Entry

AFTER April 29 ends and BEFORE May 1st begins

in "your home's timezone".

====================

And make sure ALL of your entries are

numbered, titled and contain no less than 50 unique words.


( 🍑 = posted and counted since last update )

And we're holding steady at 18 participants!

Greetings, Poets! Welcome to DAY 28!

Only a few days to go!

Forget about traditional countdowns and ball drops; see how these cities drop instead; next with Atlanta, GA.

Two! . . .

Although not as juicy as a normal Georgia peach, this 800-pound monster is still impressive. The peach has been dropped in Atlanta on New Years Eve since 1989 and the event always includes a full day of festivities. Underground Atlanta offers 16 hours of excitement and starts the day with carnival rides, live music, street performers, and other festival fun. The day ends when the giant peach descends the 138-foot tower and the New Year officially commences along with fireworks.

It sounds like Underground Atlanta is the pits.

Speaking of the Underground, here are our participants!

🍑1. Ahavati - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍑2. JohnnyBlaze - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍑3. JadePandora - IIII
🍑4. Viddax - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍑5. Mel44 - III✔✔✔✔✔
🍑6. cloventongue89 - IIII
🍑7. David_Macleod - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍕8. rowantree - III✔✔✔✔✔
🍑9. ImperfectedStone - IIII
🍑10. MadameLavender - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍕11. RevolutionAl - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍑12. Hepcat61- III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍑13. poetryaccident - III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍑14. Thetravelingfairy -III✔✔✔✔✔✔
🍕15. MisfitPoet89 - III✔✔✔✔✔
🍑16. Samael - III✔✔✔✔✔
🍑17. Rosegold - III✔✔✔✔✔
🍑18. thepositivelydark - III✔✔

If your name isn't listed, it's because you haven't posted, and we haven't heard from you in at least three days!

Well done, Poets! 🎊

In a few more days, you'll have time again to shave your peach fuzz.

And tend to those pits of yours. P-U.

Thank You for your participation!

Moderna Taverna


It is beautiful
Timber walls
pressed ceilings
Tudor in it's persona
Who knew a house
had so much
to offer


It's playful
(the puppy outside)
eats the newspaper
before
the delivery guy
even drops it
Yaps like a child
Howls to the wind
between
sunrise and sunset

It's happy
The life
in the photograph
of that home
[The world it represents]

Stop!
Is it?
Is it a life?

Having green grass that's
never walked on
Trees never
invited to
picnic
A puppy
who meets you for the
first time
in the summer holiday

Is 2 hours of
morning traffic
what we signed up for?
Is the flourescent
lit
office
the choice
of value?

The sick feeling
in the throat
that makes
breathing
unbearable
after the sherrif
delivers court judgment?

Is it?
Is it a life?

Our self created chaos
that we feed to
the disasters
we've
made ourselves
the road
we've taken?

Complete
with the right label
right phone
right car
right house
right take out
right credit card

A puppy
and pretty
home
So that we smile
a plastic life
in the
Photograph?





-!-

Entry 28
Letters to Society, God  
& The Goddess  
GloPoWriMo 2018  
Posted April 28th

28/30

Outside of Rote

I see the cart proceed the horse
the rote of role dictating all
with scant room to express
identity born outside the path
asking for a remedy
what came before is not the dream
instead I look beyond to see
what lays beyond the ramparts rent.

Don’t mind the walls tumbling down
they served a purpose that’s now gone
in the rubble a flower grows
retrieving beauty from turmoil
the straight and narrow was their goal
those constructions of family
society and the good of all
manacles bound against my soul.

I’ve only wrecked my precious world
ruin is a word too harsh
‘realized’ is appropo
for the outcome I’ll now embrace
all the stones will be retrieved
then put in rows that fit the plan
of a life that’s been transformed
to echo maps found within.

You’re left with realms of your own
though I may hint a larger scope
perhaps you’ll sense resonance
so be this gift of rapport
the cart may lead the sad horse
this is the way before we bloom
don’t fear exchange as the balm
you’ll find yourself outside of rote.

Noir
(A villanelle)
formule poésie 28/30

Undone and in recline, the tiger smile,
The ruby rose in fluted, crowned cruet
The Luger, holster, rouge, and French beguile.

The long brown hair, the sweep of unkempt style,
A silver cross in opened shirt’s inset,
Undone and in recline, the tiger smile.

How she appeared as bistro’s lone exhile,
In clouded sun’s dapple, Rue Lafayette,
The Luger, holster, rouge, and French beguile.

“ ‘could use some rain, seems like it’s been awhile?”
“Our fountain’s dry, the pigeons seem upset!”
Undone and in recline, the tiger smile.

The Soir’s front page, on top of paper’s pile,
The napkin’s folded square, slightly offset,
The Luger, holster, rouge, and French beguile.

Her rise to leave, her trip, his reconcile
“SS” her hiss, and draws without regret.
Undone and in recline, the tiger smile,
The Luger, holster, rouge and French beguile.

24/30

Impostor

Liitle Miss Cliche, they say,
But in a good way.
Spent years dipping the pen in a bottle of
Teenage angst -
The pains of growing older and clueless
With this good head on my shoulder.

"I, an intellectual!" the memes would start.

Morbid and existential flood walls on Facebook.
The darkness of life and the childlike wonder hooks you in this world deeper.
Millennial wants to live, millennial wants to die.
Millennial could have a tea party with unicorns and satan.

But this has always been.
Fairytale baby,
Eight-year-old with a book of quotations.
Before internet and memes,
I was always between the positive, the negative,
The light, the dark.
And I would
Criss-cross with every word I encounter.
Every wish.
Every stutter.
There is a pull in comfort, a pull in danger.
And I'm growing older.

I haven't lived much of life.
I often wonder if my poetry sounds as dead
As it does to me sometimes.
I can't seem to bring the poetry that breathes,
That pulses and screams,
That whispers and
Pulls you in.
I do not have the life to to power this thing.

I wonder at the ridiculousness
If anyone else I know should find out.
They know that I know nothing.
Yet here I am writing.
Like anything in this world
Is mine for the taking.

Teenage angst or not.


25/30

Nope

She already caught him that first day -
Staring at her lips as she applied that rosy lipstick,
Lining edges then filling in,
Smack, smack.

It was a warm summer,
And they were random warm bodies
Getting lost to the park breeze.
Sweating with the haze -
She can see his heated gaze -
Eyes unfocused,
Goofy smile
In place.

She knows that.
That certain look in a man's eye
And you know you've caught him.
He'd watch the giggle show and
Listen to the breaths of her words
And wait some more for more.

He'd see the image of daylight and
Imagine himself smitten.
But when the night falls and
Her old friend comes again, she knows it'd be
Easier to run away.
She doesn't know how to feel anyway.

She smiles back.
She hopes he'd look away.


26/30

Her and Poetry

The girl gets lost,
Just for a quick daydreaming.
The words would rush in and take her away again.

Some would say she's addicted -
She'd say she's deeply passionate.
It was a passion that lets her inhale
The words and into her lungs,
And into her heart,
Pump-pumping poetry
To the wholeness of she.
She wishes to become poetry.

It was a warm cloak for a cold world.
It was her shield and her sword,
Her lace dresses and skirts.
It was the gentle kisses.
It was the clandestine dalliances.
The dictionary,
And the slipping tongue to slang,
It was body and soul.

She aches for the rush -
The hush as everything stops when she becomes one with the page.
She hopes for a love like this.
Her and poetry.
It's the life she lives…
The woman she hopes
To be.

The Table

(NaPo #28, April 28,2018)

Furniture will tell me
how it wishes to be redressed.

Most are like weatherworn brides,
excited about choosing a trousseau , with
colors and adornments
to start their new lives, free
from dusty basements
and landfills .

The little white table, however
was a stubborn hold-out; smug
Victorian priss
wishing to remain white.

I peeled away the contact paper
that her former owner
stupidly
adhered to her surface.

Then....
I tried to convince her
to try on some color, but
each one that flipped through my mind,
she turned her nose up, at.

"I wish to be white!"

So I obliged
and repainted her
a fresh coat of white.

As Jacob wrestled the Angel
I wrestled the table
and she won.

We did agree, though
to do a distress-sanding
after she dries
and perhaps.....
a tasteful, lace-like
stencil
across her top.

I am okay with this arrangement
of hers.

28.

Auto Motive


Long car journeys make me dream
the turning wheels in turn
turning on my imagination
as my mind wanders
clicking into gear of illusion
and fantasising upon fiction
forming paradises before me
even as the road is dull below
and I turn my gaze towards another horizon
travelling the road of tranced enchantment
to see with eyes beyond eyes
into possibility and what could be
when the path diverts metaphysically
in tune to a rumbling hum
that rocks and cradles the cranium
And sometimes this bestows slumber
if the journey is long enough
and the road soothingly smooth
so in unconscious delirium
things play out
never to be recalled
leaving only a rested self in its wake
relaxed and reinvigorated
in a way standard sleep does not
as consistently deliver
even if my hang has hung forward
lolling in my lull
as the vehicle advances
Similar sensations have been achieved
while walking to music
but such daydreams are not as vivid
or natural in their meandering
as in the trust of the car's care.

(Unique words: 123.)

28/30


This Is Us

Called together
by stormy weather
enthralled before an open
window

palm against palm
fingers curled
calm surely soon to follow

This is the way
of
the
world

Kicking up the dust
making such a fuss!
Lightning javelin
thunderclap abound

This is Us

pure positive energy
tapped into the
Highest Ground

You and Me

our attraction spins
the
Earth
around











for Ahavati with Love

💜